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Index » Entertainment » Books » Poetry Forum Page: Previous  1, 2, 3, ... 203, 204, 205  Next
Post to this Topic
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 22, 2020 - 8:09am

Nonsense Song

W.H. AUDEN

My love is like a red red rose
Or concerts for the blind,
She's like a mutton-chop before
And a rifle-range behind.

Her hair is like a looking-glass,
Her brow is like a bog,
Her eyes are like a flock of sheep
Seen through a London fog.

Her nose is like an Irish jig,
Her mouth is like a 'bus,
Her chin is like a bowl of soup
Shared between all of us.

Her form divine is like a map
Of the United States,
Her foot is like a motor-car
Without its number-plates.

No steeple-jack shall part us now
Nor fireman in a frock;
True love could sink a Channel boat
Or knit a baby's sock.


ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 20, 2020 - 3:52am

A Winter Twilight

 Angelina Weld Grimké

 

A silence slipping around like death,
Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;
One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,
Inking their cress 'gainst a sky green-gold;
One path that knows where the corn flowers were;
Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;
And over it softly leaning down,
One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.

 

Ohmsen

Ohmsen Avatar

Location: Valhǫll
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 19, 2020 - 6:01am



 Manbird wrote:


 Lazy8 wrote:
Bruises In Amber

...
Habeas ulceris if you will.


...
 

That's a good one, broanaheimconventioncenter. I couldn't translate the Latin phrase but I think I get it. 

Habemus papam
translated wrongly, back then, so 
Don't be an ulcer! 




 


Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: Oroville, Ca
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 18, 2020 - 5:57pm



 Lazy8 wrote:
Bruises In Amber

Science tells us that
we bruise easier as we get older.
Skin is thin in all the wrong places
and usually too thick in between.

But my bruises hide deep inside
and it's the odd comment
that brings them to the surface.
Habeas ulceris if you will.

To remind me of
Something I did
Something I should have done
Something I thought about doing
Something I should have said.
But didn't.

Maybe we carry these bruises with us
for a reason.

Helping us be a little gentler.
Helping us be a little wiser.
Helping us to not bruise
those we love.

Steven Mott
 

That's a good one, broanaheimconventioncenter. I couldn't translate the Latin phrase but I think I get it. 
Lazy8

Lazy8 Avatar

Location: The Gallatin Valley of Montana
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 18, 2020 - 9:41am

Bruises In Amber

Science tells us that
we bruise easier as we get older.
Skin is thin in all the wrong places
and usually too thick in between.

But my bruises hide deep inside
and it's the odd comment
that brings them to the surface.
Habeas ulceris if you will.

To remind me of
Something I did
Something I should have done
Something I thought about doing
Something I should have said.
But didn't.

Maybe we carry these bruises with us
for a reason.

Helping us be a little gentler.
Helping us be a little wiser.
Helping us to not bruise
those we love.

Steven Mott
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 17, 2020 - 5:18am

I sleep in a co-
Coon. Flannel, wool, down. When I
Wake, what will I be?
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 16, 2020 - 3:55pm

 ScottN wrote:

Out on the Flats

Out on the flats, a heron still
as a hieroglyph carved
on the soft gray face of morning.

You asked, when I seemed far away,
what it meant but were gone
when I turned to you with an answer.

Nothing mysterious—hunger,
a taste for salt tides,
distance, and a gift of flight.

LEONARD NATHAN

 
{#Clap}
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 16, 2020 - 2:56pm

Out on the Flats

Out on the flats, a heron still
as a hieroglyph carved
on the soft gray face of morning.

You asked, when I seemed far away,
what it meant but were gone
when I turned to you with an answer.

Nothing mysterious—hunger,
a taste for salt tides,
distance, and a gift of flight.

LEONARD NATHAN

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 7, 2020 - 8:07pm

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Seamus Heaney

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 6, 2020 - 12:51pm

Bright, yellow scrambles
Match the sunshiney day. They
Are both delicious.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 6, 2020 - 12:51pm

 ScottN wrote:

The Heart of the Matter

The heart of the matter, the ghost of a chance,
A tremor, a fever, an ache in the chest.
The moth and the candle beginning their dance,
A cool white sheet on which nothing will rest.

Come sit beside me. I've waited alone.
What you need to confess I already know.
The scent of your shame is a heavy cologne
That lingers for hours after you go.

The dregs of the bottle, the end of the line,
The laggard, the loser, the last one to know.
The unfinished book, the dead-end sign,
And last summer's garden buried in snow.

DANA GIOIA



 
Wow.
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Dec 6, 2020 - 9:51am


The Heart of the Matter

The heart of the matter, the ghost of a chance,
A tremor, a fever, an ache in the chest.
The moth and the candle beginning their dance,
A cool white sheet on which nothing will rest.

Come sit beside me. I've waited alone.
What you need to confess I already know.
The scent of your shame is a heavy cologne
That lingers for hours after you go.

The dregs of the bottle, the end of the line,
The laggard, the loser, the last one to know.
The unfinished book, the dead-end sign,
And last summer's garden buried in snow.

DANA GIOIA



Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Dec 2, 2020 - 4:47pm

Crooked, not-full moon,
Tilts its head and smiles at me.
The dog and I walk.
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 29, 2020 - 4:46am

You Asked For It
by George Bilgere

There was a show on TV called
You Asked For It. Viewers would write in
and ask to see unusual things, such as
the world’s greatest slingshot expert.
I watched it every week
on our humble Motorola, although
the only episode I can remember now
is the one about the slingshot expert.
He was a grown man, as I recall,
and he lived in an ordinary place like New Jersey.
At a distance of ten or twenty paces
he could pulverize one marble with another.
He could hit a silver dollar
tossed into the air. He was the kind
of father I wanted to have,
an expert shot, never missing.
And I think of him now, perhaps long dead,
or frail and gray, his gift forgotten.
Just another old guy on a park bench
in Fort Lauderdale, fretting about Medicare,
grateful for the sun on his back, his slingshot
useless in this new world.
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 26, 2020 - 8:16am


ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 26, 2020 - 7:32am

Cook
by Jane Hirshfield
 
Each night you come home with five continents on your hands:
garlic, olive oil, saffron, anise, coriander, tea,
your fingernails blackened with marjoram and thyme.
Sometimes the zucchini's flesh seems like a fish-steak,
cut into neat filets, or the salt-rubbed eggplant
yields not bitter water, but dark mystery.
You cut everything into bits.
No core, no kernel, no seed is sacred: you cut
onions for hours and do not cry,
cut them to thin transparencies, the red ones
spreading before you like fallen flowers;
you cut scallions from white to green, you cut
radishes, apples, broccoli, you cut oranges, watercress,
romaine, you cut your fingers, you cut and cut
beyond the heart of things, where
nothing remains, and you cut that too, scoring coup
on the butcherblock, leaving your mark,
when you go
your feet are as pounded as brioche dough.
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 18, 2020 - 3:27pm

Fence Line Tree
by Jim Harrison
 
There’s a single tree at the fence line
here in Montana, a little like a tree
in the Sandhills of Nebraska, which may be miles
away. When I cross the unfertile pasture strewn
with rocks and the holes of gophers, badgers, coyotes,
and the rattlesnake den (a thousand killed
in a decade because they don’t mix well with dogs
and children) in an hour’s walking and reach
the tree, I find it oppressive. Likely it’s
as old as I am, withstanding its isolation,
all gnarled and twisted from its battle
with weather. I sit against it until we merge,
and when I return home in the cold, windy
twilight I feel I’ve been gone for years.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Nov 14, 2020 - 3:15pm

Marginalia
Billy Collins
 
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
 
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote 'Don't be a ninny'
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
 
Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls 'Metaphor' next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of 'Irony'
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.
 
Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
'Absolutely,' they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
'Yes.' 'Bull's-eye.' 'My man! '
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.
 
And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written 'Man vs. Nature'
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.
 
We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.
 
Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.
 
And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.
 
Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page
 
A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
 
'Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.'
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 8, 2020 - 6:43pm

Nothing flaming
or even
potentially
aflame.
 
Nothing
caught up
with Danger.
 
Nothing racing to take
control
or possessions or
no prisoners.
 
No, our love was
never like that.
 
Anne Piper.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Nov 7, 2020 - 7:23am

I have counted
~ Serina Crosiva
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