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

Antigone Avatar

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


Posted: Nov 7, 2020 - 7:23am

 miamizsun wrote:

The Peace of Wild Things from Katy Wang on Vimeo.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

 
Berry is one of the best! And this is one of his best.
Ohmsen

Ohmsen Avatar

Location: Old World
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 6, 2020 - 10:14am


miamizsun

miamizsun Avatar

Location: (3261.3 Miles SE of RP)
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 6, 2020 - 9:28am

The Peace of Wild Things from Katy Wang on Vimeo.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Lazy8

Lazy8 Avatar

Location: The Gallatin Valley of Montana
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 4, 2020 - 5:44pm

Everything is going to be all right

by Derek Mahon

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 2, 2020 - 9:45am


whatshisname

whatshisname Avatar

Location: West OZ


Posted: Nov 2, 2020 - 4:28am

BALLARD OF THE TOTEMS

by   OODGEROO NOONUCCAL


My father was Noonuccal man and kept old tribal way,
His totem was the Carpet Snake, whom none must ever slay;
But mother was of Peewee clan, and loudly she expressed
The daring view that carpet snakes were nothing but a pest.

Now one lived inside with us in full immunity,
For no one dared to interfere with father’s stern decree:
A mighty fellow ten feet long, and as we lay in bed
We kids could watch him round a beam not far above our head.

Only the dog was scared of him, we’d hear its whines and growls,
But mother fiercely hated him because he took her fowls.
You should have heard her diatribes that flowed in angry torrents,
With words you’d never see in print, except in D.H. Lawrence.

“I kill that robber,” she would scream, fierce as a spotted cat;
“You see that bulge inside of him? My speckly hen make that!”
But father’s loud and strict command made even mother quake;
I think he’d sooner kill a man than kill a carpet snake.

That reptile was a greedy guts, and as each bulge digested
He’d come down on the hunt at night, as appetite suggested.
We heard his stealthy slithering sound across the earthen floor,
While the dog gave a startled yelp and bolted out the door.

Then over in the chicken-yard hysterical fowls gave tongue,
Loud frantic squawks accompanied by the barking of the mung,
Until at last the racket passed, and then to solve the riddle,
Next morning he was back up there with a new bulge in his middle.

When father died we wailed and cried, our grief was deep and sore,
And strange to say from that sad day the snake was seen no more.
The wise old men explained to us: “It was his tribal brother,
And that is why it done a guy” – but some looked hard at mother.

She seemed to have a secret smile, her eyes were smug and wary,
She looked about as innocent as the cat that ate the pet canary.
We never knew, but anyhow (to end this tragic rhyme)
I think we all had snake for tea one day about that time.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

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


Posted: Nov 1, 2020 - 8:24am



 ScottN wrote:
The Other Poet
by Ellie Schoenfeld

The poet explains exactly
what her poems are doing on a variety of levels.
I am jealously impressed.
My poems go places
but send no postcards––I have no idea
what they are doing. They do
whatever they want to.
I give them curfews
but they wake me in the middle
of the night, they interrupt meetings
and other situations where I have no time
for them. They hang on me
when I am on the phone.
They do not keep my secrets
and sometimes they lie.
They can be sullen and withdrawn
or explosively obscene.
I think my poems have problems with authority,
conduct disorders, attention deficit.
The other poet is like the parent
with the bumper sticker about their honor student
while I am speeding along
to get to the correctional facility
before visiting hours are over.
I try to give my poems direction.
They tell me they have cleaned their rooms
but we both know it's not true.
After all these years of therapy
we still don't understand each other.
I write a poem and think
"What the hell is that?!"

  



ScottN

ScottN Avatar

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


Posted: Nov 1, 2020 - 7:35am

The Other Poet
by Ellie Schoenfeld

The poet explains exactly
what her poems are doing on a variety of levels.
I am jealously impressed.
My poems go places
but send no postcards––I have no idea
what they are doing. They do
whatever they want to.
I give them curfews
but they wake me in the middle
of the night, they interrupt meetings
and other situations where I have no time
for them. They hang on me
when I am on the phone.
They do not keep my secrets
and sometimes they lie.
They can be sullen and withdrawn
or explosively obscene.
I think my poems have problems with authority,
conduct disorders, attention deficit.
The other poet is like the parent
with the bumper sticker about their honor student
while I am speeding along
to get to the correctional facility
before visiting hours are over.
I try to give my poems direction.
They tell me they have cleaned their rooms
but we both know it's not true.
After all these years of therapy
we still don't understand each other.
I write a poem and think
"What the hell is that?!"
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

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


Posted: Oct 14, 2020 - 9:53am

 Antigone wrote:
Messenger
 
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

~ Mary Oliver

 
*bump*
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

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


Posted: Oct 11, 2020 - 5:47pm

Family
by Grace Paley

My father was brilliant     embarrassed     funny     handsome
my mother was plain     serious     principled     kind
my grandmother was intelligent     lonesome for her
                                 other life     her dead children     silent
my aunt was beautiful     bitter     angry     loving

I fell among these adjectives in earliest childhood
and was nearly buried with opportunity
some of them stuck to me     others
finding me American and smooth slipped away
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

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


Posted: Oct 8, 2020 - 9:37pm

I believe this needs a bump—from a couple years ago.

Manbird wrote:

August is Warm

This remarkable peach toast morning
Has so clearly gifted me
A bloom of rising spirit
In the slow adobe air
I touch stones and weave
Small grasses with my hands
I am light and brown and alive
This season
Healing season
Standing and turning to the Sun
To all my good good Fathers
Who wear my twisted scars
as the whip snake warms
On broken stones
On torn red rocks

I bake my bread
I burn my oil
I bend to the burning soil

My feet are dry and thin
And anxious to run
Sweeping
Into the dream of the swollen blue evening
Leaping
Into the hulking blue yeast
Of this soft and violet night
I have some turquoise and amber
Where the sweet and sour pull of flesh
Releases my talk song whisper
Releases my cactus flower scent
When the tumbling clay roof of the church
Gives up its heat
Like the smoke from the farmer's
Dark brown prayers
Then I will sleep and dream
Of the sad stray dog
We call Abandonado
Tomorrow we must visit the priest
He has injured himself
Again

 

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

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


Posted: Oct 6, 2020 - 11:38am

 ScottN wrote:

Before Dark
by Wendell Berry

From the porch at dusk I watched
a kingfisher wild in flight
he could only have made for joy.

He came down the river, splashing
against the water's dimming face
like a skipped rock, passing

on down out of sight. And still
I could hear the splashes
farther and farther away

as it grew darker. He came back
the same way, dusky as his shadow,
sudden beyond the willows.

The splashes went on out of hearing.
It was dark then. Somewhere
the night had accommodated him

—at the place he was headed for
or where, led by his delight,
he came.
 
Lovely. Berry is (one of) the best.
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