The Chasing iamb

A Raspberry Sweater
to George Montgomery

It is next to my flesh,
that’s why. I do what I want.
And in the pale New Hampshire
twilight a black bug sits in the blue,
strumming its legs together. Mournful
glass, and daisies closing. Hay
swells in the nostrils. We shall go
to the motorcycle races in Laconia
and come back all calm and warm.



To John Ashbery

I can’t believe there’s not
another world where we will sit
and read new poems to each other
high on a mountain in the wind.
You can be Tu Fu, I’ll be Po Chu-i
and the Monkey Lady’ll be in the moon,
smiling at our ill-fitting heads
as we watch snow settle on a twig.
Or shall we be really gone? this
is not the grass I saw in my youth!
and if the moon, when it rises
tonight, is empty —a bad sign,
meaning ‘You go, like the blossoms.’

The moon versus us ever sleeping together again
by Richard Brautigan

I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you. Gee, I'm sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
     her.

These days you forget how the bricks
were piled up all over again,
their edges just where they were before
as if nothing had happened.

As if nothing had happened
they hold the shop-fronts up, the bricks
under stucco and paint again
making a surface as they did before
the words fell down.

The words fell down
and nobody knew what had happened
to the places that bricks
were not the edges of. Making them again
meant bricking up the way things were before,
so that nothing could ever be different.
( Read more... )
-Zoë Skoulding

Of mirth the poets counsel little after
that present it be loved for present laughter.
Also that fool hearts, alone, let themselves belong in
the house of it; the wise, the house of mourning.
Why such divergent answers from such teachers?
Life seemed cruelly short to bard; cruelly long to preacher.
Yet true times as rivers flow or candles burn,
long in the stretches, short on the turns,
and mirth with bitter herbs is better taken
than meals of mirth alone or years of it forsaken.
Does sweet improve when mixed with strain,
or is it that the acrid in that blend begins to fade?
Much endures while youth slips away like a thief;
mirth is a wine well pressed in the house of grief.

Jennifer Michael Hecht

John Burnside
The Hunt in the Forest

How children think of death is how the shadows
gather between the trees: a hiding place
for everything the grown-ups cannot name-
Nevertheless, they hurry to keep their appointment
far in the woods, at the meeting of parallel lines,
where everything is altered by its own
momentum – altered, though we say transformed -
greyhound to roebuck, laughter to skin and bone;

and no one survives the hunt: though the men return
in threes and fours, their faces blank with cold,
they never quite arrive at what they seem,
leaving a turn of phrase or a song from childhood
and waiting, while their knives slip through the blood
like butter, or silk, until the heart is still.

(From: John Burnside, The Hunt in the Forest, London: Cape Poetry, 2009).

Cow/Girl

I am a silent cow
fixed and hollow
my stick legs defy curves
my thick tongue contains trapped words
all my bellies rumble at the sky
all my bovine dreams intensify and swarm the earth
pastures open their green palms
I move across the thread of the horizon
slow as a cloud
beyond lake
beyond grief
at the prospect of someday becoming beef.

(This is from a book called Graphic Poetry. Go see the poem in its artistic context at WIG-01, and check out the other poetry too.)

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, 
Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.

And remembering . . .
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that
          is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,
          tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

				

				
				

Taboo
Nina Suba

In this game, there are words I cannot say.

Like if I mean Bill Clinton, I can't say President or United States.
Or if snowball, I can't say winter or fight
Or any other word at the top of my mind - 

Unless you say it first.

I must hold the tip of my tongue
And find a way around words,
Tell you about pain, for instance,

By recounting the sadness of the stars on moonless nights
When nothing seemed to move, not even time,

Or I could say empty chairs, unread letters, and
presents that remain unopened in one's hands.

I could tell you, It's when you shut your eyes because it's the only thing
that you can do, the only thing that you have strength for, and then you dream
of mangled bodies falling from the sky and crashing into you.

If I mean pain, I could also take your hand,
Press your fingers into all the holes you made,
Say, This or Here, then tell the tale behind each hollow,
When all I really need to say is your name.

At last, terror has arrived.
Next door, the house has gone up in flames.
A woman runs from the burning wreck, her face smeared
with blood and ashes. She screams that her children are kidnapped.
It's truly exciting, and what more would anyone ask?
For a rare and beautiful egg to present itself in the grass?
For sex with the liquor store owner to progress into something meaningful?
You don't know what I've done in front of the mirror.
I've pulled my shorts up high like a thong. I've walked back and forth
doing little kicks and making faces. I've stopped, I've stared.
I try to get my mind around the sight of myself. I make a face.
Of great seriousness. I imagine that I've just received
a large and upsetting piece of news. Then I look into my eyes.
Can I guess what I am thinking? Can I tell you what it is?

--
I have a request- does anyone have some Christmas/holiday love poems? Thanks in advance :)

A POLL: So what are your current favourite boardgames? Or what WERE your favourite boardgames as a child?

On the way to meet Allison and Jodi for a Christmas lunch yesterday, I came across these carol singers. They were chatting with each other about what song to sing next but when they noticed that I was taking a photo of them with my iPhone, they immediately posed for this picture. :-)

They started singing a few moments later, and they were really good!

Read the rest of this entry »

Mirrored from Debbie's Blatherings.

Carol Ann Duffy
Cold
It felt so cold, the snowball which wept in my hands,
and when I rolled it along in the snow, it grew
till I could sit on it, looking back at the house,
where it was cold when I woke in my room, the windows
blind with ice, my breath undressing itself on the air.
Cold, too, embracing the torso of snow which I lifted up
in my arms to build a snowman, my toes, burning, cold
in my winter boots; my mother's voice calling me in
from the cold. And her hands were cold from peeling
then dipping potatoes into a bowl, stopping to cup
her daughter's face, a kiss for both cold cheeks, my cold nose.
But nothing so cold as the Februrary night I opened the door
in the Chapel of Rest where my mother lay, neither young, nor old,
where my lips, returning her kiss to her brow, knew the meaning of cold.

(Published in Poetry Review 99:2, Summer 2009.)

"It Denotes"

If you walk by
And find me,
Lying on my side, curled
Like a comma
On a street corner
With no blanket
To cover myself
I am not in a coma
It denotes . . .
Stop briefly
And ponder over these times.

If you find me
Lying on my side
Legs stretched and straight
Head and shoulders
Bent forward, towards my loins
Like a question mark
It denotes . . .
Provide explanations . . .
Why certain people
Happen to sleep
On street pavements.

If you find me
Lying on my back
My whole body stretched
At a horizontal attention
like an exclamation mark
It denotes . . .
I am in shock
Do not bother
I will recover.

And when you find me coiled
My head between my legs
Round like a full stop
It denotes . . .
Stop and render first aid
Subject freezing.

"They"

Siegfried Sassoon

The Bishop tells us: "When the boys come back
"They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
"In a just cause: they lead the last attack
"On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
"New right to breed an honourable race,
"They have challenged Death and dared him face to face."

"We're none of us the same!" the boys reply.
"For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
"Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
"And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
"A chap who's served that hasn't found some change."
And the Bishop said: "The ways of God are strange!"

Selecting a Reader
by Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

Hi all,

I have a request, and I hope that's okay. For an assignment, I have to write a book review of a book/volume of contemporary poetry. Here, that's being defined as released within the past 3 years. I don't have a very well grasp (read: any) of poetry that's this recent, and I'm wondering if anyone here would care to give me some recommendations of some books that would fit for this assignment, and that you think would be interesting and good to review.

Thanks for any recommendations you can offer.

The Looking Glass---Kamala Das

Getting a man to love you is easy
Only be honest about your wants as Woman.
Stand nude before the glass with him
So that he sees himself the stronger one
And believes it so, and you so much more
Softer, younger, lovelier.
Admit your Admiration.
Notice the perfection Of his limbs,
his eyes reddening under The shower,
the shy walk across the bathroom floor,
Dropping towels, and the jerky way he Urinates.
All the fond details that make
Him male and your only man.
Gift him all,
Gift him what makes you woman,
the scent of Long hair,
the musk of sweat between the breasts,
The warm shock of menstrual blood,
and all your Endless female hungers.
Oh yes,getting A man to love is easy,
but living Without him
afterwards may have to be Faced.
A living without life when you move
Around, meeting strangers, with your eyes that
Gave up their search, with ears that hear only
His last voice calling out your name and your
Body which once under his touch had gleamed
Like burnished brass, now drab and destitute.

I loved parts of the movie - like the luminous forests, the idea of
'real' avatars (as opposed to virtual reality) and the stunning vistas,
but still was left feeling less than satisfied. It seemed like the idea
kind of went limp after a while and became like any generic Western
masala movie, except the Native Americans kinda won here.

The movie could just as well have been about Indian mining interests
exploiting tribal areas, though I suspect Bastar tribals probably are
not half as exotic as the Pandoran clans

And yes, I would have liked to see deeper characters - everyone was
quite 2D

Still - am gonna see it again tomorrow. Mainly because I want to see it
once with K and watch him watch the movie :)

Note: Someone was singing we are all in this world together. There were some grapes. Someone was feeding the sparrows, making them perch on the thumb and eat out of the hand if they wanted any food. The sparrows preferred to eat on the ground. In memory there was a story of a French grandfather who left early in my father's life, moved to Canada, and died by falling off a horse. We were tourists. There were long lines. My mother waited in them. I sat outside and took notes. I thought about the vines that grew in France, then came as cuttings to California, then went back to France after a blight. I thought about who owned what. And divisions. And songs sung in bars. And inaugural poems. I was just trying to figure out this day. I came home and used a translation machine to push my notes back and forth between French and English until a new sort of English came out, this poem.


1

We are all. We of all the small ones are. We are all. We of all the small ones are. We are in this world. We are in this world. We are together. We are together. And some of we are eating grapes. Some of we are all eating grapes. Some of we are all eating. We are all in this world today. Some of we are eating grapes today in this world. And some of we let ourselves eat grapes. In the eating of grapes. We of all the small ones are what eats grapes. In the world of grapes. Eating grapes. We of all the small ones are what eats. Some of we are all together in the grapes. We of all the small ones are today in this world. In this world. By eating grapes. To eat grapes. Some of we let ourselves eat grapes today in this world. Some of we let ourselves be all together in the grapes. In the world of the grapes. In this world. In the grapes. In the grapes. In taste. In the taste. In fermentation. In fermentation. In wine. Out of the wine. In fresh tight skin. In the fresh tight skin. In seed. Out of seed. In moisture. In moisture. In today. In today. We are all in this world together. We of all the small ones are together in this world. In the we are all together. In we let ourselves be all together. Some of we are eating. Some of we let ourselves eat. Some of we are all together eating grapes. Some of we let ourselves be all the grapes to be eaten together. In this place. In this place. In the eating. While eating. In the grapes some of we are all eating. In all the undeniable grapes of we let us leave itself let ourselves be what eats. In the eating of grapes. By eating grapes. We are all today. We of all the small ones are today. The grapes in the eating. In the we are. In the are. In the grapes are. Eating grapes. In the we the world. In the together. Some of we are all in this world together eating grapes.


( Read more... )

I always used to be of the opinion that the whole concept of kissing is highly over estimated in our society. In hindsight I realise that sometimes all that you need in life is a really passionate kiss.

When once I have gone out of this body
Shall I not come back to this earth again?
May I come back again
On some winter night
With the pitiful flesh of an ice-cold orange
To the bedside of some dying man I know

Jibananda Das