A Poem A Day

[mizgeorge]

31 minutes ago, brokenclay said:

 

Haiku

by TC Tolbert

 

the gate is inside

of me –  i am holding it

open with a rock

beautiful.

[brokenclay]

 

Vesper Journal

by Charles Wright

 

Twilight, old friend, has come back to the lower orchard.

Two grackles waddle across the cross,

Doves moan,

                       petals fall like tiny skirts

From the dogwood tree next door,

                                                           last things in the last light.

 

In this world, in this half-grain of dust,

How can there be roof-room

                                                 or place for a human voice?

One word, in whatever language, is only one word.

And language, always, is just language.

[Tasmith]

Very nice!

[darazs]

 

Some play with one of Bukowski's best know poem, Lamy Safari 1.5 (Krishna Jungle Volcano), ASA Nauka 1.1 (Kon Peki) and CONID Minimalistica M Italic (Akkerman Voorhout).

[brokenclay]

3 hours ago, darazs said:

Some play with one of Bukowski's best know poem,

Nice! Thank you.

[brokenclay]

I'm having trouble getting a poem written out today. Here is the poem I've started (but not finished) writing three times:

 

Absences

by Donald Justice

 

It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano—outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.

Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen.
                                    And I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers
      abounding.
 

[mizgeorge]

11 hours ago, brokenclay said:

I'm having trouble getting a poem written out today. Here is the poem I've started (but not finished) writing three times:

 

Absences

by Donald Justice

 

It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano—outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.

Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen.
                                    And I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers
      abounding.
 

I think I would have needed waterproof ink for that one. 

[inkstainedruth]

Another amazing poem!  Where do you keep finding them, brokenclay?

Ruth Morrisson aka inkstainedruth

[brokenclay]

2 minutes ago, inkstainedruth said:

Another amazing poem!  Where do you keep finding them, brokenclay?

Ruth Morrisson aka inkstainedruth

 

Mostly at poetryfoundation.org, which I think you suggested at one point much earlier in the thread. A few other places as well: poets.org, or sometimes I come across interesting personal sites like https://thefinalparadox.com, or http://www.ashokkarra.com/ recently. And books.

[brokenclay]

 

AS SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

by Kalamu Ya Salaam

 

i have never been fully domesticated

but i have been civilized

 

by women taught that the heart

is more than a muscle

 

a life drum whose function is

both physical blood pumping

and spiritual longing to be embraced

 

but love, ah love is a river

we may get wet

but we can never drink it all

love always flows on

more than we can ever swallow

 

no matter how thirsty

we claim to be

[PuliMorgan]

 

"With fire and sword the country round

    Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

    And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be

    At every famous victory.

 

"They say it was a shocking sight

    After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

    Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

    After a famous victory.

 

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

    And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

    Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay... nay... my little girl," quoth he,

    "It was a famous victory.

 

"And everybody praised the Duke

    Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?"

    Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why that I cannot tell," said he,

    "But 'twas a famous victory."

 

(Last few stanzas of Battle of Blenheim by Robert Southey)

 

[brokenclay]

On 2/24/2022 at 4:06 PM, PuliMorgan said:

"But what good came of it at last?"

    Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why that I cannot tell," said he,

    "But 'twas a famous victory."

Yup.

 

 

The Owl

by Edward Thomas

 

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

 

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry

 

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.

 

And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

[mizgeorge]

Beautiful. I love Thomas's poetry - and strangely enough we're going to Adelstrop next week. 

[dftr]

On 2/24/2022 at 11:25 AM, brokenclay said:

 

AS SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK

by Kalamu Ya Salaam

 

i have never been fully domesticated

but i have been civilized

 

by women taught that the heart

is more than a muscle

 

a life drum whose function is

both physical blood pumping

and spiritual longing to be embraced

 

but love, ah love is a river

we may get wet

but we can never drink it all

love always flows on

more than we can ever swallow

 

no matter how thirsty

we claim to be

I like this poem.  I'll have to see what time period the author is from!

[brokenclay]

1 hour ago, mizgeorge said:

Beautiful. I love Thomas's poetry - and strangely enough we're going to Adelstrop next week. 

 

But it's not June!

 

In that case:

 

 

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas

 

Yes. I remember Adlestrop—

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

 

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

 

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

 

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

 

 

1 hour ago, dftr said:

I like this poem.  I'll have to see what time period the author is from!

 

He's contemporary: https://www.kalamu.com

 

[mizgeorge]

25 minutes ago, brokenclay said:

 

But it's not June!

 

In that case:

 

 

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas

 

Yes. I remember Adlestrop—

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

 

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

 

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

 

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

 

 

 

He's contemporary: https://www.kalamu.com

 

It definitely isn't June, but our blackbirds are singing, and I can imagine that it's warm again.

 

(and it's only about 20 miles from where we live!).

[brokenclay]

48 minutes ago, mizgeorge said:

It definitely isn't June, but our blackbirds are singing, and I can imagine that it's warm again.

 

(and it's only about 20 miles from where we live!).

Enjoy!

[brokenclay]

 

Mindful

by Mary Oliver

 

Everyday
I see or hear
something
that more or less

 

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

 

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,

 

to lose myself
inside this soft world —
to instruct myself
over and over

 

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

 

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant —
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

 

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

 

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these —
the untrimmable light

 

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

[essayfaire]

On 12/20/2020 at 3:44 PM, brokenclay said:

 

 

Poem for my Birthday

by Lisel Mueller

 

I have stopped being the heroine

of my bad dreams. The melodramas

of betrayal and narrow escapes

from which I wake up grateful

for an unexciting life

are starring my troubled young friend

or one of my daughters. I'm not the one

who swims too far out to sea;

I am the one who waves from shore

vainly and in despair.

Life is what happens to someone else;

I stand on the sidelines and wring my hands.

Strange, that my dreams should have accepted

the minor role I've been cast in

by stories since stories began.

Does that mean I have solved my life?

I'm still afraid in my dreams, but not for myself.

Fear gets rededicated

with a new stone that bears a needier name.

 

Pelikan P20 Twist Stars Pink with Akkerman SBRE Brown

I just saw this thread!  So few people know who Lisel Mueller is and I am glad I now know one more! 

[dftr]

 

"When last comes to last

I have little power: I am merely an urn

I hold the bonesap of myself

and watch the marrow burn

 

When last comes to last

I have little strength: I am only a tool

I work its work and in its hands

I am the fool.

 

When last comes to last

I have little life.  I am simply a deed

an action done while courage holds:

A seed."

 

by Stephen R. Donaldson.