Poems that you love

[ellajam]

^^^ Great fun.

[RiverNotch]

Thanks for the tip!

HYACINTH
by Louise Glück

1
Is that an attitude for a flower, to stand
like a club at the walk; poor slain boy,
is that a way to show
gratitude to the gods? White
with colored hearts, the tall flowers
sway around you, all the other boys,
in the cold spring, as the violets open.

2
There were no flowers in antiquity
but boys’ bodies, pale, perfectly imagined.
So the gods sank to human shape with longing.
In the field, in the willow grove,
Apollo sent the courtiers away.

3
And from the blood of the wound
a flower sprang, lilylike, more brilliant
than the purples of Tyre.
Then the god wept: his vital grief
flooded the earth.

4
Beauty dies: that is the source
of creation. Outside the ring of trees
the courtiers could hear
the dove’s call transmit
its uniform, its inborn sorrow—
They stood listening, among the rustling willows.
Was this the god’s lament?
They listened carefully. And for a short time
all sound was sad.

5
There is no other immortality:
in the cold spring, the purple violets open.
And yet, the heart is black,
there is its violence frankly exposed.
Or is it not the heart at the center
but some other word?
And now someone is bending over them,
meaning to gather them—

6
They could not wait
in exile forever.
Through the glittering grove
the courtiers ran
calling the name
of their companion
over the birds’ noise,
over the willows’ aimless sadness.
Well into the night they wept,
their clear tears
altering no earthly color.

[bena]

always love me some Glück

[bena]

Grammar

by Tony Hoagland

Maxine, back from a weekend with her boyfriend,
smiles like a big cat and says
that she's a conjugated verb.
She's been doing the direct object
with a second person pronoun named Phil,
and when she walks into the room,
everybody turns:

some kind of light is coming from her head.
Even the geraniums look curious,
and the bees, if they were here, would buzz
suspiciously around her hair, looking
for the door in her corona.
We're all attracted to the perfume
of fermenting joy,

we've all tried to start a fire,
and one day maybe it will blaze up on its own.
In the meantime, she is the one today among us
most able to bear the idea of her own beauty,
and when we see it, what we do is natural:
we take our burned hands
out of our pockets,
and clap.

[rayheinrich]

Grammar
by Tony Hoagland
...

My oh my oh my!
This is the sort of writing I aspire to.
After reading this I hurried off to read him more.*

Magical metaphors seamlessly sewn. (Best description I could come up with).

Wow! (Now I got me someone else to steal from).



* Should anyone wish, there are 17 more of his here.

[ellajam]

Grammar
by Tony Hoagland
...

My oh my oh my!
This is the sort of writing I aspire to.
After reading this I hurried off to read him more.*

Magical metaphors seamlessly sewn. (Best description I could come up with).

Wow! (Now I got me someone else to steal from).



* Should anyone wish, there are 17 more of his here.

Bena!!! This is one of my all time favorite poems. I think I've posted it somewhere on the site, it's what I hope will happen but rarely does as I read poem after poem. It's exactly what I mean when I talk about a how a successful poem can bring me to the same place again and again, and it is my place, the place where I interact with the poem.

The images in the middle strophe slay me, and
"In the meantime, she is the one today among us
most able to bear the idea of her own beauty,"
somehow hits me, clobbers me, with some kind of truth few can articulate.

Thanks for the read.

Ha, I found it on the What is a Gerund? thread, I said it's the only thing that comes to mind when people start talking grammar to me.

edit:
"In the meantime, she is the one today among us
most able to bear the idea of her own beauty,"

I've been thinking about these lines, again. For me, Hoagland has hit on the essence of the only difference between the happy and sad, the satisfied and miserable. The "today" is essential, it is a situation in flux for us all. The beauty is something every human has, we are so often so overwhelmed that we can't hold it up and admire it for what it is, so intimidated by it we attempt to bury it. That is why so often we can see in someone else what they can't see in themselves, and what others see that we can't. When someone has a day like Maxine's, yes, worthy of applause.

[bena]

@bella..WOW I didn't remember reading this in that thread, but when I was posting this, all I could think of was you. Freaky!

@ray...you'll love his work, I think!

[RiverNotch]

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER
by John Donne

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

[Magpie]

Two Vietnamese poems

Spring view by Tran Nhan-Tong

The willows trail such glory that the birds are struck dumb.
Evening clouds balance above the eave-shaded hall.
A friend comes, not for conversation,
But to lean on the balustrade and watch the turquoise sky.


A Bamboo Hut by Nguyen Trai

A bamboo hut and a plum tree bower--
That's where I spend my days, far from the world's talk.
For meals, only some pickled cabbage,
But I've never cared for the life of damask and silk.
There's a pool of water for watching the moon,
And land to plough into flower beds.
Sometimes I feel inspired on snowy nights--
That's when I write my best poems, and sing.

[FindingJune]

One of my favorite poets Stephan Anstey. I am sure Leanne is familiar.

Spicy

in my cauliflour soup
with onions and carrots
and lots of cheese

i tasted a bit of last week
smoldering just under
the salt

it wasn't worth mentioning
except

i wondered
is this what today tastes like?



What Mosquitoes Whispered

What I know of love, I learned from tall grass
on Coldspring road in the summer of 1977
the cattails were plentiful that year and before
they turned to seed, I dreamed of them

but they were out there across the pekoe water
rife with frogs and inch-long two-legged tadpoles
beyond the white granite rock covered in yellow-faced
turtles worshiping Apollo like good little Greeks

I would paint on the wax wings and fly to them
once, but then tearing them out I ran mud-licked
to Old Homestead and shattered the brown scruff
until seeds snowed sick on my thick bot tongue.

this was a lesson not soon forgot. thus I waited
for the waters to recede. for leaves to change
and the stark end of autumn to reveal the beauty
of that summer matted in soft beige hues

the turtles disappeared with the sun, and the frogs
stopped their singing too. I watched then
as a boy for sings of hope - the first flakes came
and instead I realized despair.

the brown water alive, frozen so thick so quick so slick
I could tip-toe slide to that distant stone where recently
I supposed the turtles in their repose were bowed
in prayer. those dreams now shattered I passed

to the swamp grass carpet beneath the blizzard of
my inexperience, icy-ground foot-slipped shoved through
the thinner crisp. now wet I found new faith
in old summer's sleeping seeds below

[Leanne]

Steve's a bit lovely.

[FindingJune]

Steve's a bit lovely.

Why isn't he here?

[Magpie]

In someways this is a kind of cliche choice that I would usually stay away from posting in a thread like this.
But because I mentioned it in the 'School ruined poetry' thread it felt like a good excuse to post it here, and it is brilliant.

Dulce et Decorum Est 
................by Wilfred Owen
      
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[rayheinrich]

        A Rainy Country     - Linda Pastan


The headlines and feature stories alike
leak blood all over the breakfast table,
the wounding of the world mingling
with smells of bacon and bread.

Small pains are merely anterooms for larger,
and even shadow has a brother, just waiting.
Even grace is sullied by ancient angers.
I must remember it has always been like this:

those Trojan women, learning their fates;
the simple sharpness of the guillotine.
A filigree of cruelty adorns every culture.
I've thumbed through the pages of my life,

longing for childhood whose failures
were merely personal, for all
the stations of love I passed through.
Shadows and the shadow of shadows.

I am like the queen of rainy country,
powerless and grown old.  Another morning
with its quaint obligations: newspaper,
bacon grease, rattle of dishes and bones.

[Leanne]

Sorry to post a link, but I really love Sestina With Refrain by Thomas Shapcott and I can't find a copy-pasteable version.

[ellajam]

Sorry to post a link, but I really love Sestina With Refrain by Thomas Shapcott and I can't find a copy-pasteable version.

Yikes, to the poem and to the amazing successful use of a form. I forgot it was a sestina until I looked back at the title. The repeats were so effective but so natural. Thanks for posting it.

And the Pastan always holds its own.

[rayheinrich]

As an act of contrition, I copied it by hand. I'm hoping I got the damn italics and spaces right. Pleasant dreams...




                Sestina with Refrain   - Thomas W. Shapcott

Why does he keep bruising against me my dead father why still
rub First War mud into his eyes something won't die
something unspeakable he survived "got through" kept all
the parts to Soldier-On "War Babies" a tag stuck
to explain old-person nightmares but not this other
disturbance of voice faint and hoarse the call for water

and why me so long after War's so tired let it die
our century congeals with veterans all "War Babies" all
with obsessive yarns (horrible:back off) pool rooms are stuck
with them me mate's jaw shot clean through and something or other
gurgling there a voice faint & hoarse the call for water
what can you say remember it's over dad dead lie still

More something insists you have to listen damn you all
refuses at some moment cities Gods belief's unstuck
men avoid your eyes it's not you it's absences from each other
the absence voice faint and hoarse the call for water
there is no water "War Baby" not allowed to be still
to drown in that water lips fester the nerves of the tongue die

no help to have seen in the Sack of Carthage a pike stuck
through the peasant wife's breasts or in Gaul another
staff through her mouth a voice faint and hoarse the call for water
Vikings Saxons into her hold her hold her still
Bosch Anzac Marine stick the gun get it done die
Death cry death to them enemy into them into all

into     old man     dad     why drag me through the intestines of another
battleground of the voice faint and hoarse the call for water
not over not ever over not to be extinguished to be still
each witness remembering death goes into you to die
to haunt you haunting me     mocking my innocence all
my inheritance     out of your grip on me something has stuck

Vietnam Corporal Cavil: A voice faint and hoarse the call for water
so we ripped off her clothes stabbed her breasts she wouldn't die still
we spreadeagled her shoved a trenching tool up she would not die
we shot her it was okay they were Gooks Commies that's all
look dad these new veterans come home survivors stuck
into jobs and families     war babies     you know how they look past each other

wake at nights gulp the unspeakable threat lie still
it is over lie still there are others now to cry for all
the forgotten for the remembered voice faint and hoarse     the call for water.

[Leanne]

Thanks Ray, looks pretty right to me. You're a brave man, to suffer for someone else's art.

It's pretty glorious though, isn't it?

[rayheinrich]

Thanks Ray, looks pretty right to me.  You're a brave man, to suffer for someone else's art.

It's pretty glorious though, isn't it?

Contrition necessitates suffering; its object is specific,
the suffering it entails is not. I didn't suffer for his art, I suffered because of it.
With each read, the lines dug deeper. I can close my eyes and hear  
"a voice faint & hoarse the call for water". Jeez. It gloriously (and viciously) damns glory.

Rending narrative aside, I'm technically awed by his line variations:

(but not this other) disturbance of voice faint and hoarse the call for water
(and something or other) gurgling there a voice faint & hoarse the call for water
the absence voice faint and hoarse the call for water
(another) staff through her mouth a voice faint and hoarse the call for water
(another) battleground of the voice faint and hoarse the call for water
Vietnam Corporal Cavil: A voice faint and hoarse the call for water
(for all) the forgotten for the remembered voice faint and hoarse the call for water.

Hmm, I guess you've realized by now that 'call for water' thing really IS burned into
my brain (mouth dry as well).

I haven't done it for ages, but it really is pretty wonderful to take the
time to type each letter in, as it forces my brain to slow down enough to
actually see each word. It's like what happens when I'm writing my own,
I really get to feel each word there as well. Of course with his, there's
no work to be done; you just sit back, cross your legs, and feel utterly
humbled.
 

[Todd]

My friend bought me a book of poems by David Hernandez for my birthday, "House Waiting for Music." There were quite a few of his poems that I could post here. I loved this one:

Wile E. Coyote Attains Nirvana by David Hernandez


It is neither by indulging in sensuous craving and pleasures,
nor by subjecting oneself to painful, unholy and un-profitable
self-torture, one can achieve freedom from suffering and rebirth.
—from The Four Noble Truths

No wonder after each plummet
down the canyon, the dust cloud
of smoke after each impact,
he's back again, reborn, 
the same desire weighing
inside his brain like an anvil:
catch that bird. Again
with the blueprints, the calculations,
a package from the Acme Co.
of the latest gadgets. Shoes
with springs, shoes with rockets,
but nothing works. Again
the Road Runner escapes,
feathers smearing blue across the air.
Again the hungry coyote
finds himself in death's embrace,
a cannon swiveling towards his head,
a boulder's shadow dilating
under his feet. Back 
from the afterlife, he meditates
under a sandstone arch
and gets it: craving equals suffering.
The bulb of enlightenment
blazes over his head.
He hears the Road Runner across
the plain: beep-beep. Nothing.
No urge to grab the knife
and fork and run, no saliva
waterfalling from his mouth.
Just another sound in the desert
as if Pavlov's dog forgot
what that bell could do to his body.