Poems that you love

[Magpie]

On Turning Ten - Billy Collins

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

[ellajam]

I apologize that when I first read  Seamus Heaney he left me cold and I never went back to him. I like some of what's been posted here so perhaps I've been unfair.

Tenderness by Stephen Dunn

Back then when so much was clear
and I hadn't learned
young men learn from women

what it feels like to feel just right,
I was twenty-three,
she thirty-four, two children, a husband

in prison for breaking someone's head.
Yelled at, slapped
around, all she knew of tenderness

was how much she wanted it, and all
I knew
were back seats and a night or two

in a sleeping bag in the furtive dark.
We worked
in the same office, banter and loneliness

leading to the shared secret
that to help
National Biscuit sell biscuits

was wildly comic, which led to my body
existing with hers
like rain that's found its way underground

to water it naturally joins.
I can't remember
ever saying the exact word, tenderness,

though she did. It's a word I see now
you must be older to use,
you must have experienced the absence of it

often enough to know what silk and deep balm
it is
when at last it comes. I think it was terror

at first that drove me to touch her
so softly,
then selfishness, the clear benefit

of doing something that would come back
to me twofold,
and finally, sometime later, it became

reflexive and motiveless in the high
ignorance of love.
Oh abstractions are just abstract

until they have an ache in them. I met
a woman never touched
gently, and when it ended between us

I had new hands and new sorrow,
everything it meant
to be a man changed, unheroic, floating.

This is so much bigger than the story it tells, thanks for posting it.

[ellajam]

(Read this for the first time this morning, it's a beaut of a rant.)


Drowning the Shamrock
~ Frank Delaney

"Hail glorious Saint Patrick dear saint of our isle
On us thy poor children look down with a smile —"
But I'm not singing hymns and I'm not saying prayers.
No, I'm gritting my teeth as I walk down the stairs
and into the street with these louts fiercely drinking,
and screeching and lurching, and here's what I'm thinking —
they're using a stereotype, a narrow example,
a fraction, not even a marketing sample
to imitate Ireland, from which they don't come!
So unless that's just stupid, unless it's plain dumb,
all these kids from New Jersey and the five boroughs
and hundreds of cities, all drowning their sorrows,
with bottles and glasses and heads getting broken
(believe me, just ask the mayor of Hoboken)
all that mindlessness, shouting and getting plain stocious —
That isn't Irish, that's simply atrocious.
I've another word too for it, this one's more stinging
I call it "racism." See, just 'cause you're singing
some drunken old ballad on Saint Patrick's Day
does that make you Irish? Oh, no — no way.
Nor does a tee-shirt that asks you to kiss them —
if they never come back I surely won't miss them
or their beer cans and badges and wild maudlin bawling
and hammered and out of it, bodies all sprawling.

They're not of Joyce or of Yeats, Wilde, or Shaw.
How many Nobel Laureates does Dublin have? Four!
Think of this as you wince through Saint Patrick's guano —
not every Italian is Tony Soprano.

http://frankdelaney.com/index.php

[RiverNotch]

I just read this, and it's friggin' adorable!, however serious it's supposed to be.

MY CAT JEOFFRY, by Christopher Smart

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his fore-paws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the fore-paws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For Sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For Seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For Eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For Ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For Tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incompleat without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his fore-paws of any quadrupede.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually --
Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in compleat cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in musick.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is affraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly,
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroaking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance,
which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadrupede.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the musick.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.

[Magpie]

Left-hand weakness by Serge Gurkski

I have a left hand weakness
My bass sucks
Can’t keep the rhythm
My right hand, though
Is a funky bird
Jumping easily between
5th, 7th and 9th
So I tell Max
Play the bass line
And there we roll:
My right watermelons
Over the keys
Extensively while I
Check out the chicks
They always fall for the
Solo-man, though
Max’ fingers beats out
The syncopated rhythm
On the lower keys
Octave-wise
I could have one
If I hadn’t too many.
So when we meet
In the lounge next morning
I have some taste of
Old Scotch ‘round my tongue
While Max chews on
Some blond pussy-hair.


Bar flying high by Serge Gurkski

I get world’s wisdom through my nose
and I’m too cool to snap my fingers.
I wear gloves, actually, because
my velvet-skinned hands are holy.
Here and there I’m forced to kiss
wet lips; the ladies approve.
They buy me drinks and show the goods.
Eventually, between two fixes, I might sit down
and play some sexy piano Jazz.
The truth, of course, is, that I’m nowhere near desire
when I come with fingers spread out on the keys.
I still need the warmth of your breasts and a downer
to make it into the night.
And you want me to keep the gloves on.


Two poems by Serge on the second anniversary of his Enlightenment.

For those who may be interested here is a link to the blog that he used to have dithyrambs & ditties which has many of his brilliant poems —and a liberal sprinkling of his crazy unique ramblings and thoughts; sometimes in several different languages— and thankfully it is also free of 'scammers', 'spammers' and 'trolls'.
Hopefully the fact that I have posted two poems by a member that is banned doesn't mean that I am a 'sock puppet by proxy'. If so then address all complaints and enquiries to Serge 

[milo]

He never did sue me and for that I am grateful.

[Bucca]

Alone - Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

A band I used the poem for one of their songs. I think it's beautiful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YmH8hioAKsc

I'm thinking of getting "When the rest of Heaven was blue" as a tattoo. Though I'm worried it will be cheesy or too"white girl". 

[ellajam]

^^^^ great choice. So often rhyming couplets seem too lightweight a rhyme scheme for heavier material, but not here. hhmmmm. Thanks for posting it.

[next]

THE DOLLS  -  John Ciardi

Night after night forever the dolls lay stiff
by the children's dreams. On the goose-feathers of the rich,
on the straw of the poor, on the gypsy ground—
wherever the children slept, dolls have been found
in the subsoil of the small loves stirred again
by the Finders After Everything. Down lay
the children by their hanks and twists. Night after night
grew over imagination. The fuzzies shed, the bright
buttons fell out of the heads, arms ripped, and down
through goose-feathers, straw; and the gypsy ground
the dolls sank, and some—the fuzziest and most loved
changed back to string and dust, and the dust moved
dream-puffs round the Finders' boots as they dug,
sieved, brushed, and came on a little clay dog,
and a little stone man, and a little bone girl, that had kept
their eyes wide open forever, while all the children slept.

[milo]

THE DOLLS  -  John Ciardi

Night after night forever the dolls lay stiff
by the children's dreams. On the goose-feathers of the rich,
on the straw of the poor, on the gypsy ground—
wherever the children slept, dolls have been found
in the subsoil of the small loves stirred again
by the Finders After Everything. Down lay
the children by their hanks and twists. Night after night
grew over imagination. The fuzzies shed, the bright
buttons fell out of the heads, arms ripped, and down
through goose-feathers, straw; and the gypsy ground
the dolls sank, and some—the fuzziest and most loved
changed back to string and dust, and the dust moved
dream-puffs round the Finders' boots as they dug,
sieved, brushed, and came on a little clay dog,
and a little stone man, and a little bone girl, that had kept
their eyes wide open forever, while all the children slept.

This is spectacular btw

[Achebe]

THE DOLLS  -  John Ciardi

Night after night forever the dolls lay stiff
by the children's dreams. On the goose-feathers of the rich,
on the straw of the poor, on the gypsy ground—
wherever the children slept, dolls have been found
in the subsoil of the small loves stirred again
by the Finders After Everything. Down lay
the children by their hanks and twists. Night after night
grew over imagination. The fuzzies shed, the bright
buttons fell out of the heads, arms ripped, and down
through goose-feathers, straw; and the gypsy ground
the dolls sank, and some—the fuzziest and most loved
changed back to string and dust, and the dust moved
dream-puffs round the Finders' boots as they dug,
sieved, brushed, and came on a little clay dog,
and a little stone man, and a little bone girl, that had kept
their eyes wide open forever, while all the children slept.

This is spectacular btw

Yeah, kinda blows you away for the entire weekend. Thanks for posting.

[milo]

Here is another one by an old workshop friend:

Neanderthal Bone Flute
by Rose Kelleher

“...if it really is a flute, it provides significant evidence that Neanderthals may have been the equal of Homo Sapiens in the evolution of humankind.”
                      — Wikipedia.com, Divje Babe

Let it be a flute. Let some young man,
perhaps red-haired, have carved it just for fun.
Or better yet, to serenade someone:
one of the jut-chinned girls, not of his clan,
a stranger from the east. And let his genes
thrive still in solitary types, the shy
who fidget when you look them in the eye,
the tongue-tied, who must woo by other means.

Ignore the new genetic tests that say
the girl rejected him, that winter came
and spear could not compete with bow and arrow;
that want, or slaughter, whittled him away
because his ways and ours were not the same.
Let bone be flute, the music in our marrow.

[ellajam]

Here is another one by an old workshop friend:

Neanderthal Bone Flute
by Rose Kelleher

“...if it really is a flute, it provides significant evidence that Neanderthals may have been the equal of Homo Sapiens in the evolution of humankind.”
                      — Wikipedia.com, Divje Babe

Let it be a flute. Let some young man,
perhaps red-haired, have carved it just for fun.
Or better yet, to serenade someone:
one of the jut-chinned girls, not of his clan,
a stranger from the east. And let his genes
thrive still in solitary types, the shy
who fidget when you look them in the eye,
the tongue-tied, who must woo by other means.

Ignore the new genetic tests that say
the girl rejected him, that winter came
and spear could not compete with bow and arrow;
that want, or slaughter, whittled him away
because his ways and ours were not the same.
Let bone be flute, the music in our marrow.

mmmmmm

[next]

Here is another one by an old workshop friend:

Neanderthal Bone Flute
by Rose Kelleher

“...if it really is a flute, it provides significant evidence that Neanderthals may have been the equal of Homo Sapiens in the evolution of humankind.”
                      — Wikipedia.com, Divje Babe

Let it be a flute. Let some young man,
perhaps red-haired, have carved it just for fun.
Or better yet, to serenade someone:
one of the jut-chinned girls, not of his clan,
a stranger from the east. And let his genes
thrive still in solitary types, the shy
who fidget when you look them in the eye,
the tongue-tied, who must woo by other means.

Ignore the new genetic tests that say
the girl rejected him, that winter came
and spear could not compete with bow and arrow;
that want, or slaughter, whittled him away
because his ways and ours were not the same.
Let bone be flute, the music in our marrow.

mmmmmm

Wonderful (I sense a theme here...).

[Achebe]

The last line is haunting.

[Todd]

This Hour and What Is Dead


Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking 
through bare rooms over my head, 
opening and closing doors. 
What could he be looking for in an empty house?   
What could he possibly need there in heaven? 
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?   
His love for me feels like spilled water 
running back to its vessel. 

At this hour, what is dead is restless   
and what is living is burning. 

Someone tell him he should sleep now. 

My father keeps a light on by our bed   
and readies for our journey. 
He mends ten holes in the knees 
of five pairs of boy’s pants. 
His love for me is like his sewing: 
various colors and too much thread, 
the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces   
clean through with each stroke of his hand. 

At this hour, what is dead is worried   
and what is living is fugitive. 

Someone tell him he should sleep now. 

God, that old furnace, keeps talking   
with his mouth of teeth, 
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath   
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.   
His love for me feels like fire, 
feels like doves, feels like river-water. 

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind   
and helpless. While the Lord lives. 

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.   
I’ve had enough of his love 
that feels like burning and flight and running away. 

~~

Li-Young Lee

[Lizzie]

Directing the Happy Times


Think April, late, when all things tilt, quiver
with color and rain. Begin, hibiscus, drip

like a woman in wet clothes. With deeper curve,
magnolia, you ache and brown. Last drop,

knock down the honeybee; on three, it bobs,
a cork in the water, that's its time to shine.

Wisteria, study the air where it throbs.
Be amethyst. Focus. I'll need the vine

to fully engage the tree, lilies to white
one by one as Mother walks the lane.

It must be this precise, or, simply put,
she'll get distracted, fail to read her line;

she will not laugh, the waiting stagehands' cue.
Lights down. Enter the shadows who carry you.


-- Chloe Honum

[Todd]

The Universe as Primal Scream

5pm on the nose. They open their mouths
And it rolls out: high, shrill and metallic.
First the boy, then his sister. Occasionally,
They both let loose at once, and I think
Of putting on my shoes to go up and see
Whether it is merely an experiment
Their parents have been conducting
Upon the good crystal, which must surely
Lie shattered to dust on the floor.

Maybe the mother is still proud
Of the four pink lungs she nursed
To such might. Perhaps, if they hit
The magic decibel, the whole building
Will lift-off, and we'll ride to glory
Like Elijah. If this is it—if this is what
Their cries are cocked toward—let the sky
Pass from blue, to red, to molten gold,
To black. Let the heaven we inherit approach.

Whether it is our dead in Old Testament robes,
Or a door opening onto the roiling infinity of space.
Whether it will bend down to greet us like a father,
Or swallow us like a furnace. I'm ready
To meet what refuses to let us keep anything
For long. What teases us with blessings,
Bends us with grief. Wizard, thief, the great
Wind rushing to knock our mirrors to the floor,
To sweep our short lives clean. How mean

Our racket seems beside it. My stereo on shuffle.
The neighbor chopping onions through a wall.
All of it just a hiccough against what may never
Come for us. And the kids upstairs still at it,
Screaming like the Dawn of Man, as if something
They have no name for has begun to insist
Upon being born.

~~

Tracy K. Smith

[Magpie]

The Universe as Primal Scream

5pm on the nose. They open their mouths
And it rolls out: high, shrill and metallic.
First the boy, then his sister. Occasionally,
They both let loose at once, and I think
Of putting on my shoes to go up and see
Whether it is merely an experiment
Their parents have been conducting
Upon the good crystal, which must surely
Lie shattered to dust on the floor.

Maybe the mother is still proud
Of the four pink lungs she nursed
To such might. Perhaps, if they hit
The magic decibel, the whole building
Will lift-off, and we'll ride to glory
Like Elijah. If this is it—if this is what
Their cries are cocked toward—let the sky
Pass from blue, to red, to molten gold,
To black. Let the heaven we inherit approach.

Whether it is our dead in Old Testament robes,
Or a door opening onto the roiling infinity of space.
Whether it will bend down to greet us like a father,
Or swallow us like a furnace. I'm ready
To meet what refuses to let us keep anything
For long. What teases us with blessings,
Bends us with grief. Wizard, thief, the great
Wind rushing to knock our mirrors to the floor,
To sweep our short lives clean. How mean

Our racket seems beside it. My stereo on shuffle.
The neighbor chopping onions through a wall.
All of it just a hiccough against what may never
Come for us. And the kids upstairs still at it,
Screaming like the Dawn of Man, as if something
They have no name for has begun to insist
Upon being born.

~~

Tracy K. Smith

Thanks for sharing this one Todd. 
To be honest after the first stanza I wasn't expecting a great deal but then it just kept on gathering momentum... and still is. 

Cheers,

Mark

[next]

Claim - Ruth Lasters - translator: Paul Vincent

If I were a road, I’d claim the right to strike. Occasionally not having to run
dumbly from point A to point B, but suddenly
bend to an elsewhere, unspecified, without destination, landmarks. Full of people
who from purposeful travel, all at once stray into

a quite absolute stasis. And a poet who then whispers a
direction in their ear, hints on orientation
though on condition that they recite by heart

a poem of his, for example this (Slower!
Softer! Pauses for breath!) Be warned: at each wrongly
mumbled line, the road will fork and twist
still further.




Moving on - Ruth Lasters - translator: Paul Vincent

If moving on seems impossible, then choose one single
moving on, one splendidly

stubborn deed, if need be: hearing fizzy water every midnight
exploding bubbles, a sort of star-listening
instead of star-gazing. If moving on is impossible,

then choose one journey backward to a moment when
all the ‘one days’ you were promised suddenly became now,
perhaps to that morning when ambition was just

growing with you like grey mould
through a loaf.