Poet's Corner

[midcan5]

'Three Oddest Words'

"When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold."

Wislawa Szymborska

 

[midcan5]

'The Big Kid'

"If the big kid on the block
picks a fight on the street,
and shows no kindness towards the young kids
who cannot step up yet,
then there is no neighborhood.
When aggression goes unquestioned
And when we are distracted from what must be said
to put the strangers at ease,
We all lose.
When our block, our neighborhood, our
country needs something besides our silence and sarcasm,
then mistrust grows among us like an age of darkness,
Or something much smaller that divides us.

When we are not present for the others
who don’t step up,
something in us dies.
we are orphans without a home
who cannot accept an end to loneliness,
even for a short while.
then as we gradually become something
to be conquered, we become like buildings
with boarded up windows,
with blocks of yards and cars on blocks waiting
to be swept up by our facades of progress

All of this is because we do not care for
The slightest voices among us,
and our street, our neighborhood, our country
becomes the shining city on the hill
Spoiling for the next fight,
and waiting to be captured."

Bill Turley

 

[Sky Dancer]

Cat's Dream


How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.



Pablo Neruda

 

[midcan5]

'I Cannot Speak of War'

"I can only speak of soldiers: captured
in nearly a century of photographs.
Old eyes in young faces who wear
integrity as easily as their crisp
dress blues and browns.

I can speak of my grandfather: the doughboy
learning a bit of the old parlez-vous
with gay mademoiselles baring
frantic smiles and foxholed nights
when the chauchaut rifle was useless.

I can speak of my father: GI Joe following
in the footsteps of Fat Man through the hot
ashes of Nagasaki, where watches stopped,
Geiger counters clicked and wildflowers
bloomed in the nuclear afternoon.

I can speak of my brother: always faithful
to the Corps. The drill instructor of Parris Island, pulling weekend suicide watches - basic
training of grunts into privates – the process
of plucking out the few and the proud.

I can speak of my son: nearly a man the day the towers fell. His eyes were unforgiving, dark and newly old. The next custodian turned to face the incoming storm and I placed his picture on the shelf along with the others."

Pat Harvey

Wife, mother, daughter, grandmother, former grocery store manager turned writing instructor, but always a storyteller and poet.

 

[Sky Dancer]

No More Clichés

Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To you manufacture fantasy.

But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.

This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.

This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.

Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.

From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.

Octavio Paz

 

[midcan5]

'Family Album'

"I like old photographs of relatives
in black and white, their faces set like stone.
They knew this was serious business.
My favorite album is the one that’s filled
with people none of us can even name.

I find the recent ones more difficult.
I wonder, now, if anyone remembers
how fiercely I refused even to stand
beside him for this picture—how I shrank
back from his hand and found the other side.

Forever now, for future family,
we will be framed like this, although no one
will wonder at the way we are arranged.
No one will ever wonder, since we’ll be
forever smiling there—our mouths all teeth."

Diane Thiel

 

[Sky Dancer]

Let America Be America Again

by Langston Hughes


Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

 

[midcan5]

'Smells'

"Why is it that the poet tells
So little of the sense of smell?
These are the odors I love well:

The smell of coffee freshly ground;
Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned;
Or onions fried and deeply browned.

The fragrance of a fumy pipe;
The smell of apples, newly ripe;
And printer's ink on leaden type.

Woods by moonlight in September
Breathe most sweet, and I remember
Many a smoky camp-fire ember.

Camphor, turpentine, and tea,
The balsam of a Christmas tree,
These are whiffs of gramarye. . .
A ship smells best of all to me!"

Christopher Morley

 

[midcan5]

'Aubade'

"“Take me with you”
my mother says
standing in her nightgown
as, home from college,
I prepare to leave
before dawn.
The desolation
she must face
was once my concern
but like a bobber
pulled beneath
the surface
by an inedible fish
she vanished
into the life
he offered her.
It stopped occurring
to me she might return.
“I’ll be back” I say
and then I go."

Dore Kiesselbach

 

[midcan5]

'Long Marriage'

"You’re worried, so you wake her
& you talk into the dark:
Do you think I have cancer, you
say, or Were there worms
in that meat, or Do you think
our son is OK, and it’s
wonderful, really—almost
ceremonial as you feel
the vessel of your worry pass
miraculously from you to her—
Gee, the rain sounds so beautiful,
you say—I’m going back to sleep."

Gerald Fleming

 

[midcan5]

'The Powwow at the End of the World'

"I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam
and topples it. I am told by many of you that I must forgive
and so I shall after the floodwaters burst each successive dam
downriver from the Grand Coulee. I am told by many of you
that I must forgive and so I shall after the floodwaters find
their way to the mouth of the Columbia River as it enters the Pacific
and causes all of it to rise. I am told by many of you that I must forgive
and so I shall after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed by that salmon
waiting in the Pacific. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia
and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors
of Hanford. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River
as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives
in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone.
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall after
that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws
a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire
which will lead all of the lost Indians home. I am told
by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon
who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: one story will teach us
how to pray; another story will make us laugh for hours;
the third story will give us reason to dance. I am told by many
of you that I must forgive and so I shall when I am dancing
with my tribe during the powwow at the end of the world."

Sherman Alexie

 

[midcan5]

'The Woman Who Collects Noah's Arks'

"Has them in every room of her house,
wall hangings, statues, paintings, quilts and blankets,
ark lampshades, mobiles, Christmas tree ornaments,
t-shirts, sweaters, necklaces, books,
comics, a creamer, a sugar bowl, candles, napkins,
tea-towels and tea-tray, nightgown, pillow, lamp.
Animals two-by-two in plaster, wood,
fabric, oil paint, copper, glass, plastic, paper,
tinfoil, leather, mother-of-pearl, styrofoam,
clay, steel, rubber, wax, soap.
Why I cannot ask, though I would like
to know, the answer has to be simply
because. Because at night when she lies
with her husband in bed, the house rocks out
into the bay, the one that cuts in here to the flatlands
at the center of Texas. Because the whole wood structure
drifts off, out under the stars, beyond the last
lights, the two of them pitching and rolling
as it all heads seaward. Because they hear
trumpets and bellows from the farther rooms.
Because the sky blackens, but morning finds them always
safe on the raindrenched land,
bird on the windowsill."

Janet McCann

 

[Colin]

THE GREEN BERET MEN

A word in the house, a stroke of a pen
The country disbanded a fine body of men
With fighting finesse and fitness supreme
The creme de la creme wore berets of Green.

Their training was tough, it had to be so
How to fight with a knife and kill with one blow
Salerno, Vaagso, Dieppe and St Nazaire
With impossible odds the Commando's were there.

Their raids so successful that once Hitler said
"If captured no prisoners I want these men dead"
To late he discovered his men were not keen
To battle with these Marines who wore berets of Green.

On D-Day at Sword beach they were there to the fore
As they jumped from the landing craft and made for the shore
Their contempt for the Nazi's was very plain to see
For they wore not steel helmets but berets of Green.

When it was all over and the fighting no more
The first that was disbanded was the Green beret Corp's
Who went back to their Shires, their Towns and their Glens
A real fine body of gentle self disciplined men.

As the years roll on by they still meet it is said
To talk, toast the Queen and remember their dead
Whose memorial stands at the foot of the Ben
Where they fought for the right to be Green beret men.

For our freedom of movement our freedom of speech
To those who come after , this gospel I preach
A word in the house a stroke of the pen these cannot wipe out
The debt to those brave Green beret men.

PER MARE PER TERRAM.

Author: Rod Spinks
former Royal Marine 1957/68.

 

[Colin]

He ain't exactly a Tommy, he ain't exactly a Tar,
He ain't too cocky or nothing, like the best blokes never are.
They christened him bootneck, Jolly and a ruddy old bullock he's been,
for if there's a war, afloat or ashore, they call on the Royal Marine.

He's frozen in ice in the Arctic, he's sweated in African heat,
he smiled at the welcome at Ypres, he's popped off the guns with the fleet.
But where trouble is brewing or something that's doing,
then send for the Royal Marine".

When earth's little canter is over, and the sun burns the colour of lead
and the last bugle call is sounding to summon the quick and the dead.
There may be a panic by people who don't know what discipline means,
but I'll wager my pay the first to obey, will be The last of the Royal Marines

 

[midcan5]

'What Can We Do?'

"at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, murder.
what can we do with it, this Humanity?
nothing.
avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can kill you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape.
it's up to you to figure a plan.
I have met nobody who has escaped.
I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity.
I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.
before my death I hope to obtain my
life."

Charles Bukowski

 

[midcan5]

'Turning Forty'

"At times it's like there is a small planet
inside me. And on this planet,
there are many small wars, yet none
big enough to make a real difference.
The major countries—mind and heart—have
called a truce for now. If this planet had a ruler,
no one remembers him well. All
decisions are made by committee.
Yet there are a few pictures of the old dictator—
how youthful he looked on his big horse,
how bright his eyes.
He was ready to conquer the world."

Kevin Griffith

 

[midcan5]

Call this number if you are having trouble.

I used to stand in front of large drawings
Pasted paper, dated, rectangles
In bottom right corner
Relays and lines and paths and sequences
I would jot down a place to check
Pick set and ear
Touching here and there,
Listening for clicks and silence
Now I sit on hold
Ear glued to receiver
And a foreign voice
Tells me this is Robert
And I know it is not a Robert
And they read a script
The large drawings now words
And next and next and next
Expert systems never worked
Why should this.

 

[midcan5]

'My Father Teaches Me to Dream'

"You want to know what work is?
I’ll tell you what work is:
Work is work.
You get up. You get on the bus.
You don’t look from side to side.
You keep your eyes straight ahead.
That way nobody bothers you—see?
You get off the bus. You work all day.
You get back on the bus at night. Same thing.
You go to sleep. You get up.
You do the same thing again.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
There’s no handouts in this life.
All this other stuff you’re looking for—
it ain’t there.
Work is work."

Jan Beatty

 

[PLYMCO_PILGRIM]

THE TRAVELLER By Plymco_Pilgrim

Into the tranquil darkness
The Traveller falls
He knows not what may lurk
In this dungeons halls.
But he transgresses with courage
Further into the darkness
Only to find that he has fallen deeper
Into dark webs of thought
The light which can still be remembered
Now faded and dim
His thoughts of hope become likened to the light
And through the power of fright turn on him
He now roams and wanders
through the shadows eclipse
Clueless to the creature lurking behind
Plotting the traveller's sudden demise

 

[Colin]

Please Wear a Poppy

"Please wear a poppy," the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.

A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she's pinned it on he turned to say,
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, "This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.

"I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
and became a man - as you will, too.

"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mum, so please don't cry.

"But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

"Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a poppy son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son - did he come back all right?"

A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Thought our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!

And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and give!

~~By Don Crawford.~~