Poet's Corner

[midcan5]

'Girls’ Middle School Orchestra'

"They’re all dressed up in carmine
floor-length velvet gowns, their upswirled hair
festooned with matching ribbons:
their fresh hopes and our fond hopes for them
infuse this sort-of-music as if happiness could actually be
each-plays-her-part-and-all-will-take-care-of-itself.
Their hearts unscarred under quartz lights
beam through the darkness in which we sit
to show us why we endured at home
the squeaking and squawking and botched notes
that now in concert are almost beautiful,
almost rendering this heartrending music
composed for an archduke who loved it so much
he spent his fortune for the musicians
who could bring it brilliantly to life."

Michael Ryan

 

[Dragon]

Yuletide

Light fades to dark, day into gray, warmth is a memory
Lost in a flurry of snow, a crust of ice on the ground.
Was summer real? Did we walk naked, sweat in the sun?
Did we seek shade, gulp ice water, squint in the glare,
Bother ourselves with color of skin or tint of tan,
Or power of flowers or equal relations of woman and man?
How right it all seemed in the summer sun, in the humid heat
Of summer’s passion, and we forgot that winter would come.
The flowers are buried under the snow, and the passion dies
With the dying sun, as the animals dig through the frozen ground,
Not for a treat but just for the means to survive the day,
And for us as for them, merely to live has become the task,
The grand crusades all left behind like fast food wrappers,
Even the litter hidden from sight by the settled snow.

And even so . . .

We don't forget, who love the Earth and dance to Her song,
That the shortest day, the longest night, and the depths of cold
Are also the point when the promise is kept and the Sun returns.
When all is bleakest, we burn the fire and sing the songs
And drink wassail and give the gifts and the languid kiss
'Neath the mistletoe and eat the feast, because we know
That this is the turning, the end of winter in winter's peak.
From this day forth, the sun will grow, the night retreat,
The ice will melt and the waters run and the snow withdraw,
The flowers burst and the new shoots joy, in the ancient riddle
Of life's beginning in the arms of death, of love's triumph
At the peak of hate, of liberty springing from tyranny's grip.
Take comfort in this: the victory's won when all seems lost.
So says the promise of Spring that's made in Winter's heart.

 

[Dragon]

Resonance

A crystal, split in two, sings harmony each half with each.
A note upon the one, by silver hammer fairy-struck,
Evokes the chord its sundered twin sings, too
And both sweet mineral voices lift in tune
In one place, their distance charmed to none.
Are we a pair of stones? What chisel split us, then,
That sundered not just miles but also years,
And made you part of me before you were?

A dolphin's water song is more than sound.
It reaches soulwise half around the world
To kiss the ears and heart of her lost twin
Who answers with a cry of painful joy,
Recognizing one he never knew, and always.
What voice, more heart than throat, has borne me up
And made me see the light again, who plumbed
The melancholy comfort of the sea's dark vault?

A particle once sundered from its mate
By subatomic edicts of divorce
Thumbs its nose at Albert and ignores
The distances between them, always knowing
The dance-steps faster than the speed of light.
Is this the link we share, a gluon of the soul
Binding the heart’s nucleus together
In defiance of the atomizing force
Of space and time
Through music and rhyme
Weaving song and poem in a 4D tapestry
Binding then and later into now?

 

[Dragon]

The Tree of Me

Were I a tree, what tree would I be?
Scrub pine, redwood, Joshua tree?
Scrawny mesquite with dagger-long thorns?
Yggdrasil world tree watered by norns?
Dragon tree, maybe, home to my guide,
Juniper tree where the bird-boy died,
Tree of the Hesperides (dragon there, too!),
Long-lived, friendly big bamboo,
Birthplace of man in the Philippine tale,
Or the parable’s willow that bows to the gale,
But perhaps I am none of these; something unique
With fruit-heavy limbs hanging over a creek
May describe me best – it’s a heady wine
I offer the birds on which to dine
And drunk on my spirits they sing and dance
And follow the oracle, choice or chance
To distant lands, where the seeds go plop!
Beside distant creeks into fertile slop
And they sprout from the mud in novel forms
None like the others, outside the norms,
Each one displaying a type of me
That isn’t displayed in this old tree.
For here is the truth that every tree knows:
The bends of the branches as they grow
Fix us fast to the choices made,
This-not-that, a song that’s played
Instead of another: but in the heart
Are all the infinite ways of art
And the roots go down to the planet’s core
While the limbs stretch millions of miles and more
And I can’t be named as just one tree
But only as every tree that could be.



 

[midcan5]

'Old Men Playing Basketball'

"The heavy bodies lunge, the broken language
of fake and drive, glamorous jump shot
slowed to a stutter. Their gestures, in love
again with the pure geometry of curves,
rise toward the ball, falter, and fall away.
On the boards their hands and fingertips
tremble in tense little prayers of reach
and balance. Then, the grind of bone
and socket, the caught breath, the sigh,
the grunt of the body laboring to give
birth to itself. In their toiling and grand
sweeps, I wonder, do they still make love
to their wives, kissing the undersides
of their wrists, dancing the old soft-shoe
of desire? And on the long walk home
from the VFW, do they still sing
to the drunken moon? Stands full, clock
moving, the one in army fatigues
and houseshoes says to himself, pick and roll,
and the phrase sounds musical as ever,
radio crooning songs of love after the game,
the girl leaning back in the Chevy’s front seat
as her raven hair flames in the shuddering
light of the outdoor movie, and now he drives,
gliding toward the net. A glass wand
of autumn light breaks over the backboard.
Boys rise up in old men, wings begin to sprout
at their backs. The ball turns in the darkening air."

B. H. Fairchild

 

[midcan5]

'This Time We’ll Go To Kentucky Fried Chicken'

for Tom

"You were the one with the body
that could balance on a skateboard,
dive into a pool, the water
closing behind you.
And you could hold your breath
at the bottom, watch the sunlight shatter
on the tile.
Your eye marked where to send a ball
and it would hit
the backboard, the mitt—
you could chart a trajectory
from the boy in the doorframe
who stood next to me and looked at our mother
not getting out of bed
after our father died,
his bed made, all the stripes pulled up vertical
under the pillow
where his head would never leave
another dent.
You said, If she dies too,
we’ll go to Kentucky Fried Chicken
not Wendy’s
where we went after the funeral
which you spent driving your matchbox cars
up and down the lines of wood
in the pews, steering the small wheels
around the knots underneath
the soft polish.
You tried to be quiet, but I could hear you
making your car noises
in your throat."

Laura Read

 

[midcan5]

'The Niagara River'

"As though
the river were
a floor, we position
our table and chairs
upon it, eat, and
have conversation.
As it moves along,
we notice—as
calmly as though
dining room paintings
were being replaced—
the changing scenes
along the shore. We
do know, we do
know this is the
Niagara River, but
it is hard to remember
what that means."

Kay Ryan

 

[graywolf]

Joseph Campisi

GRANDFATHER'S CHRISTMAS

BY JOE CAMPISI
It's Christmas in the 90's and
things just aren't the same,
I don't hear the laughter of Old
Saint Nick........and some won't
even call his name.

Jesus and Mary with wise men and
all, this year, had to be moved from
the lawn at City Hall.

So we talked to the children, the
old and the young, as the family
gathered......the story begun.

The story of Christ and how baby
Jesus was born.....and the good things
in life we all adorn.

I knew everything was alright
as I held my grandchildren so
very tight, they said Merry
Christmas Grandpa.....we love you,

 

[midcan5]

'I Can’t Sleep So I’ll Tell You A Story'

"Every cricket chirping sounds, to me,
like my son’s garage band must sound
to the neighbor who calls, twice a week,
and threatens to call the cops, but never does.
You can’t call the cops on crickets.
You can’t even call their parents.
I can hear a train in the distance.
In the distance, people are making
even more distance
between themselves and this place.
Years ago, when I was teaching poetry
at a prison, miles away
from the nearest bus stop,
I used to hitchhike right in front of the prison.
I was always surprised when anyone stopped.
I wondered if my thumb screamed
“not the thumb of an escaped convict!”
Once a blonde picked me up
on her way back from visiting her husband.
She was beautiful like a sunset, if a sunset
had been raised in a trailer park.
Her husband had burned down their house
with her in it, her and her mother.
Change of heart, he rushed back in
for her, but left his mother-in-law to the flames.
The blonde shrugged that he still excited her,
said he asked her to wear skirts with no panties
on visits. I don’t know what my face said,
but she flipped her skirt up, just for a second,
said “Now you believe me.” My face
said I was embarrassed, and she laughed.
I lie here thinking of all the places
people are going where I haven’t been,
thinking of the place where that prisoner had been,
a place where I gawked at the doorway,
but didn’t knock, and never mind the moon,
never mind the stars, I lie here
in the noisy darkness, thinking
of all the places it could take a person."

Tom C. Hunley

 

[midcan5]

'Lines Depicting Simple Happiness'

"The shine on her buckle took precedence in sun
Her shine, I should say, could take me anywhere
It feels right to be up this close in tight wind
It feels right to notice all the shiny things about you
About you there is nothing I wouldn’t want to know
With you nothing is simple yet nothing is simpler
About you many good things come into relation
I think of proofs and grammar, vowel sounds, like
A is for knee socks, E for panties
I is for buttondown, O the blouse you wear
U is for hair clip, and Y your tight skirt
The music picks up again, I am the man I hope to be
The bright air hangs freely near your newly cut hair
It is so easy now to see gravity at work in your face
Easy to understand time, that dark process
To accept it as a beautiful process, your face"

Peter Gizzi

 

[midcan5]

'In Every Language'

"Remind me (again) how beautiful you are.
Remind my words how to dance.
Yes, teach them poetry. Let my words
look into your eyes and taste your lips.
This is what I remember when you walk
away (again). The streets so empty
without your arms."

E. Ethelbert Miller

 

[midcan5]

'For Good'

"We’re going to the country for good
I told my kindergarten teacher.
It was 1929. I wasn’t thinking forever–

for good meant the country was a good
place, life there would be good.
I couldn’t know my father would take

a bus, a train and a ferry to work
leaving in the dark, coming home
in the dark, chain-smoking his way

to a heart attack, or that my mother
in the darkness of another winter
would die of pneumonia. The day

we moved to the country
my mother played Fox and Geese
with my brother and me. We lay down

and made angel wings with our arms.
We danced in a circle to keep warm.
She played with us all day in the snow

and no one could have told me it wasn’t for good."

Joan Stern

 

[midcan5]

'Don’t Ask Me Any Questions'

"I used to know all the answers
but I don’t anymore
possess the assurance, bravado
of foolish youth.

The more ancient I get
the less I know.
My faltering footsteps,
seek secure ground.

Don’t ask me any questions.
I have no answers.

Where is the wisdom
that arrives with age?
Another fairytale for the young."

Nan Sherman

 

[ZiemanZnzoru]

give me some sun shine ,give me some rain ,give me another chance i wanna grow up once again ,
when your life become out of control , put your tongue roll.
make round your lips and make whrisel and say ....
all is well....oh brother all is well .......

 

[midcan5]

'After a Death'

"Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales."

Tomas Tranströmer
translated by Robert Bly

http://www.haaretz.com/culture/arts-leisure/a-victory-for-poetry-1.389270

 

[midcan5]

'The Lesson'

"In that second grade classroom, Mrs. Circle said
each of us carries an ocean inside
bigger than we are, like happiness, and full of
fish that live nowhere else in the world
and tides that are pulled by our heartbeats, and low tide
sand bars to wade far out in the bright sun.
She taught us we can learn to swim there by jumping
out into the water where the water is still
and shallow, holding our breath and moving
our arms and legs gently, gently—try
for yourself she suggested, and we all closed our eyes
sitting there at our desks, while the snow fell outside
and the radiator whispered. I could hear the clock tick
as we held our breath and swam without really
moving our bodies, like jellyfish, across
the beds of coral that were filled with many-colored fish
whose names didn’t matter, Mrs. Circle said,
as long as you let them come to you—
they are like angels—and nibble the tiny
air bubbles that cling to the hairs along your legs and arms.
Feel how they tickle, she said, Take a deep breath,
dive down underwater as far as you can.
Do you see your shadow down there on the sand,
following your body? That’s another form of you,
a kind of memory, swimming down below
your only solid body. Don’t forget it. Then she clapped her hands
and we all looked up, happy to be sitting there
with our young teacher in that drafty classroom
in the age of extinctions and nuclear bombs
we hadn’t been taught about yet."

Michael Hettich

 

[midcan5]

'When Our Parents Fight'

-for my brothers-

"Never before had it wronged into silence,
had the screaming and tears
given way to a stillness, this government

hush even the house could feel.
Generally, when our parents fought,
they’d tell one another

exactly where it hurt; which anniversary
forgotten, evenings destroyed.
Like crows, they would peck and peck

at the dead until all we longed for
was a normal divorce: the luxury of
hating one’s lover from afar.

But they didn’t hate each other
and so it got worse—
our mother in the kitchen taking scissors

to coupons. Dad at his desktop
pretending to fly—
both of them quiet now as though they’d run

out of ways to bring the other down.
This, we knew,
was a new kind of fighting,

and the three of us tightened to endure its blow."

Jared Harel

=============================================

After reading this again I thought of my own version. repost.

My Wife and I #3

We are married too long
we don't fight
instead we call each other names
joke or just say you are crazy,
we deflect and realize no reason
exists to carry on too far,
today I say when
she drives me mad,
i'm going to whip
the bean soup outta you
just as soon as
I work up the energy,
She laughs.

 

[midcan5]

'Geography'

"My four year old daughter comes home from school with a map of the world. This is Africa she tells me. This is where we come from. Daddy watch me color the rest of the world. I watch her color Europe red and all of the Atlantic. I try to encourage the use of blues and greens but she refuses. She sees the world with her own brown eyes. My daughter stops coloring and prints her name at the top of her map. Jasmine - she says like a young Columbus. Her mouth round with wonder."

E. Ethelbert Miller

 

[midcan5]

'Let’s Meet Yesterday'

"Puzzling over his date book,
our chairman says: The next meeting
will be—hmmmm. Yesterday.
That must be wrong, don’t you think?

Not at all. I’d love to meet yesterday.
I’d ride in on my red Schwinn,
the one with white rubber mud flaps,
battery-powered horn hidden
in the crossbar, dented fender
where I clobbered the neighbor lady’s
parked car. I’d bring Midnight, my dog
Pop shot after he caught distemper,
and Calico, my cat who died
after Walter Bongi kicked her. I’d sit
on that yellow plastic kitchen chair
I chewed a hole in during a tense
moment listening to “Bobby Benson
and the B-Bar-B Riders.” We’d drink
Bosco, eat Moon Pies. During the break,
we’d argue whether Duke Snider
and the Brooklyn Dodgers are better
than Willie Mays and the New York
Giants. I’d jot notes on a lined sheet
of paper made with wood chips
big as my fingernail, then wad
it into the back pocket of my jeans
with the iron-on patches at the knees
and go home to Mom Quigley,
who would feed me cinnamon rolls
and sing “The Old Rugged Cross”
while she sweeps the floor, never once
mentioning the stroke that put her
in a coma for five years before she died."

David Jordan


Gotta be a bit old for this one or maybe not.

 

[midcan5]

'October'

"I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.

Sooner or later, I thought,
the wind would begin to make sense
if I listened hard
and took notes religiously.
That was spring.

Now I’m not so sure:
the cloudless sky has a flat affect
and the fields plowed down after harvest
seem so expressionless,
keeping their own counsel.

This afternoon, nut tree leaves
blow across them
as if autumn had written us a long letter,
changed its mind,
and tore it into little scraps."

Don Thompson