Poet's Corner

[Sky Dancer]

Ten thousand flowers in spring, the moon in autumn

A cool breeze in summer, snow in winter.

If your mind isn’t clouded by unnecessary things,

This is the best season of your life.

Wu-men

 

[Sky Dancer]

Trust your wound to a teacher's surgery.

Flies collect on a wound.

They cover it,

those flies of your self-protecting feelings,

your love for what you think is yours.

Let a Teacher wave away the flies

and put a plaster on the wound.

Don't turn your head.

Keep looking

at the bandaged place.

That's where

the Light enters you.

And don't believe for a moment

that you're healing yourself."



Rumi

 

[Sky Dancer]

The Truth stands before me,

On my left is a blazing fire, and

On my right, a cool flowing stream.

One group of people walk toward the fire, into the fire,

And the other towards the cool flowing waters.

No one knows which is blessed and which is not.

But just as a just as someone enters the fire,

That head bobs up from the water,

And just as a head sinks into the water,

That face appears in the fire.

Those who love the sweet water of pleasure

And make it their devotion are cheated by this reversal.

The deception goes further-

The voice of the fire says:

“I am not fire, I am fountainhead,

Come into me and don’t mind the sparks.”

Rumi

 

[Sky Dancer]

I love the dark hours of my being.

My mind deepens into them.

There I can find, as in old letters,

the days of my life, already lived,

and held like a legend, and understood.



Then the knowing comes: I can open

to another life that's wide and timeless.

So I am sometimes like a tree

rustling over a gravesite

and making real the dream

of the one its living roots

embrace:

a dream once lost

among sorrows and songs.

Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God.

 

[Sky Dancer]

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing

there is a field.

I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,

the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase each other

doesn’t make any sense.

Rumi

 

[midcan5]

'300 Cubits'

"Two of everything, it’s written somewhere, meaning a breeding pair.
But I’ve wondered, alone and feral, under the puzzle-pieced
night sky, about the duds—bum steers and defiants,
the intersown paramours, the shamed livestock
whose omnivorous urges I hear cruising the zoo park.

When the ancient stockpiling crossed the dock,
ascended the plank, and the rank and file
hoof, talon, and foot found their arrangements readied,
surely they sensed difference, some before the first coitus
was rattled to completion at sea.

I’ve lounged with my particulars between lovers
and seen in a mirror where my hands were lain
after wriggling when I should’ve zipped. In other words,
I’ve got cavities of experience. Thus the old ark’s
too pure for my taste: one of everything, I say,
and come on, come forward, come what may."

Eric Higgins

 

[American Horse]

“To live within limits.
To want one thing.
Or a few things very much and love them dearly. Cling to them, survey them from every angle. Become one with them - that is what makes the poet, the artist, the human being.”

“What a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it!”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther

 

[Valerie]

>

>

>

V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID


AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
D A
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed 405
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
D A
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
D A
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

Eliot, T. S. 1922. The Waste Land





APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu,
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?

 

[percysunshine]

Twin horses of vadalia

Are smitten with romp

Nere do they tromp

On the meadow of peace

 

[eflatminor]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

 

[percysunshine]

Twice the glory

Once the pain

Never between

Shall logic complain

 

[midcan5]

'Four Women In A Hot Tub'

"We lowered ourselves in, our suits
stretched by fat that had collected
all winter like sediment. We smoked
pot and someone said something

profound, but it wasn’t me. I rolled
like a detached fetus in the water
and wondered about the electrical
wires that ran beneath us like veins

that don’t age so much as blow out.
One woman said all she still wanted
was fame but we knew it was
too late for her.

Let’s talk about something
happy, she said. No calamities
in China or women getting screwed
or chemotherapy. She went first.

She said her son had made
a friend after being alone all
school year. The next woman said her
backyard had caught the first

light after weeks of rain. Her children
were illuminated as they dug in the mud.
The next said she opened her door to find
a kind letter from a man she

left ten years ago. The last woman
asked when did happiness
become merely a reprieve?
Like a blizzard letting up

after a night on Everest? Or an iffy
remission after chemotherapy?
In the hot tub we slid laterally. We circled
to the right so we each got a turn

with the most brutal jets that would, time
willing, break us out of our
skin and into something larger and
more forgiving than ourselves."

Kathlene Postma

 

[eflatminor]

Now when the waters are pressing mightily on the walls of the dams
Now when the white storks returning are transformed in the middle of the firmament into fleets of jet planes
Will we feel again how strong are the ribs and how vigorous the warm air in the lungs
And how much daring is needed to love on the exposed plain, when the great dangers arched above
And how much love is required to fill all the empty vessels and the watches that stopped telling time
And how much breath
A whirlwind of breath
To sing the small song of spring

— Yehuda Amichai
translated from the Hebrew by Leon Wieseltier

 

[Montrovant]

I used to write a lot of poetry, but have only very infrequently done so in more recent years.
Last night, while I was trying to go to sleep, for some reason I started coming up with one in my head. Eventually I got up and wrote it down so I'd stop thinking about it and go to sleep.

Anyway, thought I'd post it.

She looks at me, I look away
Her smile burns like fire
The birds in the trees sing thunder
While tears of rain
Fall down the face of the world
The darkness hides terror
The daylight exposes our fear
There is comfort in ignorance
Comfort
In desperation I reach for comfort
I open my eyes to see
She looks at me, I look away
She sees me no more
I close my eyes and see

 

[American Horse]

Poetry from the Space Station - By astronaut Don Petit

Space is My Mistress

Space is my Mistress,
and she beckons my return.
Since our departure I think of you
and yearn to fly across the heavens arm in arm.
I marvel at your figure,
defined by the edges of continents.
You gaze at me with turquoise eyes,
perhaps mistaken for ocean atolls.
You tease me to fall into your bosom,
sculptured by tectonic rifts,
only to move away as if playing some tantalizing game.
Time and time we turn together,
through day, and night, and day,
repeating encounters every 90 minutes with a freshness,
as if we have never seen our faces before.
We stroll outside together,
enveloped by naked cosmos,
filled with desire to be one.
So close,
you sense my every breath,
which masks your stare through visor haze.
We dance on the swirls of cloud tops,
while skirting the islands of blue.
You know my heart beats fast for you.
Oh, Space is my mistress,
and when our orbits coincide,
we will once again make streaks of aurora across the sky.

 

[midcan5]

'Maybe She Dreams Of Rivers'

"I love her because she is exhausted and has fallen asleep on the train
with the book still clutched in one hand
while the other trails the aisle like a willow branch in slow green water.
(Maybe she dreams of rivers.)

Because her shoes are thick-soled sneakers
and she wears a brown shoelace around her neck
strung with keys that rise and fall in a cluster against her breast
as they ride the rhythm of her sleep.
(Maybe she dreams of horses,
maybe her body is gleaming and supple.)

Because her hair is the orange of cheap dyes
and her skin is a blend of browns with freckles adorning
a face that is no longer young,
and her earrings are small bells
that are not silver but are delicate
as the eyelashes that flutter now and then,
as if a slight breeze combed the length of our car.
(Maybe June shimmers inside her,
maybe wind chimes are talking.)

I love her because the title of the book in her lap is How to Create Poetry,
and when she awakens with a start,
she looks down at it before she gathers her packages,
pulls a cap over her ears,
walks out of the train into a wordless winter night."

Francine Marie Tolf

 

[midcan5]

'What I Am'

"Fred Sanford's on at 12
& I'm standing in the express lane (cash only)
about to buy Head & Shoulders
the white people shampoo, no one knows
what I am. My name could be Lamont.
George Clinton wears colors like Toucan Sam,
the Froot Loop pelican. Follow your nose,
he says. But I have no nose, no mouth,
so you tell me what's good, what's god,
what's funky. When I stop
by McDonalds for a cheeseburger, no one
suspects what I am. I smile at Ronald's poster,
perpetual grin behind the pissed-off, fly-girl
cashier I love. Where are my goddamn fries?
Ain't I American? I never say, Niggaz
in my poems. My ancestors didn't
emigrate. Why would anyone leave
their native land? I'm thinking about shooting
some hoop later on. I'll dunk on everyone
of those niggaz. They have no idea
what I am. I might be the next Jordan
god. They don't know if Toni Morrison
is a woman or a man. Michael Jackson
is the biggest name in showbiz. Mamma se
Mamma sa mamma ku sa, sang the Bushmen
in Africa. I'll buy a dimebag after the game,
me & Jody. He says, Fuck them white people
at work, Man. He was an All-American
in high school. He's cool, but he don't know
what I am, & so what. Fred Sanford's on
in a few & I got the dandruff-free head
& shoulders of white people & a cheeseburger
belly & a Thriller CD & Nike high tops
& slavery's dead & the TV's my daddy--
You big Dummy!
Fred tells Lamont."

Terrance Hayes

 

[midcan5]

'Mother's Day'

—for my children

"I see her doing something simple, paying bills,
or leafing through a magazine or book,
and wish that I could say, and she could hear,

that now I start to understand her love
for all of us, the fullness of it.

It burns there in the past, beyond my reach,
a modest lamp."

David Young

 

[Sky Dancer]

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PInPedCLGFo]Your mother by Rashid Bhikha - YouTube[/ame]

 

[Sky Dancer]

The Peace of Wild Things


When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For the time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.


Wendell Berry