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Post by Nalkarj on Feb 1, 2023 16:10:35 GMT
The Christmas Robin by Robert Graves
The snows of February had buried Christmas Deep in the woods, where grew self-seeded The fir-trees of a Christmas yet unknown Without a candle or a strand of tinsel.
Nevertheless when, hand in hand, plodding Between the frozen ruts, we lovers paused And ‘Christmas trees!’ cried suddenly together, Christmas was there again, as in December.
We velveted our love with fantasy Down a long vista-row of Christmas trees, Whose coloured candles slowly guttered down As grandchildren came trooping round our knees.
But he knew better, did the Christmas robin — The murderous robin with his breast aglow And legs apart, in a spade-handle perched: He prophesied more snow, and worse than snow.
Happy Candlemas/Imbolc/Groundhog Day, fellow “somewhat different poetry thread” posters!
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Feb 5, 2023 14:39:28 GMT
The Ripening by Kay Crista
This Living has softened the hard fruit of my being
Everyday, tenderness claims more of me taking me holy into ripeness
Let me not fall from the branch ripe but untasted
Rather, let the Beloved pluck me in ripeness and pierce me with His bite
Releasing the juicy fullness of my life to run down His arm like tears of gratitude, like tears of devotion
But, if fall I must untasted melting into the earth
Let that nourishing decay be my devotion spreading out in a pool of returning
the essential elements of my being
Kay Crista is a full-time jewelry designer who calls herself an occasional poet.
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Post by theravenking on Feb 8, 2023 15:48:55 GMT
Piano by D. H. Lawrence
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me, Taking me back down the vista of years till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
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Post by Nalkarj on Feb 8, 2023 16:10:35 GMT
Pianoby D. H. Lawrence Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me, Taking me back down the vista of years till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. I was just thinking of this two nights ago! That last line is so moving.
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Feb 12, 2023 22:28:34 GMT
Maine Yet Miami by Richard Blanco
The soft harp of snowfall plucking through my pine trees lulls me to peace, yet I still hear the bongo of thunderstorms rapping the rooftop of my queer childhood, dancing to the clouds’ rage, raining away my sorrows. Though snow melts silently into the gurgles of my creek, my grandmother’s voice remains frozen in my ears, still calling me a sissy, yet praising me as her best friend. Even though I marvel over spring’s abracadabra each time my lilac blooms appear, I still disappear back into the magic of summer nights on the porch, the moon lighting up my grandfather’s stories about his lost Cuba, his words carried away with the smoke of his “tabaco" and the scent of his jasmine tree flowering the night with its tiny, perfumed stars. Despite the daystars peeking behind the lavender clouds swaddling mountain peaks in my window at sunset, I still rise to the sun of my youth over the sea, after a night’s sleep on a bed of sand, dreaming or dreading who I would, or wouldn’t become. Though I grew courageous enough to marry a man who can only love me in his English: "darling, sweetheart, honey," I love him back more in my Spanish whispered in his ears as he sleeps: "amorcito, tesoro, ceilo." After all the meatloafs and apple pies we’ve baked in our kitchen, I still sit down to the memory of my mother’s table, savoring the loss of her onion-smothered "vaca frita" and creamy “flan". No matter how tastefully my throw pillows perfectly match my chic rugs and the stylish art on my walls, it all falls apart sometimes, just as I do, until I remember to be the boy I was, always should be, playing alone with his Legos in the family room, still enchanted by the joy of his sheer self and his creations: perfect or not, beautiful or not, immortal or as mortal as the plentiful life I’ve made here, although I keep living with my father dying in our old house, his head cradled in my hand for a sip of tea and a kiss on his forehead— our last goodbye in the home that still lives within this home where I live on to die, too.
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Feb 15, 2023 15:02:49 GMT
The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire aflame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name; It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by name and ran And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old from wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
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Post by Nalkarj on Feb 21, 2023 22:53:34 GMT
Today is W.H. Auden’s birthday, so here—well, here is a duly famous Auden.
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: ‘Love has no ending.
‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street,
‘I’ll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.
‘The years shall run like rabbits, For in my arms I hold The Flower of the Ages, And the first love of the world.’
But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime: ‘O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time.
‘In the burrows of the Nightmare Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow And coughs when you would kiss.
‘In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or to-day.
‘Into many a green valley Drifts the appalling snow; Time breaks the threaded dances And the diver’s brilliant bow.
‘O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you’ve missed.
‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead.
‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes And the Giant is enchanting to Jack, And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, And Jill goes down on her back.
‘O look, look in the mirror, O look in your distress: Life remains a blessing Although you cannot bless.
‘O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.’
It was late, late in the evening, The lovers they were gone; The clocks had ceased their chiming, And the deep river ran on.
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Post by Zos on Feb 22, 2023 12:41:00 GMT
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Post by Nalkarj on Mar 6, 2023 22:56:25 GMT
Sonnet in a Knothole by Christopher Morley
We idled at our doings, heart and I. We watched the puddle lose its glaze of frost, Measured the April in a pale March sky, And saw the birch-tree root all newly mossed.
Filling our fingernails with spring, we raked And burned and swept, and breathed, and chopped some wood; And even in that easiness, heart ached To keep this noon forever, if we could.
But no one guessed (we made no outward stopping) The sudden woodsman stroke that we incurred When down through fiber, grain, and knotted wit The oak of language shivered, cleanly split By the flashed ax-blade of the perfect word.
We tightened steel to helve, and went on chopping.
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Mar 11, 2023 15:22:14 GMT
I Ask Percy How I Should Live My Life by Mary Oliver
Love, love, love says Percy. And run as fast as you can along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust. Then, go to sleep. Give up your body heat, your beating heart. Then, trust.
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Post by Nalkarj on Mar 20, 2023 17:35:00 GMT
A little Madness in the Spring— by Emily Dickinson
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown – Who ponders this tremendous scene – This whole Experiment of Green – As if it were his own!
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Post by Nalkarj on Mar 21, 2023 22:19:28 GMT
Today is Phyllis McGinley’s birthday. The following piece definitely isn’t her best, isn’t as good as “ Love Note to a Playwright” or “ The Old Gardener’s Warning” or “ Apologia,” but it’s good—and has been coming to my mind a lot recently. Millenniumby Phyllis McGinley Some day, Some blank, odd, pallid, immemorial day, Some curious Monday, Some Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Or even Sunday, I shall arise, disheveled and a gaper, To scan the paper And stare thereon, thumb through, search it for clues, Peruse and re-peruse, And find no news. Nothing to heat the blood or race the pulse, Nothing at all — No six-inch headlines screaming a war’s results Or a city’s fall. No threats, no bombs, no air raids, no alarms, No feats of arms, No foe at any gate, No politics, no shouting candidate, Nothing exclusive, not a censored phrase, No Scoops, no Exposés, No crisis either foreign or domestic, Nothing wild, urgent, imminent, or drastic Happening on the earth. Only reports of weather and the birth Of triplets to a lioness at the Zoo (Printed within a box) And yesterday’s sermons seeming scarcely new And something about the White-or-Sundry Sox, An actress married or divorced or dead, Who led The golfing in some tournament or other. Oh, I shall smother In ennui, I shall nod and yawn And fling the dull sheets down upon the lawn, Bored near to death by what they have to say On that strange, beautiful day.
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spiderwort
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Post by spiderwort on Mar 30, 2023 0:48:49 GMT
The House Dog’s Grave by Robinson Jeffers
I’ve changed my ways a little; I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there. So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door Where I used to scratch to go out or in, And you’d soon open; leave on the kitchen floor The marks of my drinking pan. I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do On the warm stone, Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the night through I lie alone. But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet Outside your window where firelight so often plays, And where you sit to read–and I fear often grieving for me– Every night your lamplight lies on my place. You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard To think of you ever dying A little dog would get tired, living so long. I hope that when you are lying Under the ground like me your lives will appear As good and joyful as mine. No, dear, that’s too much hope: you are not so well cared for As I have been. And never have known the passionate undivided Fidelities that I knew. Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. . . . But to me you were true. You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend. I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures To the end and far past the end. If this is my end, I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
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Post by Carl LaFong on Mar 30, 2023 9:18:56 GMT
My Dead Father’s General Store in the Middle of a Desert It has gas pumps with red horses and wings, but is not merely a gas station, your father is not my father, standing over me with a clipboard, checking off things done and left undone. He seems happy at this last stop before death for those living, before life for those not yet born, where his general store deals in flour, sugar, pieces of hacked meat, or liver, reddish purple, a heart he wraps in brown paper. He cuts my hair beneath the tin awning. I must have gotten here from one direction or other on the road that stretches horizon to horizon, the desert heat shimmering my eyes into pools. I crawled in on my hands and knees, he handed me an ice-cold orange Nehi drink. It’s pure coincidence that this store is my father’s. I ask him where all this stuff comes from, as no trucks travel this road to replenish merchandise no one buys. He doesn’t like questions that challenge his existence. I become quiet, he’s cutting my hair and might consciously or unconsciously make me look bad. You’re doing a great job out here, I say, which he knows is bullshit— how many fathers, even if they’re dead, set up a general store in a desert. I persist, You keep the shelves stocked, floor broomed, bathroom clean. The more I talk, the more I encourage myself to love him for the trouble he went to making all this seem real, with cans of various sized nails, beans, rice, shelves of liquor, deli section with giant pickles. I begin to see what a dear, sweet man he is. Is this because he is dead? I wish he were alive again. I don’t think he killed himself to be mean to me personally. At night, he says, howling coyotes come down from the mountains and leave notes, bible verses, threatening messages, love letters. Everything a coyote wants to get off its chest. I ask if they come every night. He says, Without fail. www.theguardian.com/books/2023/mar/29/poem-of-beauty-wit-and-grace-about-fathers-and-sons-wins-national-poetry-competitionA poem of “beauty, wit and grace” that explores an encounter between the living and the dead has won the National Poetry Competition for a single poem in English. Lee Stockdale’s My Dead Father’s General Store in the Middle of a Desert was chosen as the winner by judges Jason Allen-Paisant, Greta Stoddart and Michael Symmons Roberts from more than 17,000 poems entered into the competition from poets in 103 countries. Stockdale grew up in Florida, New York and Dublin; the latter when his father Grant Stockdale was posted there as the US ambassador to Ireland by president John F Kennedy. Overcome by grief at the assassination of Kennedy, Stockdale’s father killed himself 10 days later, when Stockdale was 11. All the poems are entered into the competition anonymously. The judges called My Dead Father’s General Store in the Middle of a Desert a “remarkable” poem that “caught and held our attention from first reading”. Stockdale, who wins £5,000, says that winning the prize is “so validating” because his work is so personal. My Dead Father’s General Store in the Middle of a Desert is a conversation between the poem’s narrator and his father. After some initial tension, the narrator of the poem comes to realise he loves his father.……
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