[1809–1892, English]
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Source: Tennyson, A 1851, Tennyson’s Poems, 7th edn., London: Edward Moxon.
10 Jun 2009
Thanks for Remembering Us -- Dana Gioia
[1950–current, American]
The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they’re not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.
The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can’t
throw out a gift we’ve never owned.
Source: Gioia, D 1986, Daily Horoscope, Graywolf Press, USA.
The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they’re not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.
The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can’t
throw out a gift we’ve never owned.
Source: Gioia, D 1986, Daily Horoscope, Graywolf Press, USA.
8 Jun 2009
The Plumbing -- Jennifer Maiden
[1949–current, Australian]
The towels are already
stained red with clues.
Toilet,
wash-stand, bidet, shower
walled with slimy tiles, all
the colour of bad teeth.
The sleep
to people the dark with sighs.
The meal is bread soup. The china
tea-stained, hot. The broken cup
serves clotted castor sugar.
All injuries
the dull air soothes
the sickliness repairs
Due to default, the blows,
my clothes were wet, unkempt
and I was shrunk in them, and so
I had to come here after.
“You should have known
I’d be here: I’m
as losable as water”.
Source: Maiden, J 1979, The Border Loss, Angus & Robertson, Australia.
The towels are already
stained red with clues.
Toilet,
wash-stand, bidet, shower
walled with slimy tiles, all
the colour of bad teeth.
The sleep
to people the dark with sighs.
The meal is bread soup. The china
tea-stained, hot. The broken cup
serves clotted castor sugar.
All injuries
the dull air soothes
the sickliness repairs
Due to default, the blows,
my clothes were wet, unkempt
and I was shrunk in them, and so
I had to come here after.
“You should have known
I’d be here: I’m
as losable as water”.
Source: Maiden, J 1979, The Border Loss, Angus & Robertson, Australia.
Junkie -- PA Pilgrim
You made needlework an art
late into the night
drilling wrought iron lattice work
your arms became heavy
still you persisted
it was religion you said
you could not desert your god
his need was yours
(so very great)
you worked in gold
to make a tawdry thing
of cotton wool and blood
and punctured skin.
Some said you were a poet
(you claimed no such skill)
others a showman
with your body as a prop
(tax deductible) but you
were wiser and worked your miracles in miniature
and with each illumination
your options got less
until finally the tapestry was finished
and there was music in the air
and under earth
the sky was lead
each star a pin-
prick of light.
Hercules was not your god
(some other you alone knew
for sure his name)
he left you on that night
and the morning found you dead
at your devotions.
Source: Pilgrim , PA 1972, ‘Junkie’, Poetry Australia 45, South Head Press, Port Melbourne, p. 16.
late into the night
drilling wrought iron lattice work
your arms became heavy
still you persisted
it was religion you said
you could not desert your god
his need was yours
(so very great)
you worked in gold
to make a tawdry thing
of cotton wool and blood
and punctured skin.
Some said you were a poet
(you claimed no such skill)
others a showman
with your body as a prop
(tax deductible) but you
were wiser and worked your miracles in miniature
and with each illumination
your options got less
until finally the tapestry was finished
and there was music in the air
and under earth
the sky was lead
each star a pin-
prick of light.
Hercules was not your god
(some other you alone knew
for sure his name)
he left you on that night
and the morning found you dead
at your devotions.
Source: Pilgrim , PA 1972, ‘Junkie’, Poetry Australia 45, South Head Press, Port Melbourne, p. 16.
Not Waving but Drowning -- Stevie Smith
[1902–1971, English]
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Source: Smith, S 1972, Collected Poems of Stevie Smith, New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Stevie Smith was born Florence Margaret Smith.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Source: Smith, S 1972, Collected Poems of Stevie Smith, New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Stevie Smith was born Florence Margaret Smith.
4 Jun 2009
Untitled (Listening…) -- Rod Wilmot
Listening…
After a while
I take up my axe again
Source: Kellow, B & Krisak J (eds) 1983, Poetry and Language, London: McGraw-Hill Ryerson Ltd.
After a while
I take up my axe again
Source: Kellow, B & Krisak J (eds) 1983, Poetry and Language, London: McGraw-Hill Ryerson Ltd.
The Sorrow of Socks -- Wendy Cope
[1945–current, English]
Some socks are loners –
They can’t live in pairs.
On washdays they’ve shown us
They want to be loners.
They puzzle their owners,
They hide in dark lairs.
Some socks are loners –
They won’t live in pairs.
Source: Hawthorn, P (ed.), 2004, Poems for Young Children, Usborne Publishing Ltd.
Some socks are loners –
They can’t live in pairs.
On washdays they’ve shown us
They want to be loners.
They puzzle their owners,
They hide in dark lairs.
Some socks are loners –
They won’t live in pairs.
Source: Hawthorn, P (ed.), 2004, Poems for Young Children, Usborne Publishing Ltd.
Meditation on the A30 -- John Betieman
[1906–1984, English]
A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
And puffs at his pitiful life
She’s losing her looks very fast,
She loses her temper all day;
That lorry won’t let me get past,
This Mini is blocking my way.
“Why can’t you step on it and shift her!
I can’t go on crawling like this!
At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead-
Thank heavens we don’t have to kiss.
“I’d like a nice blonde on my knee
And one who won’t argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me?
I only give way to a Jag.
“You’re barmy or plastered, I’ll pass you, you bastard-
I will overtake you. I will!”
As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
And the corner’s accepting its kill.
Source: Betjeman, J 2006, Collected Poems, Hachette UK.
A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
And puffs at his pitiful life
She’s losing her looks very fast,
She loses her temper all day;
That lorry won’t let me get past,
This Mini is blocking my way.
“Why can’t you step on it and shift her!
I can’t go on crawling like this!
At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead-
Thank heavens we don’t have to kiss.
“I’d like a nice blonde on my knee
And one who won’t argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me?
I only give way to a Jag.
“You’re barmy or plastered, I’ll pass you, you bastard-
I will overtake you. I will!”
As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
And the corner’s accepting its kill.
Source: Betjeman, J 2006, Collected Poems, Hachette UK.
3 Jun 2009
Poem 341 (After great pain, a formal feeling comes) -- Emily Dickinson
[1830–1886, American]
After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
Source: Franklin, RW (ed.), 1999, The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Harvard University Press.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
Source: Franklin, RW (ed.), 1999, The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Harvard University Press.
2 Jun 2009
Aftermath -- Amy Lowell
[1874–1925, American]
I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale
We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
Although you do not heed; the long, sad years
Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which no one hears.
Source: Lowell, A 1912, A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, Houghton Mifflin Co.
I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale
We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
Although you do not heed; the long, sad years
Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which no one hears.
Source: Lowell, A 1912, A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, Houghton Mifflin Co.
At 3am -- Wendy Cope
[1945–current, English]
the room contains no sound
except the ticking of the clock
which has begun to panic
like an insect, trapped
in an enormous box.
Books lie open on the carpet.
Somewhere else
you’re sleeping
and beside you there’s a woman
who is crying quietly
so you won’t wake.
Source: Cope, W 2009, Two Cures for Love, Faber and Faber.
the room contains no sound
except the ticking of the clock
which has begun to panic
like an insect, trapped
in an enormous box.
Books lie open on the carpet.
Somewhere else
you’re sleeping
and beside you there’s a woman
who is crying quietly
so you won’t wake.
Source: Cope, W 2009, Two Cures for Love, Faber and Faber.
First Memory -- Louise Glïck
[1943–current, American]
Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was –
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.
Source: Glück, L 1990, Ararat, Ecco.
Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was –
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.
Source: Glück, L 1990, Ararat, Ecco.
Toads -- Philip Larkin
[1922–1985, English]
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
six days of the week it soils
And drive the brute off?
With its sickening poison –
Just for paying a few bills!
That’s out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts –
They don’t end as paupers;
Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines –
they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets – and yet
No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that’s the stuff
That dreams are made on:
For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,
And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.
I don’t say, one bodies the other
One’s spiritual truth;
But I do say it’s hard to lose either,
When you have both.
Source: Goodwin, D 2002, 101 Poems That Could Save Your Life: An Anthology of Emotional First Aid, Harper.
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
six days of the week it soils
And drive the brute off?
With its sickening poison –
Just for paying a few bills!
That’s out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts –
They don’t end as paupers;
Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines –
they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets – and yet
No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that’s the stuff
That dreams are made on:
For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,
And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.
I don’t say, one bodies the other
One’s spiritual truth;
But I do say it’s hard to lose either,
When you have both.
Source: Goodwin, D 2002, 101 Poems That Could Save Your Life: An Anthology of Emotional First Aid, Harper.
1 Jun 2009
Haiku -- Nicolas Virgilio
[1928–1989, American]
the sack of kittens
sinking in the icy creek
increases the cold
Source: van den Heuvel, C 1999, The Haiku Anthology, 3rd edn, WW Norton & Co.
the sack of kittens
sinking in the icy creek
increases the cold
Source: van den Heuvel, C 1999, The Haiku Anthology, 3rd edn, WW Norton & Co.
Cinquain -- Sue Marsden
It seems
That barbed comments
Baited with some small joke
Hook themselves well into the soul
And rip.
Source: Unknown. Approx. 1995.
That barbed comments
Baited with some small joke
Hook themselves well into the soul
And rip.
Source: Unknown. Approx. 1995.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)