The 'Share Some Poetry' Thread

Boom The Cat

Ms. Haiku wrote:

I don't know sites, but if you have an example of philosphical poetry that you like, then maybe I could direct you to an author that might interest you.

Ok, cool, Thanks! I'll get looking.

Boom The Cat

Put this on the first page:

“Where are you from?”
It was a question more difficult
then she knew, or intended.
There is nothing left there...
I've been away too long for that.
My hometown has become
a construct of the mind,
a physical place no longer.

It is all real, all still real
the people, the locales,
the events, beads on a string.
My mind has strung them
artfully arranging them:
A creative construct tied
not to geography and time
but to memory . . .

Stuff that makes you think, makes you doubt your reality, and doubt your doubts. Love is a powerful emotion, but it is irrelevant to me.

Ms. Haiku

The "Where are you from" line reminds me of an Elizabeth Bishop poem. Her poetry "works" with word choice, and how it flows, but I doubt it would make you think of the bigger picture beyond the bigger picture of poetry. Lucille Clifton poetry exposes layers of the immediate image of the poem, and how it fits in the larger scheme. Langston Hughes poetry includes that also, but from a different time period, and he was part of the Harlem Renaissance so the beat of his poetry is different. His poetry is grounded in the time period and location with analysis of the big picture, which is why it may interest you. If you can take out a Langston Hughes or Lucille Clifton book from the library, I would suggest it.

Ms. Haiku

From "The Lover of God" #2

You innocent,
so careless with your lapful of red flowers,
eyes searching the moonless woods
for his eyes looking back.
Not there tonight. No sound but the bees
rummaging through the twilight, whispering.
You startle like a deer, Radha.

Where will she quench herself,
this flower-burdened girl?
I have no unguent for her burning.
No hands but his can cure her,
no hands but his can catch
her chain of flowers and hold her still.

She grabs my hand, not knowing
it's mine, night bird about to cry out
to the whole forest, since she can't see him
or feel the after-tremor of his touch
subsiding in her body.

Look, the wind's undressing you,
scattered moonbeam, hold still-
it's not his longing that loosens the cloth.
Talk to me, tear-spangled one,
quit looking down the empty path.
It's late, it's dark. Not even his shadow lies there.
Be quiet now. I'll sing to you.

catefrances

i speak of love that comes to mind:
the moon is faithful, although blind;
she moves in thought she cannot speak
perfect care has made her bleak.

i never dreamed the sea so deep,
the earth so dark; so long my sleep,
i have become another child.
i wake to see the world go wild.

Ms. Haiku

The mists rise over
The still pools at Asuka.
Memory does not
Pass away so easily.

Akahito

Ms. Haiku

Threat

You can live for years next door
to a big pinetree, honored to have
so venerable a neighbor, even
when it sheds needles all over your flowers
or wakes you, dropping big cones
onto your deck at still of night.
Only when, before dawn one year
at the vernal equinox, the wind
rises and rises, raising images
of cockleshell boats tossed among huge
advancing walls of waves,
do you become aware that always,
under respect, under your faith
in the pinetree's beauty, there lies
the fear it will crash some day
down on your house, on you in your bed,
on the fragility of the safe
dailiness you have almost
grown used to.

olderman

A MATCH - A. C. Swinburne

IF love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.


If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.


If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.


If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.


If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.


If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.

Ms. Haiku

Our minds buzz like bees
but not the bees' minds.
It's just wings not heart
they say, moving to another flower.

Ms. Haiku

Blues Haiku

when we say good-bye
i want yo tongue inside my
mouth dancing hello.

Ms. Haiku

Scientists

The beauty of nature is suspect.
Oh yes, the splendor of flowers.
Science is concerned to deprive us of illusions.
Though why it is eager to do so is unclear.
The battles among genes, traits that secure success, gains and losses.
My God, what language these people speak
In their white coats. Charles Darwin
At least had pangs of conscience
Making public a theory that was, as he said, devilish.
And they? It was, after all, their idea:
To segregate rats in separate cages.
To segregate humans, write off as genetic loss
Some of their own species and poison them.
"The pride of the peacock is the glory of God,"
Wrote William Blake. There was a time
When disinterested beauty by its sheer superabundance
Gratified our eyes. What have they left us?
Only the accountancy of a capitalist enterprise.

Ms. Haiku

I meant Czeslaw Milosz

catefrances

i feel as if i am at a dead
end and so i am finished.
all spiritual facts i realize
are true but i never escape
the feeling of being closed in
and the sordidness of self,
the futility of all that i
have seen and done and said.
maybe if i continued things
would please me more but now
i have no hope and i am tired.

Ms. Haiku

Pablo Neruda

Inclinado en las tardes

Inclinado en las tardes tiro mis tristes redes
a tus ojos oceanicos.

Alli se estira y arde en la mas alta boguera
mi soledad que da vueltas los brazos como un naufrago.

Hago rojas senales sobre tus ojos ausentes
que olean como el mar a la orilla de un faro.

Solo guardas tinieblas, hembra distante y mia,
de tu mirada emerge a veces la costa del espanto.

Inclindao en las tardes echo mis tristes redes
a ese mar que sacude tus ojos oceanicos.

Los pajaros nocturnos picotean las primeras estrellas
que centellean como mi alma cuando te amo.

Galopa la noche en su yegua sombria
desparramando espigas azules sobre el campo.

Leaning into the Afternoons

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that move like the sea near a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.

Ali

this poem reached out to me,reminding of my love requitted in nightly visions.
it's like our "story"...Donne is AMAZING..AND...

if youre looking to purchase some copies in print,ceck out Dover Thrift publications under google.I'm planning to pick up some 20 books or so, and their prices and selection are amazing.ENJOY!....allison

Legacy

When I died last year,and dear,I die
.As often from thee as I go,
.Though it be but an hour ago,
And lovers hours be full eternity,
I can remember yet,that I,
..Something did say, and something did bestow;
Though I be dead,which sent me,I should be
Mine own executor and legacy.

I heard me say,tell her anon,
..That myself (that is you,not I)
..Did kill me , and when I felt me die,
I bid me send my heart,when I was gone,
But I alas could there find none,
..When I had ripped me,and searched where hearts did lie;
It killed me again,that I who still was true,
In life,in my last will should cozen you.

Yet I found something like a heart,
..But colors it and corners had,
..It was not good,it was not bad,
It was entire to none,and few had part.
As good as could be made by art
..It seemed;and therefore for our losses sad,
I meant to send this heart instead of mine,
But oh,no man could hold it,for 'twas thine.

---

j.donne

Ali

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

Read Richmond Lattimore's translation of Homer's Iliad. Now that's real poetry. Isn't it strange how the oldest poem we have, is almost incalculably the greatest?

Christina rossetti and dante gabriel,my cousins,....:)

CHeck out some at the Tate Gallery finns!

hearts,
ali

Ms. Haiku

We Real Cool

The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon

Ali

Boom Is Hot,
I Am Not,
He Drinks Snot,
Like Him Lot.

Bill's My Man,
Heaven On Hand,
Pj's My Ban,
In Dis Lan.


Poet:allison Vigh.

moreandmore

Grandmother Rattler

who coils in my bones
what were you thinking
that summer night
when you found the warm road
on the edge of the canyon
and stopped just there
exactly at the center
where the pickups and cars
and evening walkers would see
your spiral upon spiral,
hear the singing voice
of your tail,
see your black head
rising?

When I stopped my car
and walked up to you,
arms spread and hands open,
why didn't you move?
Why didn't you slide down the stones
among the white oaks
and single tall stems
of soaproot?

When those white people stopped,
leaned out of their truck,
whistled and hooted,
did you not recognize Owl among them
calling to me over and over,
"Kill it! Kill it!" I would not, of course,
but still you would not move
even to save your life
but sang all the louder,
your body quaking
with rage.

The woman came out
of her house just there,
saw you, ran back,
picked up the heaviest shovel
she could find, pushed her way pat
where I tried to shield you,
and said she would kill you
if I would not,
she said she had horses down the hill
that might get bit, or she might die
if you were allowed
to live out the night.

O Grandmother.
What did I become?
The German mother who closed her ears
to the sound of neighbors
as they choked and burned?
Uniformed boy in a silver room,
his finger hovering over one small button
to kill thousands he will never see,
elders and infants he will only know
by the magic devil word "enemy"?
I know only this.
I took the shovel
wanting to spare you a death
at their hands, brought it down edgewise
on your soft red neck, cleanly sliced
the head from the body,
felt a shadow pass
over my womb.

Ever since
there is a dream
where opals outline
the shape of diamonds
on my back.
My mouth opens
and your high
whistling hum
bleeds out;
my tongue
licks the air.

catefrances

there are sparkles of rain on the bright
hair over your forehead;
your eyes are wet and your lips
wet and cold, your cheek rigid with cold.
why have you stayed
away so long, why have you only
come to me late at night
after walking for hours in wind and rain?
take off your dress and stockings;
sit in the deep chair before the fire.
i will warm your feet in my hands;
i will warm your breasts and thighs with kisses.
i wish I could build a fire
in you that would never go out.
i wish I could be sure that deep in you
was a magnet to draw you always home.