The 'Share Some Poetry' Thread

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.