The Poetry Only Thread

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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby hanshan » Mon Jun 12, 2017 3:25 am

...


somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands



...
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby stefano » Fri Oct 06, 2017 3:43 pm

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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Cordelia » Wed Oct 25, 2017 6:52 am

The Hound of Heaven

Francis Thompson (Read by Tom O'Bedlam)

I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, forever .........



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6hNu8U7NSc
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Grizzly » Sun Oct 29, 2017 6:11 pm

A dervish knocked at a house
to ask for a piece of dry bread,
or moist, it didn’t matter.

“This is not a bakery,” said the owner.

“Might you have a bit of gristle then?”

“Does this look like a butchershop?”

“A little flour?”

“Do you hear a grinding stone?”

“Some water?”

“This is not a well.”

Whatever the dervish asked for,
the man made some tired joke
and refused to give him anything.

Finally the dervish ran in the house,
lifted his robe, and squatted
as though to take a shit.

“Hey, hey!”

Quiet, you sad man. A deserted place
is a fine spot to relieve oneself,
and since there’s no living thing here,
or means of living, it needs fertilizing.”

The dervish began his own list of questions and answers.

“What kind of bird are you? Not a falcon,
trained for the royal hand. Not a peacock,
painted with everyone’s eyes. Not a parrot,
that talks for sugar cubes. Not a nightingale,
that sings like someone in love.

Not a hoopoe bringing messages to Solomon,
or a stork that builds on a cliffside.

What exactly do you do?
You are no known species.

You haggle and make jokes
to keep what you own for yourself.

You have forgotten the One
who doesn’t care about ownership,
who doesn’t try to turn a profit
from every human exchange.”
If Barthes can forgive me, “What the public wants is the image of passion Justice, not passion Justice itself.”
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby stefano » Thu Nov 30, 2017 4:50 am

Aubade
By Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Cordelia » Sun Apr 29, 2018 7:41 am

Final days of ‘National Poetry Month’.

Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents and

school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

~ Marianne Moore ~

I enjoyed listening to......(Can't embed)
https://the1a.org/shows/2018-04-25/how- ... em-is-good
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Jerky » Sun Apr 29, 2018 12:28 pm

Right
The Cain hand
Abel slew
Left behind
Left holding the bag
Right
The thing that might makes
Right
Not asked for
Taken
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Cordelia » Sun May 06, 2018 11:54 am

What has happened in the world?
the women are like little volcanoes
all more or less in eruption.

It is very unnerving, moving in a world of smouldering volcanoes.
It is rather agitating, sleeping with a little Vesuvius.
And exhausting, penetrating the lava-crater of a tiny Iztaccíhuatl
And never knowing when you’ll provoke an earthquake.

~ D.H. Lawrence ~

(Why D.H. Lawrence, Misogynist Male Author, Has Lots of Female Fans https://www.theatlantic.com/sexes/archi ... ns/275680/)
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby MacCruiskeen » Sun May 06, 2018 12:00 pm

Cordelia » Sun May 06, 2018 10:54 am wrote:What has happened in the world?
the women are like little volcanoes
all more or less in eruption.

It is very unnerving, moving in a world of smouldering volcanoes.
It is rather agitating, sleeping with a little Vesuvius.
And exhausting, penetrating the lava-crater of a tiny Iztaccíhuatl
And never knowing when you’ll provoke an earthquake.

~ D.H. Lawrence ~

(Why D.H. Lawrence, Misogynist Male Author, Has Lots of Female Fans https://www.theatlantic.com/sexes/archi ... ns/275680/)


Thanks for posting that Cordelia. There aren't many poems (though there are a few) that make me laugh out loud.

"Penetrating the lava-crater." That Frieda, eh? Formidable. Not to be trifled with.
"Ich kann gar nicht so viel fressen, wie ich kotzen möchte." (Max Liebermann, Berlin, 1933)

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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Cordelia » Sun May 06, 2018 1:16 pm

^^^ :thumbsup The Baroness who long ago gave a twist to the stereotypical scenario of the professor leaving his wife and family for a younger student--she left her professor husband (and three children!) for his student, Lawrence*. But I did once read, in another lifetime, that Ursula Brangwen's character (from 'Women In Love' but maybe not its prequel 'The Rainbow'?) was based on Frieda. I thought her sister Gudrun Brangwen was volcanic-- or maybe just more smouldering -- perhaps based on Frieda's own sister? :shrug:


(which reminds me...... I have these two on Amazon's 'save for later' list; when, I don't know.)

ImageImage

*edit to add she was older than Lawrence.....
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby MacCruiskeen » Sun May 06, 2018 3:35 pm

Women in Love is an amazing thing. Those weird tides of emotion. Dalcroze for the cattle. The blow to the head, then the naked roll in the grass. The raging rabbit. The child screaming "Di! Oh, Di!" in the night!

The series of chapter titles practically constitutes a poem in itself.

I SISTERS

II SHORTLANDS

III CLASS-ROOM

IV DIVER

V IN THE TRAIN

VI CREME DE MENTHE

VII TOTEM

VIII BREADALBY

IX COAL-DUST

X SKETCH-BOOK

XI AN ISLAND

XII CARPETTING

XIII MINO

XIV WATER-PARTY

XV SUNDAY EVENING

XVI MAN TO MAN

XVII THE INDUSTRIAL MAGNATE

XVIII RABBIT

XIX MOONY

XX GLADIATORIAL

XXI THRESHOLD

XXII WOMAN TO WOMAN

XXIII EXCURSE

XXIV DEATH AND LOVE

XXV MARRIAGE OR NOT

XXVI A CHAIR

XXVII FLITTING

XXVIII GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR

XXIX CONTINENTAL

XXX SNOWED UP

XXXI EXEUNT

- from the full online text
"Ich kann gar nicht so viel fressen, wie ich kotzen möchte." (Max Liebermann, Berlin, 1933)

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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby chump » Sun May 06, 2018 5:00 pm

Image

How Do You Know When You’re Stupid?

When you’re stupid
Everyone knows it but you
You’re too dumb
To know it too

-----------


edited to add:

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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Cordelia » Wed Jun 20, 2018 11:40 am

You do not need to fear the heat

You do not need to fear the heat.
The willows arching overhead
will lend their shade. Fear not
thirst. Your old brown friend
the river is by your side. Winds

will not take away your tent;
you have tethered it. Nor will
you know hunger. One by one,
place the nut, the dried fruit,
the seed upon your tongue.

Why then this vague dread?
Ahead, the utter afternoon,
when time hangs thick like
air trapped in a box canyon,
cicada drill the ears, and

nothing stirs except thought.
You wish you were in need.
of something you could move
toward. Creatures, teach us
how to survive until nightfall!

~Rick Kempa~

Call It Ours

All we want is a path
just visible
in the new growth
of the forest floor.

We do not require
a thread of cairns
to mark the route.
Leave it to us

to find our way across
the swollen stream
to get our feet wet
if we must, to

blow past the bend
in the switchback
misread the map
become aware

too late that we
are lost, to move
this way and that
kneel in the dirt

to sit at last cross-
legged in the dusk
while the stars emerge
one by one each one

a blessing, to sleep
beneath those stars
and in the first light
find our way back

or forward it won’t
matter because we
will have found it
and can call it ours

~Rick Kempa~
The greatest sin is to be unconscious. ~ Carl Jung

We may not choose the parameters of our destiny. But we give it its content. ~ Dag Hammarskjold 'Waymarks'
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby chump » Sun Jun 24, 2018 11:06 am


https://jonrappoport.wordpress.com/2018 ... he-empire/

A poem for the 21st century: Visions of the Empire
by Jon Rappoport
June 13, 2018

I’ve been writing and editing a 6000-word poem, VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE, for the past ten years. Here I present the first section. I may post other excerpts.

Poetry in the grand tradition of, say, Walt Whitman may seem to be dead—and who cares about poetry anyway? But poems are life blood on the page. They have the potential to awaken the sleeping mind and spirit.

I cast this one out like a wind across the landscape, with full knowledge that reading anything, much less poetry, is a dying art in many quarters. Frankly, that doesn’t stop me. I know, from 17 years of writing at nomorefakenews, that there are untold numbers of people who can still read and want to read. My articles have found them.

Going against the grain doesn’t bother me. It motivates me. Every day. The seemingly absurd proposition that a poem can have a life-bearing effect—I hold that view and always will.

The unbound, wide-ranging, free and electric spirit within us is THERE. We can step on it and bury it and forget it, but it doesn’t die. With that knowledge, and without apprehension, I freely give you this. Do with it what you will. As with everything else I write, I stand on the words.

VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE, Part One:

This poem is not a warning
This is poem is not an alert
This poem is not a shopping cart in a supermarket
This poem is not my uncle talking about America with a cigar in his mouth
This poem is not about the H-bomb
This poem is not my grandmother speaking Russian in the Bronx a hundred years ago
This poem is not a microwave
This poem is not
This poem is not a robot car on the highway
This poem is not a power outage
This poem is not
This poem is not a peace treaty
This poem is not a shadow across your eyes
This poem is not Karl Marx or Mussolini
This poem is not a molecule invented in a laboratory
This poem is not a political philosophy manufactured in a secret bank
This poem is not a machine
This poem is not a system
This poem is not asking for an answer
This poem is not people dying in hospitals even though people are dying in hospitals
This poem is not bread or the fountain of youth
This poem is not a doctor
This poem is not a professor on a pension
This poem is not a union
This poem is not a dollar
This poem is not a major or a colonel
This poem is America and not-America
The dream America

After money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood
After a cash-loaded God strolled into town
After the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons
and sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories

geologic wraiths spiraled up inside television sets—
their only ambition to stunt prayers for deliverance and kill raw desire—

we watched wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pull black blood out of the ground and send it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of the Body of Christ
apostles were resurrected in knife-cutter fins of long Cadillacs running hot across the Kansas plains with blondes in the back seat drinking

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect geometry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens
monthly budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives
distant farm fields dead in the snow
blank-eyed children walking in the snow
cultivating nightmares they would one day visit on Reality

I flew over those fields and heard the crackerbox houses rot and rust as nothing ever rotted before

We tamed the wolf and the copperhead
we broke a pond of ice and sent Promethean serpents to force a tunnel all the way down to the volcanic hats of ancient Chinese poets

We tracked mobs and gangs and politicians and drowned them in thunderous secret rivers under the Southwest deserts
we launched charges against the bosses and carried our prosecutions into courtrooms of fish eye and coral and waving undersea weeds and dragged paid-off judges from their galleon-wrecked thrones

We stood in the blinding sunlight reflected from low slung whitewashed buildings of Pasadena and El Segundo and Long Beach and felt the roar of departing space rockets cutting tunnels through the future and pulling back the future with giant magnets of illuminated dust

We walked through measureless windows of wheat and corn growing in the middle flatlands under the warm rain of supernatural mansions

We draped curtains of night in the upper hills of Los Angeles where the mountain lion and the coyote and the melted mythical Greek beast roamed like vagabonds free of the Wheel

Under poles of yellow lights, gasping midnight locomotives clamped on to lines of freight cars in the backyards of Chicago
Plastic lilies grew in the pastures of St. Louis haberdashers and department stores

In White Plains we carved a diamond on cracked asphalt and climbed a decaying elm and walked along the iron railing of the fence holding rotting branches and threw marbles down on to Davis Avenue and watched them bounce into the muddy stream of World War Two newspapers and swollen milk cartons and broken whiskey bottles and torn black jackets of old soldiers who had died in snow drifts over the winter and mysteriously disappeared

I ran under trees filled with light green inchworms hanging from long threads until I was invisible
and glimpsed smiling robots sitting in cafes in the next platinum century

In Los Angeles, concrete sunset of three stacked freeways, a carpet of park in Beverly Hills, old poolroom on Broadway downtown, bus to San Francisco, a bum holding out his hand and saying On Venus Jesus will show you machines of love

I saw politicians jumping out of floating windows
their briefcases cracking open
spilling secrets like lazy snowflakes
dazzling in the sun
trillion dollar thefts
naked amazons stashed in condos and yachts
banks sucking money from the vacuum of the heavens
dead agents

in a rock pasture outside Des Moines hitchhiking to New York
glimpses of prehistoric time
before the beginning before the beginning of sacred money before the first idols were built, before sacrifice was thought of, sly prophets were trying on robes and combing out their long hair and rehearsing their future executions

Standing up on a hill past Albuquerque on 66, I caught a ride into a no-name Arizona town, walked in the foggy morning along an empty road to a pine-filled snow-filled cliff and stared out at a spring valley a thousand feet below

In blinding rain I stood on the Indiana Turnpike outside Chicago pointed east and wound up in the Pennsylvania countryside driving the car of a half-crippled man with a Bible I met in a Howard Johnson
our headlights went dead on a curve and a cop pulled in behind us and stopped us
he led us to a fat judge’s house in the middle of the night where we paid thirty bucks
then parked on a quiet lane and slept until dawn
early spring in March
flowering magnolia trees
he dropped two Thorazine and told me to drive
and his babbling about Heaven slowed down and he slept
and when we pulled into Manhattan he had me park in midtown
he looked at me with glazed doe’s eyes and said
son, I’ve reached the end of the line, this is it, within a month I’ll kill myself

I walked along the astral cloisters of Wall Street among crowds lapping at honey loopholes in a web of proprietary secrets and I flew through steel walls into the psychotic fandango of the international electronic invented money Surge

I recorded architects laying out blueprints for the perfect human in bunkers of Virginia where silent factories printed minds whose memories could be selectively erased
technicians built new bodies from tendons and ligaments of cougars and predatory owls and membranes from soldier ants and feral dogs

I walked through fields of cactus east of Tijuana
into caverns of mass graves where sacrificed Aztec skeletons still stank in pulsing blood rhymes of a toothless hobo Ziggurat

I sat in the courtroom where the two-hundred-year trial of America labored like a wounded beast, witness after witness screaming accusations at captains of production and dark iron-masked prosecutors hammered their fists on tables and smooth Rockefeller men sat in the witness box and advocated drugging the population

One Sunday night I walked out of a small bookstore on 3rd Avenue and a drunken Ben Franklin, wearing his waistcoat and slippers, his spectacles halfway down his crooked nose, pulled me over to the doorway of a paint store, and whispered:
“I should prefer, to an ordinary death, being immersed
with a few friends in a cask of Madeira, until that time,
then to be recalled to life by the solar warmth of my
dear country!”

he patted me on the cheek and grinned

What about the weathered Declaration on which you staked your honor, your future, your fortune, your life, I ask him
His face turns sour
Oh that, he says
They sold it for a war, and it fetched a handsome price
They sold it for a bank, and rated it a fair exchange
They sold it for a choking nightmare called the greater good, and it drained their living blood
They sold it for a legend of heaven under a burning copper sky and it vaporized in the whirlwind

Fifty million video cameras record the washed out moment-to- moment ballet in streets and offices
people stop for a moment in a bulging tableau
light peers in through immobile troughs of fury
complaints are frozen

all the children of America with their endless needs are frozen

We slashed our way through faded blue Virginia mountain ranges ruled by subhuman priests
lizards crawled through the sunlight between leaves on rumbling paragon trees spreading out their knuckles above ground

Through dream gardens of the starlit Sagittarius, coral horses, amber-fed lichen
we walked the Colorado Cherokee Trail glittering with bodies frozen in the silver fog

We flew over steaming cities and freezing cities and came to the Asia plain of tropical magic where the walls of enduring space were cracked and broken and the false curtain of the sky lay at half-mast torn and stained

Here the empire had shriveled and small mobs wandered under saturated space broken off from the Maypole of trance

We still hear a voice of freedom
in the
aether

now freedom barks like a dog
it weeps over stones
it demands cash
it lies in the mud and croaks
flees a burning church…
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Re: The Poetry Only Thread

Postby Jerky » Sun Jun 24, 2018 1:47 pm

Trigger warning for disturbing imagery and content.

Girls are coming out of the Woods
by Tishani Roshi

Girls are coming out of the woods,
wrapped in cloaks and hoods,
carrying iron bars and candles
and a multitude of scars, collected
on acres of premature grass and city
buses, in temples and bars. Girls
are coming out of the woods
with panties tied around their lips,
making such a noise, it’s impossible
to hear. Is the world speaking too?
Is it really asking, What does it mean
to give someone a proper resting? Girls are
coming out of the woods, lifting
their broken legs high, leaking secrets
from unfastened thighs, all the lies
whispered by strangers and swimming
coaches, and uncles, especially uncles,
who said spreading would be light
and easy, who put bullets in their chests
and fed their pretty faces to fire,
who sucked the mud clean
off their ribs, and decorated
their coffins with brier. Girls are coming
out of the woods, clearing the ground
to scatter their stories. Even those girls
found naked in ditches and wells,
those forgotten in neglected attics,
and buried in river beds like sediments
from a different century. They’ve crawled
their way out from behind curtains
of childhood, the silver-pink weight
of their bodies pushing against water,
against the sad, feathered tarnish
of remembrance. Girls are coming out
of the woods the way birds arrive
at morning windows – pecking
and humming, until all you can hear
is the smash of their miniscule hearts
against glass, the bright desperation
of sound – bashing, disappearing.
Girls are coming out of the woods.
They’re coming. They’re coming.
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