Sunday, 27 May 2018

Customer Lounge by David Hernandez

The old woman hauled her bones
here, where they hoist our cars

and tinker with their guts.
She can’t sit still. Up, toward

the sun-washed window, back
to her blue chair, up again.

The air-conditioner rattles,
ball of phlegm in its throat.

Everything falls apart, needs repair.
She knits and the pink spreads

across her lap. Sweater or shawl,
time will unravel it, a moth will build

a hole there. You can even hear
her breathing coming undone,

its rusted bolts squeaking free.
Static on the intercom, then a name.

The old woman gets up, pays,
and hobbles out into the afternoon

where a mechanic curses, fixing
what cannot be fixed.

From: http://www.escapeintolife.com/poetry/david-hernandez/

Date: 2006

By: David Hernandez (1971- )

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Saturday, 26 May 2018

Nostalgia by Charles Wright

Always it comes when we least expect it, like a wave,
Or like the shadow of several waves,
one after the next,
Becoming singular as the face

Of someone who rose and fell apart at the edge of our lives.

Breaks up and re-forms, breaks up, re-forms.
And all the attendant retinue of loss foams out
Brilliant and sea-white, then sinks away.

Memory’s dog-teeth,
lovely detritus smoothed out and laid up.

And always the feeling comes that it was better then,
Whatever it was—
people and places, the sweet taste of things—
And this one, wave borne and wave-washed, was part of all that.

We take the conceit in hand, and rub it for good luck.

Or rub it against the evil eye.
And yet, when that wave appears, or that wave’s shadow, we like it,
Or say we do,
and hope the next time

We’ll be surprised again, and returned again, depite the fact
The time will come, they say, when the weight of nostalgia,
that ten-foot spread
Of sand in the heart, outweighs
Whatever living existence we drop on the scales.

May it never arrive, Lord, may it never arrive.

From: http://www.storysouth.com/summer2005/wright_poems.html

Date: 2001

By: Charles Wright (1935- )

Friday, 25 May 2018

Jean by Paul Hugh Howard Potts

There is a wild flower growing
Inside a broken vase,
On a mantle in my memory.

This flower will die
When you are dead,
And while you live will grow.

Because each petal and its stem
Is like long years, of waiting and of hope,
So useless and so void.

From: Rexroth, Kenneth (ed.), The New British Poets: An Anthology, 1940, New Directions: New York, p. 301.
(https://archive.org/details/newbritishpoets030038mbp)

Date: 1940

By: Paul Hugh Howard Potts (1911-1990)

Thursday, 24 May 2018

Arrière Pensée by Margaretta (Margaret) Wade Campbell Deland

It was not Love, you know,
That dream of ours:
No doubt we thought it so,
Catching the shine and glow
from sun and sky and flowers!

“/ called it Love!” you say?
What if I did?
The words but matched the day,
It died, and so should they,
None surely could forbid;

“Love never dies,” you swear?
“Love such as yours;”
Well, that must be your care,
To blame me is not fair,
Because your pain endures;

I ‘m really sorry I
Should seem unkind!
But you cannot deny
The Summer’s long gone by;
‘T was time to change my mind;

Indeed, it’s wiser, far,
To take my view:
Love always leaves a scar,
We ‘re better as we are,
And friendship will be new!

From: Deland, Margaret, The Old Garden and Other Verses, 1892, Houghton, Mifflin and Company: Boston and New York, pp. 60-61.
(https://archive.org/details/oldgarden00dela)

Date: 1886

By: Margaretta (Margaret) Wade Campbell Deland (1857-1945)

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

A Wife’s Absence Lamented by John Aikin

Anno conjugli* 13.

Whene’er in verse or flowery prose
The youthful lover vents his woes,
And the long labour’d column fills
With all his catalogue of ills,
Absence we find, above the rest,
In all his saddest rhet’ric drest;
And still he chides “the heavy hours”
That keep him from the charmer’s bowers;
Still tells his sorrow to the groves,
“When absent from the maid he loves.”
But, if the fancy-smitten swain
Can thus in doleful notes complain
Of what, perhaps, but gives him ease,
Lessening a tyrant’s power to tease,
How should the tender husband mourn
When from his faithful partner torn;
When absence from a much-lov’d wife
Of every pleasure robs his life!
Then, idle whining tribe! give way,
While I my real loss display;
And tell each comfort and each bliss
That long I’ve had, and now I miss

I want—the mistress of my board,
The guardian of my little hoard;
The ruler of my small domain;
Th’ instructress of my infant train;
My best adviser, surest guide,
Of faith approv’d, of wisdom tried;
The soother of each pain and grief;
From toil and care the sweet relief;
The friend, of sense and taste refin’d,
In all my fav’rite studies join’d;
The cheerful partner of my day,
With whom the hours roll swift away;
The lovely sharer of my night,
Sweet source of ever new delight,
Within whose fond encircling arms
I taste of more than virgin charms.
All these my Delia was to me,
And these, when she returns, will be.
What lover then has cause to sigh
For absence half so much as I?
Yet cease, my heart! complain no more,
But count the joys thou hast in store.

*Years married.

From: Aikin, John, Poems, 1791, J. Johnson: London, pp. 16-19.
(https://archive.org/details/poems01aiki

Date: 1791

By: John Aikin (1747-1822)

Tuesday, 22 May 2018

A Contemplation on Bassets-down-Hill by the most Sacred adorer of the Muses by Anne Kemp

If that exact Appelles now did live.
And would a picture of Elizium give;
He might pourtrai’ of the prospect which this Hill
Doth shew; & make the eie command at will.
Heer’s many a shire whose pleasauntness for fight
Doth yield to the Spectators great delight.
Ther’s a large Field guilded with ceres gold;
Here a green mead doth many Heifers hold;
Ther’s pasture growne with virdant grass, whose store,
Of Argent-sheep shewes th’owner is not poore.
Here springs doe intricate Meanders make
Excelling farr Oblivion’s Lethe Lake.
There woods and Coppisses harbour as many
And sweet melodious Choristers, as any
Elizium yields; whose Philomel’ an lazes
Merit the highest of the Lyrick’s praise
Heer’s Flora deck’t with robes of Or, and Azur,
Fragrently smelling yield’s two senses pleasure.

Hence Zephirus doth breath his gentle gales
Coole on the Hills, and sweet throughout the Vales
How happy are they that in this Climate dwell?
Alas! they can’t their owne sweet welfare tell;
Scarce I my selfe whil’st I am here doe know it
Till I fee it’s Antithesis to shew it.
Here are no smoaking streets, nor howling cryes,
Deafning the eares, nor blinding of the eyes;
No noysome smells t’ infect, and choake the aire;
breeding diseases envious to the Faire.
Deceipt is here exil’d from Flesh, and Bloud:
(Strife only reigns, for all strive to be good.)
With Will his verse I here will make an end
And as the crab doth alwaies backward bend
So, though from this sweet place I goe away
My loyall heart will in this Climate stay.
Thus heartless, doth my worthless body rest
Whilest my heart liveth with the ever blest.

From: http://womenwriters.digitalscholarship.emory.edu/content.php?level=div&id=kemp_001&document=kemp

Date: 1658

By: Anne Kemp (fl. 1658)

Monday, 21 May 2018

Armenia’s Love to Shakespeare by Zabelle C. Boyajian

Great, unknown spirit, living with us still,
Though three long centuries have marked thy flight;
Is there a land thy presence doth not fill
A race to which thou hast not brought delight?

To me Armenia seems thy house, for first,
Thy visions there enthralled my wondering mind,
And thy sweet music with my heart conversed–
Armenia in thy every scene I find.

Through all the gloom of strife and agony
Thy gentle light, beloved of all, doth shine;
The nations bring their tribute unto thee,
To honour thee thy country’s foes combine.

What token shall my poor Armenia bring?
No golden diadem her brow adorns;
All jewelled with tears, and glistening,
She lays upon thy shrine her Crown of Thorns.

From: Boyajian, Zabelle C., Armenian Poetry & Legends, 2009, Abela Publishing: London, p. 4.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=XxWVF5804r0C)

Date: 1918

By: Zabelle C. Boyajian (1873-1957)

Sunday, 20 May 2018

O Night, Be Long by Nahapet Kuchak

O night, be long—long as an endless year!
Descend, thick darkness, black and full of fear!
To-night my heart’s desire has been fulfilled–
My love is here at least—a guest concealed!

Dawn, stand behind seven mountains—out of sight,
Lest thou my loved one banish with thy light;
I would for ever thus in darkness rest
So I might ever clasp him to my breast.

From: Boyajian, Zabelle C., Armenian Poetry & Legends, 2009, Abela Publishing: London, p. 14.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=XxWVF5804r0C)

Date: 16th century (original in Armenian); 1916 (translation in English)

By: Nahapet Kuchak (15??-1592)

Translated by: Zabelle C. Boyajian (1873-1957)

Saturday, 19 May 2018

The Shipwrecked Naturalist by Robert Archer

The breakers knock a yard-arm into sight,
then heave it just within his fevered reach.
He clambers on and grasps at trailing ropes
to ride each plunge into the troughs of swell.

With every crest he glimpses glinting sands—
a beach! If only he could cross the reef,
defy the currents pulling him away,
then all his work will not have been in vain.

And — there! — what else could all that flotsam be,
flung wide across the shore, but his own crates,
sealed and tarred, packed tight with journals, gorgeous moths,
strange reptiles, seeds and bulbs for English soil…?

From open sea, he watches as they fade
to distant specks, then shimmer, and are gone.

From: http://sentinelquarterly.com/2016/01/the-shipwrecked-naturalist-a-poem-by-robert-archer/

Date: 2014

By: Robert Archer (19??- )

Friday, 18 May 2018

Pleasure, Love, the Fierce Desire These Beget by Ausiàs March

Pleasure, love, the fierce desire these beget,
hope that bears me from one stage to the next:
these bring but joy, yet fear of failure turns
it all to torment, and wastes my tender flesh,
while I feed a fire deep raging in my heart,
such that it gives off neither smoke nor heat.
Come to my rescue before this hour is done,
for this can only mean my imminent death!

A skilled physician always is alarmed
when he finds heat within the body trapped;
only a quack, finding there no fever
and no sweats, would then conclude that all was well.
For even if the patient’s weak and frail,
and cannot put his symptoms into words,
then gestures, anguish, and his complexion,
can say, all three, as much as speaking will.

Envoi
Beauteous Wisdom, to say I love you
there’s no need: I’m sure that you’re quite sure of it,
show as you may you’ve not the slightest clue
why some might see imbalance in this love.

From: March, Ausiàs and Archer, Robert (ed. and transl.), Ausiàs March: Verse Translation of Thirty Poems, 2006, Barcino Tamesis: Barcelona/Woodbridge, p. 39.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=HAAwuFDF0McC)

Date: 15th century (original in Valencian); 2006 (translation in English)

By: Ausiàs March (1400-1459)

Translated by: Robert Archer (19??- )