Tuesday, 21 April 2015

Blind Spot by Angus Sinclair

Whether or not the sky is like bath tiles
you scoop those soft boiled egg whites for crabmeat,
add too much salt. I crack your paperbacks’
spines, and the ice cubes in your wine glass creak.

I quietly skip the dull pages. Lunch
is cognac and canned trout. When the thunder
barrels in it’s lights out at the chalet
park. No mirrors are empty mirrors, or

all mirrors are empty mirrors you said,
picking the sand out of the sugar bowl.
That small perpetual noise is not a clock,
there’s more sand in the bed sheets and bath towels.

We are in and out, regular as breath.
The wasps’ nest over the door is a wreath.

From: http://clinicpresents.com/2013/10/08/angus-sinclair-two-poems-2/

Date: 2013

By: Angus Sinclair (19??- )

Monday, 20 April 2015

The Autumn Walk by Alexander Anderson

I walk through, the golden autumn wood
When the leaves are in their decay:
And my heart leaps into its solemn mood
As they wither and drop away.

For I think that this life of ours is a tree,
And the leaves are each fresh green hope,
That we keep like the dream of the good to be
For the blossoms that yet will ope.

And I know that the years are the slow sure frost
That will nip with a bitter breath
The sweet green buds, till their bloom be lost
In a shadow like that of death.

Then woe unto him that, when thus bereft,
And the drear cold gust hath pas’d,
Looks within and can see no leaflet left
That might gladden his eyes at last.

What comfort will lie in the clasped hands,
In the look of doubt and woe,
While the heart in its own deep shadow stands
Looking down at its leaves below?

Ah, no! like the tree that I stand beneath,
That, though wither’d, and black, and bare,
Still keeps one leaf that hath stood the breath
Of the cold and unkindly air:

May I thus so stand when my heart pours down
Its leaves all sear’d and dry,
Keeping still one leaf though the rest be flown,
And that leaf my hope on high.

From: Anderson, Alexander, A Song of Labour, and Other Poems, 1873, The Advertiser: Dundee, p. 19.
(https://archive.org/stream/songoflabourothe00andeiala#page/18/mode/2up)

Date: 1873

By: Alexander Anderson (1845-1909)

Sunday, 19 April 2015

A Palinode by Edmund Bolton

As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer’s sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy – which short life gathers –
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered primrose by the mourning river,
The faded summer’s sun from weeping fountains,
The light-blown bubble, vanishéd for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
Are emblems that the treasures we up-lay
Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away.

For as the snow, whose lawn did overspread
The ambitious hills, which giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggy seat;
Whenas the bubble, which did empty fly
The dalliance of the undiscernéd wind,
On whose calm rolling waves it did rely,
Hath shipwreck made, where it did dalliance find;
And when the sunshine, which dissolved the snow,
Coloured the bubble with a pleasant vary,
And made the rathe and timely primrose grow,
Swarth clouds withdrawn (which longer time do tarry) –
Oh, what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so
As shine by fountains, bubbles, flowers or snow?

From: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/may/09/poem-of-the-week-edmund-bolton

Date: 1600

By: Edmund Bolton (?1575-?1633)

Saturday, 18 April 2015

Stan by Marshall Bruce Mathers III (Eminem)

Dear Slim, I wrote you but you still ain’t callin’
I left my cell, my pager, and my home phone at the bottom
I sent two letters back in autumn, you must not-a got ’em
There probably was a problem at the post office or somethin’
Sometimes I scribble addresses too sloppy when I jot ’em
But anyways, fuck it, what’s been up? Man how’s your daughter?
My girlfriend’s pregnant too, I’m bout to be a father
If I have a daughter, guess what I’m a call her?
I’m a name her Bonnie
I read about your Uncle Ronnie too I’m sorry
I had a friend kill himself over some bitch who didn’t want him
I know you probably hear this everyday, but I’m your biggest fan
I even got the underground shit that you did with Skam
I got a room full of your posters and your pictures man
I like the shit you did with Rawkus too, that shit was fat
Anyways, I hope you get this man, hit me back,
Just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan
This is Stan

Dear Slim, you still ain’t called or wrote, I hope you have a chance
I ain’t mad, I just think it’s fucked up you don’t answer fans
If you didn’t wanna talk to me outside your concert
You didn’t have to, but you coulda signed an autograph for Matthew
That’s my little brother man, he’s only six years old
We waited in the blistering cold for you,
For four hours and you just said, “No.”
That’s pretty shitty man, you’re like his fuckin’ idol
He wants to be just like you man, he likes you more than I do
I ain’t that mad though, I just don’t like bein’ lied to
Remember when we met in Denver, you said if I’d write you you would write back,
See I’m just like you in a way
I never knew my father neither,
He used to always cheat on my mom and beat her
I can relate to what you’re saying in your songs
So when I have a shitty day, I drift away and put ’em on
‘Cause I don’t really got shit else so that shit helps when I’m depressed
I even got a tattoo of your name across the chest
Sometimes I even cut myself to see how much it bleeds
It’s like adrenaline, the pain is such a sudden rush for me
See everything you say is real, and I respect you cause you tell it
My girlfriend’s jealous ’cause I talk about you 24/7
But she don’t know you like I know you Slim, no one does
She don’t know what it was like for people like us growin’ up, you gotta call me man,
I’ll be the biggest fan you’ll ever lose
Sincerely yours, Stan, P.S. we should be together too

Dear Mister “I’m Too Good To Call Or Write My Fans”,
This will be the last package I ever send your ass
It’s been six months and still no word, I don’t deserve it?
I know you got my last two letters, I wrote the addresses on ’em perfect
So this is my cassette I’m sending you, I hope you hear it
I’m in the car right now, I’m doing 90 on the freeway
Hey Slim, I drank a fifth of vodka,
You dare me to drive?
You know the song by Phil Collins, “In the Air of the Night”
About that guy who could a saved that other guy from drowning
But didn’t, then Phil saw it all, then at a a show he found him?
That’s kinda how this is, you could a rescued me from drowning
Now it’s too late, I’m on a thousand downers now, I’m drowsy
And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call
I hope you know I ripped all of your pictures off the wall
I love you Slim, we coulda been together, think about it
You ruined it now, I hope you can’t sleep and you dream about it
And when you dream I hope you can’t sleep and you scream about it
I hope your conscience eats at you and you can’t breathe without me
See Slim, shut up bitch! I’m tryin’ to talk!
Hey Slim, that’s my girlfriend screamin’ in the trunk
But I didn’t slit her throat, I just tied her up, see I ain’t like you
‘Cause if she suffocates she’ll suffer more, and then she’ll die too
Well, gotta go, I’m almost at the bridge now
Oh shit, I forgot, how am I supposed to send this shit out?

Dear Stan, I meant to write you sooner but I just been busy
You said your girlfriend’s pregnant now, how far along is she?
Look, I’m really flattered you would call your daughter that
And here’s an autograph for your brother,
I wrote it on the Starter cap
I’m sorry I didn’t see you at the show, I must of missed you
Don’t think I did that shit intentionally just to diss you
But what’s this shit you said about you like to cut your wrists too?
I say that shit just clownin’ dog, come on, how fucked up is you?
You got some issues Stan, I think you need some counseling
To help your ass from bouncing off the walls when you get down some
And what’s this shit about us meant to be together?
That type of shit will make me not want us to meet each other
I really think you and your girlfriend need each other
Or maybe you just need to treat her better
I hope you get to read this letter, I just hope it reaches you in time
Before you hurt yourself, I think that you’ll be doin’ just fine
If you relax a little, I’m glad I inspire you but Stan
Why are you so mad? Try to understand, that I do want you as a fan
I just don’t want you to do some crazy shit
I seen this one shit on the news a couple weeks ago that made me sick
Some dude was drunk and drove his car over a bridge
And had his girlfriend in the trunk, and she was pregnant with his kid
And in the car they found a tape, but they didn’t say who it was to
Come to think about, his name was, it was you
Damn!

From: http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?lyrics=1065

Date: 2000

By: Marshall Bruce Mathers III (Eminem) (1972- )

Friday, 17 April 2015

If I Could Shut the Gate Against My Thoughts by John Daniel

If I could shut the gate against my thoughts
And keep out sorrow from this room within,
Or memory could cancel all the notes
Of my misdeeds, and I unthink my sin:
How free, how clear, how clean my soul should lie,
Discharged of such a loathsome company!

Or were there other rooms without my heart
That did not to my conscience join so near,
Where I might lodge the thoughts of sin apart
That I might not their clam’rous crying hear;
What peace, what joy, what ease should I possess,
Freed from their horrors that my soul oppress!

But, O my Saviour, who my refuge art,
Let Thy dear mercies stand ’twixt them and me,
And be the wall to separate my heart
So that I may at length repose me free;
That peace, and joy, and rest may be within,
And I remain divided from my sin.

From: http://www.bartleby.com/331/615.html

Date: 1606

By: John Daniel (?1564-c1626)

Thursday, 16 April 2015

The Irreparable by James Wilson Holme (Philip Acton)

The tears that fall upon the whispering tomb
Of those we love are not the tears that stain:
Furrow the cheek they may, but not with pain,
So long as through the veil sweet memories come
And love that dies not permeates the gloom.
It is not Death that rends our hearts in twain
And leaves us hopeless, sorrowing in vain,
In anguish steeped, with desolation dumb.
The immedicable tears are those that fall
Upon the silent and reproachful grave
Of those we wronged, and would that wrong recall,
Yet ere from whom forgiveness we could crave
Death came with his cold hand and closed the door
And left us unforgiven for evermore.

From: Acton, Philip, Songs and Sonnets, 1889, Longmans, Green and Co: London, p. 107.
(https://archive.org/stream/cu31924013205020#page/n121/mode/2up)

Date:  1889

By: James Wilson Holme (Philip Acton) (1829-1892)

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Motto by Francis Davison

The Bee and Spider, by a diverse power,
Sucke Hony and Poyson from the selfe same flower.

From: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Davison,_Francis_(DNB00)

Date: 1602

By: Francis Davison (?1575-?1619)

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

The Constant North by James Findlay Hendry

(For Dee)

Encompass me, my lover,
With your eyes’ wide calm.
Though noonday shadows are assembling doom,
The sun remains when I remember them;
And death, if it should come,
Must fall like quiet snow from such clear skies.

Minutes we snatched from the unkind winds
Are grown into daffodils by the sea’s
Edge, mocking its green miseries;
Yet I seek you hourly still, over
A new Atlantis loneliness, blind
As a restless needle held by the constant north we always have in mind.

From: Rexroth, Kenneth (ed.) The New British Poets: An Anthology, 1947, New Directions: London, p. 92.
(http://www.archive.org/stream/newbritishpoets030038mbp#page/n137/mode/2up)

Date: 1947

By: James Findlay Hendry (1912-1986)

Monday, 13 April 2015

For S. by Andy Spragg

I like falling asleep in cars or coaches
in transit – I wonder if it’s
similar to taking psychedelics –
oh and by the way,
you are the most amazing
company to take around
Tescos – even when my
tummy is distraught from
a solemn fullness and you
are looking at the most illustrious
of cream cakes – hey look! The
coach just passed a car in traffic
and I saw an old lady in the
passenger seat playing pat-a-cake
with herself
and secretly I thought of my mum
and sort of wish you’d meet her.
She is tolerant and kind
and she too takes me to
see the cream buns.

From: http://etceterart.blogspot.com.au/2010/04/four-poems-andy-spragg.html

Date: 2010

By: Andy Spragg (19??- )

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Aeliana’s Ditty: Wily Cupid by Henry Chettle

Trust not his wanton tears,
Lest they beguile ye;
Trust not his childish sight,
He breatheth slily.
Trust not his touch,
His feeling may defile ye;
Trust nothing that he doth,
The wag is wily.
If you suffer him to prate,
You will rue it over late;
Beware of him, for he is witty.
Quickly strive the boy to bind,
Fear him not, for he is blind;
If he gets loose, he shows no pity.

From: http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/aelianas-ditty

Date: 1595

By: Henry Chettle (c1564-c1606)

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