Archive for ‘General’

Monday, 21 March 2022

The Rehabilitation Hobbies Room by Helen Burke

This is re-cuperation then, this is rehabilitation.
Here by learning how to re-tie my own anxiety into bows
I will be made whole again.
From all the hobbies on the hobby table
I shall choose sand.  Sand and ribbon-reading.
By my ribbons they will know me.
I send back the mirrors made from pasta twirls.
I send back the soft toy dogs made from
cotton wool and silly tape.
The gnomes and plaster cast of Jesus (the champagne
corks still wobbling) I eschew.
These are the glories of the hobby room
where we must come before they sign us out, we damaged moths.

I must sketch my own silhouette in beer can tops and
draw my own eyes with sea-foam and silicone.
I must re-join my bones with cement and sloe-gin.
I must position my mended shadow on the wall of reason.
I must play football with my own spleen,
badminton with my own kidney.
I must leave a sample of my own cheerfulness in the cup provided.
I must fashion a prophecy from eggshells and straw.
My hobby is leaving – this is my choice.
I will not choose another.
My lilac wings are beating a pattern in the clear space above my head.

From: http://www.poetrypf.co.uk/helenburkepage.html

Date: 2012

By: Helen Burke (1953-2019)

Monday, 7 March 2022

Epitaph On a Patient killed by a Cancer Quack by Lemuel Hopkins

Here lies a fool flat on his back,
The victim of a Cancer Quack;
Who lost his money and his life,
By plaister, caustic, and by knife.
The case was this—a pimple rose,
South-east a little of his nose;
Which daily reden’d and grew bigger,
As too much drinking gave it vigour:
A score of gossips soon ensure
Full three score diff’rent modes of cure:
But yet the full-fed pimple still
Defied all petticoated skill;
When fortune led him to peruse
A hand-bill in the weekly news;
Sign’d by six fools of diff’rent sorts,
All cur’d of cancers made of warts;
Who recommend, with due submission,
This cancer-monger as magician;
Fear wing’d his flight to find the quack,
And prove his cancer-curing knack;
But on his way he found another,—
A second advertising brother:
But as much like him as an owl
Is unlike every handsome fowl;
Whose fame had rais’d as broad a fog,
And of the two the greater hog:
Who us’d a still more magic plaister,
That sweat forsooth, and cur’d the faster.
This doctor view’d, with moony eyes
And scowl’d up face, the pimple’s size;
Then christen’d it in solemn answer,
And cried, “This pimple’s name is CANCER.”
“But courage, friend, I see you’re pale,
“My sweating plaisters never fail;
“I’ve sweated hundreds out with ease,
“With roots as long as maple trees;
“And never fail’d in all my trials—
“Behold these samples here in vials!
“Preserv’d to shew my wond’rous merits,
“Just as my liver is—in spirits.
“For twenty joes the cure is done—”
The bargain struck, the plaister on,
Which gnaw’d the cancer at its leisure,
And pain’d his face above all measure.
But still the pimple spread the faster,
And swell’d, like toad that meets disaster.
Thus soil’d, the doctor gravely swore,
It was a right rose-cancer sore;
Then stuck his probe beneath the beard,
And shew’d them where the leaves appear’d;
And rais’d the patient’s drooping spirits,
By praising up the plaister’s merits.—
Quoth he, “The roots now scarcely stick—
“I’ll fetch her out like crab or tick;
“And make it rendezvous, next trial,
“With six more plagues, in my old vial.”
Then purg’d him pale with jalap drastic,
And next applies th’ infernal caustic.
But yet, this semblance bright of hell
Serv’d but to make the patient yell;
And, gnawing on with fiery pace,
Devour’d one broadside of his face—
“Courage, ’tis done,” the doctor cried,
And quick th’ incision knife applied:
That with three cuts made such a hole,
Out flew the patient’s tortur’d soul!
Go, readers, gentle, eke and simple,
If you have wart, or corn, or pimple;
To quack infallible apply;
Here’s room enough for you to lie.
His skill triumphant still prevails,
For DEATH’s a cure that never fails.

From: Smith, E. H. (ed.), American Poems, Selected and Original. Vol. I, 1793, Collier and Buel: Litchfield, pp. 137-139.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/N19277.0001.001)

Date: 1793

By: Lemuel Hopkins (1750-1801)

Thursday, 20 January 2022

Brush Turkey’s by Sue Watson

powerful claw
scrapes  leaves
into a metre high
incubator   eco-mound
for the eggs of many hens
it’s shoulder peak season
he has a Rolls Royce address
instinct outweighs his beauty
given an ugly head & neck
of the worst sunburnt hue
a goitre of bright yellow
ruffles the base of his throat
contrasts with the blue black
of his feathers   his walk is neither
swagger nor trot
he’s reclaimed his spot on the hill
in flannel flower cul-de-sac.

From: https://overland.org.au/previous-issues/issue-199/poem-sue-watson/

Date: 2010

By: Sue Watson (19??- )

Sunday, 9 January 2022

A Thunderstorm at Night by George Eric Mackay

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm
That tells of chaos; and I read the same
As one may read the writing of a name,—
As one in Hell may see the sudden form
Of God’s fore-finger pointed as in blame.
How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm
With hints of death; and in their vault enorme
The reeling stars coagulate in flame.
And now the torrents from their mountain-beds
Roar down uncheck’d; and serpents shaped of mist
Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads;
And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist,
Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds,
And shake the air like Titians that have kiss’d!

From: Mackay, Eric, Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems, 1894, Brentano’s: New York, p. 231.
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/37649/37649-h/37649-h.htm#Miscellaneous_Poems)

Date: 1894

By: George Eric Mackay (1835-1898)

Friday, 10 December 2021

Myriad Stars, No. 34 by Bing Xin/Ping Hsin

The creators of the new continent
are not those roaring waves,
but the minuscule sands beneath them.

From: Lin, Julia C. (ed. and transl.), Twentieth-Century Chinese Women’s Poetry: An Anthology, 2009, Routledge: London and New York, p. 3.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=DzHfBQAAQBAJ)

Date: 1923 (original in Chinese); 2009 (translation in English)

By: Bing Xin/Ping Hsin (1900-1999)

Translated by: Julia Chang Lin (1928-2013)

Tuesday, 7 December 2021

Shelter in Place by Ron Silliman

Putting the pox
in apocalypse
the pudding in the skull
has a lemony taste
just a little
until you push through
to the richer
almost bitter
sweetness at the center

Yum is a corporate brand
encompassing multiple
fast-food franchise chains
he marched his co-workers
out of the restaurant
& into the woods
where he shot them

The angel of death
ambles in
from the memory gardens
It merely needs
to brush against
the hem of your gown

Goya’s peasants
against the wall
don’t look away

When help burst in
all armored up
they found a naked woman
alone in the shower
but couldn’t make out
her mumbled song

When this you see
D E F
geometry rising
to the surface
of a hypothetical world
in a 13-dimensional space
circulating an absence
where some sun should be

What time is it
in Zaragoza
by the old Roman wall
Modernism lurks
looking as dated
as the gravel garden
at the Soviet block apartments

She waits at the corner
for the bus to the campus
when the mayor’s son
pulls up in his car
to offer her a ride
from which she is never seen again

The first to commit suicide
is the class valedictorian
They rain from the bridge
like a festival of ornaments
like the couple holding hands
out of the south tower

No one remembers Ishi
in the Berkeley hills
or LoneCat Fuller’s
musical contraption

Holy Hubert shouting
from a text in which
all of the words
have been erased

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/154997/shelter-in-place

Date: 2021

By: Ron Silliman (1946- )

Thursday, 7 October 2021

Sonnet by Aaron Novick

Listen: you can hear
the silent thunder gathering
before the clouds unload the loud, rude ring
that stupefies the ear.

Not yet insensate, here
in the slurred rain, you feel each thing
that cannot be becoming, thickening
from nothing, drawing near.

What world is this, that streams
with solid fog? What empty glut
of all just as it seems?

And, when real thunder fills
the sky, and these things vanish—what?
It is your mind that stills.

From: https://www.sequestrum.org/three-poems-by-aaron-novick

Date: 2020

By: Aaron Novick (19??- )

Saturday, 14 August 2021

Sulphur-crested Cockatoos by Simon Patton

Disobey-One,
Disobey-Two,
Disobey Cockatoodle-doo
― Skipping song

They rip strips of sky starkly in two
with their rasping shriek, yet its depth —
for all their violence — is rendered
more subtly blue, offset spectacularly
by sulphur. A flock in a dead December paddock
Christmas-lights tree branches
with immaculate, ice-cream ikons.
They never like the seagull,
like the crow, like the sacred ibis
scavenge guttered cities. In a joyfully
vicious streak, they throw the still beauty
of haunting European and Asian poems
fatally off balance, avenging human nature,
the child-mind. They are: beautifully
undamaged by habit,
savage with wild-open living.
Their gently unbowed fierce Australian heads
gaze steadily at the sun
and other starlights, out of this world
and back.

From: https://plumwoodmountain.com/sulphur-crested-cockatoos/

Date: 2017

By: Simon Patton (19??- )

Saturday, 7 August 2021

Papermill by Joseph Anthony Kalar

Not to be believed, this blunt savage wind
Blowing in chill empty rooms, this tornado
Surging and bellying across the oily floor
Pushing men out in streams before it;
Not to be believed, this dry fall
Of unseen fog drying the oil
And emptying the jiggling greasecups;
Not to be believed, this unseen hand
Weaving a filmy rust of spiderwebs
Over these turbines and grinding gears,
These snarling chippers and pounding jordans;
These fingers placed to lips saying shshsh:
Keep silent, keep silent, keep silent;
Not to be believed hardly, this clammy silence
Where once feet stamped over the oily floor,
Dinnerpails clattered, voices rose and fell
In laughter, curses, and songs. Now the guts
Of this mill have ceased and red changes to black,
Steam is cold water, silence is rust, and quiet
Spells hunger. Look at these men, now,
Standing before the iron gates, mumbling,
“Who could believe it? Who could believe it?”

From: https://www.mprnews.org/story/2007/02/13/papermillpoem

Date: 1931

By: Joseph Anthony Kalar (1906-1972)

Friday, 30 July 2021

Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown –

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind –

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea –

A poem should not mean
But be.

From: https://mypoeticside.com/show-classic-poem-17972

Date: 1926

By: Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)