Posts tagged ‘1966’

Tuesday, 12 July 2022

The Head by Blaise Cendrars (Frédéric-Louis Sauser)

The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art
Its click
Creates perpetual motion
Everyone knows about Christopher Columbus’ egg
Which was a flat egg, a fixed egg, the egg of an inventor
Archipenko’s sculpture is the first ovoidal egg
Held in intense equilibrium
Like an immobile top
On its animated point
It throws off
Multicolored waves
Color zones
And turns in depth


Date: 1919 (original in French); 1966 (translation in English)

By: Blaise Cendrars (Frédéric-Louis Sauser) (1887-1961)

Translated by: Ron Padgett (1942- )

Friday, 24 September 2021

Mad in the Morning by Gōzō Yoshimasu

I shout the first line of my poem
I write the first line
A carving knife stands up madly in the morning
These are my rights!

The glow of morning or a woman’s breasts are not always beautiful
Beauty is not always first
All music is a lie!
Ah! First of all, let’s close all the petals and fall down to the earth!

This morning, September 24, 1966
I wrote a letter to my dearest friend
About original sin
About the perfect crime and the method of destroying intelligence

What a drop of water rolling on my pale pink palm!
The woman’s breasts are reflected in a coffee saucer!
Oh! I can’t fall down!
Though I ran rapidly over the edge of the sword, the world has not disappeared!


Date: 1966 (original in Japanese); 2017 (translation in English)

By: Gōzō Yoshimasu (1939- )

Translated by: Y Yoshida (24 September 2021)

Thursday, 17 June 2021

Dear John, Dear Coltrane by Michael Steven Harper

a love supreme, a love supreme
a love supreme, a love supreme

Sex fingers toes
in the marketplace
near your father’s church
in Hamlet, North Carolina—
witness to this love
in this calm fallow
of these minds,
there is no substitute for pain:
genitals gone or going,
seed burned out,
you tuck the roots in the earth,
turn back, and move
by river through the swamps,
singing: a love supreme, a love supreme;
what does it all mean?
Loss, so great each black
woman expects your failure
in mute change, the seed gone.
You plod up into the electric city—
your song now crystal and
the blues. You pick up the horn
with some will and blow
into the freezing night:
a love supreme, a love supreme—

Dawn comes and you cook
up the thick sin ‘tween
impotence and death, fuel
the tenor sax cannibal
heart, genitals, and sweat
that makes you clean—
a love supreme, a love supreme—

Why you so black?
cause I am
why you so funky?
cause I am
why you so black?
cause I am
why you so sweet?
cause I am
why you so black?
cause I am
a love supreme, a love supreme:

So sick
you couldn’t play Naima,
so flat we ached
for song you’d concealed
with your own blood,
your diseased liver gave
out its purity,
the inflated heart
pumps out, the tenor kiss,
tenor love:
a love supreme, a love supreme—
a love supreme, a love supreme—


Date: 1966

By: Michael Steven Harper (1938-2016)

Saturday, 8 May 2021

Poem Wondering If I’m Pregnant by Kathleen Fraser

Is it you? Are you there,
thief I can’t see,
drinking energy
leaving me gasping
for oxygen.
New mystery floating up my left arm,
clinging to the curtain.
Eyes on stalks, full of pollen,
stem juice, petals making ready to unfold,
to be set in a white window,
or an empty courtyard.
Fingers fresh. And cranium,
a clean architecture

doors that swing open …
is it you small face?
Is it you?

From: Fraser, Kathleen, “Poem Wondering If I’m Pregnant” in Poetry, Volume 108, Issue 5, August 1966, p.321.

Date: 1966

By: Kathleen Fraser (1935-2019)

Thursday, 31 December 2020

New Year’s Eve by Raymond Roseliep

When they ring their bells
I wring the thin rag of my
soul, already wrung.

From: Roseliep, Raymond, “Eight Haiku” in Poetry, Vol. 108, August 1966, p. 298.

Date: 1966

By: Raymond Roseliep (1917-1983)

Wednesday, 10 June 2020

If I Forget Thee, O Birmingham! by John Henry Newman Beecher

Like Florence from your mountain.
Both cast your poets out
for speaking plain.
You bowl your bombs down aisles
where black folk kneel
to pray for your blacker souls.

Dog-town children bled
A, B, O, AB as you.
Christ’s blood is not more read.

Burning my house to keep
them out, you sowed wind. Hear it blow!
Soon you reap.


Date: 1966

By: John Henry Newman Beecher (1904-1980)

Monday, 22 April 2019

Rabbits are Nice Neighbors by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

Rabbits are nice neighbors,
Kindly and quiet.
They don’t bite mailmen,
Or make loud noises in the night.

Rabbits are ornamental,
Lop-eared and silky,
With long bouncy legs,
And noses that quiver.

And now and then—not often—
They deliver—

From: Livingston, Myra Cohn (ed.) and Wallner, John (illustr.), Easter Poems, 1985, Holiday House: New York, p. 10.

Date: ?1966

By: Zilpha Keatley Snyder (1927-2014)

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

La Vie Littéraire by Richard Tillinghast

Surly, unambitious
the flies languidly
loop the loop near the porch ceiling
It is what passes for
Spring here

my wife at work
her arm inside the glass case
reaching for pastries
the customers point to

I push back the afternoon’s responsibilities
mend a screen
to make her think
I haven’t lolled the day
watching tv
doing the crosswords.


Date: 1966

By: Richard Tillinghast (1940- )

Friday, 14 October 2016

A, a, a, Domine Deus by Walter David Jones

I said, Ah! What shall I write?
I enquired up and down.
(He’s tricked me before
with his manifold lurking-places.)
I looked for his symbol at the door.
I have looked for a long while
at the textures and contours.
I have run a hand over the trivial intersections.
I have journeyed among the dead forms
causation projects from pillar to pylon.
I have tired the eyes of the mind
regarding the colours and lights.
I have felt for His Wounds
in nozzles and containers.
I have wondered for the automatic devices.
I have tested the inane patterns
without prejudice.
I have been on my guard
not to condemn the unfamiliar.
For it is easy to miss Him
at the turn of a civilisation.

I have watched the wheels go round in case I might see the
living creatures like the appearance of lamps, in case I might see
the Living God projected from the Machine. I have said to the
perfected steel, be my sister and for the glassy towers I thought I
felt some beginnings of His creature, but A, a, a Domine Deus,
my hands found the glazed work unrefined and the terrible
crystal a stage-paste … Eia, Domine Deus.


Date: 1938/1966

By: Walter David Jones (1895-1974)

Monday, 3 October 2016

Confusion by Kenneth Charles Marion Rexroth

For Nancy Shores

I pass your home in a slow vermilion dawn,
The blinds are drawn, and the windows are open.
The soft breeze from the lake
Is like your breath upon my cheek.
All day long I walk in the intermittent rainfall.
I pick a vermilion tulip in the deserted park,
Bright raindrops cling to its petals.
At five o’clock it is a lonely color in the city.
I pass your home in a rainy evening,
I can see you faintly, moving between lighted walls.
Late at night I sit before a white sheet of paper,
Until a fallen vermilion petal quivers before me.


Date: 1966

By: Kenneth Charles Marion Rexroth (1905-1982)