Posts tagged ‘1977’

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

On Mr. L. Phillips Howard’s Profound Poem Entitled “Life’s Mystery” by Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Life! Ah, Life!
What may this fluorescent pageant mean?
Who can the evanescent object glean?
He that is dead is the key of Life—
Gone is the symbol, deep is the grave!

Man is a breath, and Life is the fire;
Birth is death, and silence the choir
Wrest from the aeons the heart of gold!
Tear from the fabric the threads that are old!
Life! Ah, Life!
—L. Phillips Howard

These lines profound expressly were design’d
To please the deep poetic modern mind.
Herein no tawdry metric art appears,
Nor does the meaning roughly stain our ears.
With true chaotic grace the formless rhymes
Stagger along, and suit the cultur’d times.
Should some chance word a directer sound present,
Frown not too harshly on the accident,
And if one trace of utter sense be there,
Forgive the poet for his want of care.


Date: 1977 (published)

By: Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937)

Friday, 31 July 2015

Reothairt by Sorley MacLean

Again and again when I am broken
my thought comes on you when you were young,
and the incomprehensible ocean fills
with floodtide and a thousand sails.

The shore of trouble is hidden
with its reefs and the wrack of grief,
and the unbreaking wave strikes
about my feet with a silken rubbing.

How did the springtide not last,
the springtide more golden to me than to the birds,
and how did I lose its succour,
ebbing drop by drop of grief?


Date:1977 (Scots Gaelic and English)

By: Sorley MacLean (1911-1996)

Translated by: Sorley MacLean (1911-1996)

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

Stars and Planets by Norman Alexander MacCaig

Trees are cages for them: water holds its breath
To balance them without smudging on its delicate meniscus.
Children watch them playing in their heavenly playground;
Men use them to lug ships across oceans, through firths.

They seem so twinkle-still, but they never cease
Inventing new spaces and huge explosions
And migrating in mathematical tribes over
The steppes of space at their outrageous ease.

It’s hard to think that the earth is one –
This poor sad bearer of wars and disasters
Rolls-Roycing round the sun with its load of gangsters,
Attended only by the loveless moon.


Date: 1977

By: Norman Alexander MacCaig (1910-1996)

Friday, 5 December 2014

Shoplifting Poetry by Martin Steingesser

We’re in the bookstore stealing poems,
lifting the best lines–
You cop one from Williams,
I stick my hand into Pound.
No one’s looking…
I throw you a line from The Cantos
It disappears in your ear like spaghetti.
We stuff ourselves with Crane,
cummings, Lowell, Voznesensky–
Neruda, Rilke, Yeats!
The goods dissolve in our brain.
Now we move from the shelves with caution.
The cashier’s watching. Can she tell?
Fat! We’ve overeaten.
You giggle. End-rhymes leak at your lips like bubbles.
I clap a hand on your mouth.
You are holding my ears
as we fall out the door.


Date: 1977

By: Martin Steingesser (?1937- )

Sunday, 26 January 2014

44. The Lessons by John Tranter

Today broke like a china plate,
rain and cloud, drifting smoke;
tonight fell like a suiciding athlete
or a bad joke.
I went to bed with a startling headache
and was distinctly no better when I woke,
I remained dumb in the company of those
who were happy only when I spoke.

Something new has moved uncomfortably close,
something not previously seen:
a talent for aiming the poisoned dart,
for detecting the touch of the unclean,
for discovering that, in the pure of heart,
there is something unforgivably obscene.


Date: 1977

By: John Tranter (1943- )

Tuesday, 31 December 2013

Year’s End by Matsuo Basho

Year’s end,
all corners
of this floating world, swept.

From: Stryk, Lucien; Ikemoto, Takashi, Zen Poetry: Let the Spring Breeze Enter, 1977, Grove Press: New York, p. 46.

Date: 1977 (translated)

By: Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

Translated by Lucien Stryk (1924-2013) and Takashi Ikemoto (?- )

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

Mr Blue Sky by Jeffrey Lynne

Sun is shinin’ in the sky
There ain’t a cloud in sight
It’s stopped rainin’ ev’rybody’s in a play
And don’t you know
It’s a beautiful new day.

Runnin’ down the avenue
See how the sun shines brightly in the city
On the streets where once was pity
Mr Blue Sky is living here today.

Mr Blue Sky, please tell us why
You had to hide away for so long
Where did we go wrong?

Hey there Mr Blue
We’re so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do
Ev’rybody smiles at you.

Hey you with the pretty face
Welcome to the human race
A celebration Mr Blue Sky’s up there waitin’
And today is the day we’ve waited for

Mr Blue you did it right
But soon comes Mr Night
Creepin’ over, now his
Hand is on your shoulder
Never mind I’ll remember you this way.


Date: 1977

By: Jeffrey Lynne (1947- )

Thursday, 13 September 2012

Exhibition of Women Artists (1790-1900) by Joan Aleshire

She could paint with one hand
Studying grapes and peaches
A bowl of pears she would later
Cut, peel and stew for dinner.
And these oranges:
A friend from the South has brought them;
The blossoms have survived the trip
And she has painted them, oranges on black velvet –
The velvet would become a daughter’s dress
She’d spend the night sewing for Christmas.

Everything glows against the black
The orange of oranges, white wax of blossoms
The painting glows on this museum wall:
It has come a long way from the easel
Set up in the kitchen so that she
Might paint with one hand, cook with the other
Turn up her sleeve to test the warm milk
Against her skin, add sugar to taste
Soothe the colicky child tossing its cradle.

Onions, eggs, peppers, beans
She studied shapes before she quartered them
Stopping to paint
With one hand and both eyes.

From: Hedges, Elaine and Wendt, Ingrid (eds), In Her Own Image. Women Working in the Arts,
1980, The Feminist Press: New York, p. 57.

Date: 1977

By Joan Aleshire (1938- )

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Ransom by Robert David Fitzgerald

Evening: it ripples cool to our held feet
like the bay’s blacker crests, which idly crawl
along the stone seawall;
and as these, multitudinous, repeat
a moonlight-counterfeit,
so the new darkness crumpled against this town
bears in its every fold that brave deceit
which lets the world seem playtime, and our scars
(won in low skirmish) badges of pure renown.
This is the moment there returns to us
late memory of old bargains with such stars
as made the night-skies of man’s infancy
fearful to walk in but miraculous.
Nor has that wonder gone: we square our debt
by sheer surrender to stark mystery,
staining its altars with spilt ecstasy
which in our fathers was a howl to the moon
round lit doors, ransomed, we do not forget.


Date: 1977

By: Robert David Fitzgerald (1902-1987)