Posts tagged ‘1980’

Thursday, 24 August 2017

The Bald Spot by Wesley McNair

It nods
behind me
as I speak
at the meeting.

All night
while I sleep
it stares
into the dark.

The bald spot
is bored.
Tired of waiting
in the office,

sick of following me
into sex.
It traces
and retraces

itself,
dreaming
the shape
of worlds

beyond its world.
Far away
it hears the laughter
of my colleagues,

the swift sure
sound of my voice.
The bald spot
says nothing.

It peers
out from hair
like the face
of a doomed man

going blanker
and blanker,
walking backwards
into my life.

From: http://castle.eiu.edu/agora/May02/Wesmain.024.htm

Date: 1980

By: Wesley McNair (1941- )

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Friday, 18 August 2017

I.47 by Marcus Valerius Martialis

Doctor Diaulus has changed his trade:
He now is a mortician,
With the same results he got before
As a practicing physician.

From: Wender, Dorothea (transl. and ed.), Roman Poetry from the Republic to the Silver Age, 1991, Southern Illinois University Press: Carbondale and Edwardsville, p. 124.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=aCPUZhUOkW0C)

Date: 86 (original in Latin); 1980 (translation in English)

By: Marcus Valerius Martialis (c39-c103)

Translated by: Dorothea Schmidt Wender (1934-2003)

Friday, 17 March 2017

Mother Ireland by M. J. Foley

That girl! She put on mother age so well!
Bards, monks and monarchs, who would die
To make her, kept her high and dry,
Never knew her. She herself was hell.
Later, a hag, she found a second spell.
She, who had never made a woman’s cry,
Cursed by the others, gave her own the lie,
Took off her old nubility, and fell.

Large as strife her memory since then
Teases immortality, mimicks tears.
Such a climax! Now the guilty men
Must keep dying! No one dare
Say furiously, “Forget the old affair!
Banba, the witch, is dead a hundred years!”

From: http://www.poetryireland.ie/publications/poetry-ireland-review/online-archive/view/mother-ireland

Date: 1980

By: M. J. Foley (1937- )

Tuesday, 10 May 2016

Hymn to Adonis by Praxilla

[The Shades of the Underworld ask Adonis, “What was the most beautiful thing you left behind?” He answers:]

Most beautiful of things I leave is sunlight.
Then come glazing stars and the moon’s face.
Then ripe cucumbers and apples and pears.

From: Barnstone, Aliki and Barnstone, Willis (eds.), A Book of Women Poets from Antiquity to Now, 1980, Schocken Books: New York, p. 43.

Date: 5th century BCE (original); 1980 (translation)

By: Praxilla (5th century BCE)

Translated by: Willis Barnstone (1927- )

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Bastille Day – Georgetown by Martin Wylde Carter

Not wanting to deny, I
believed it. Not wanting
to believe it, I denied
our Bastille day. This,
is nothing to storm. This
fourteenth of July. With
my own eyes, I saw the fierce
criminal passing for citizen
with a weapon, a piece of wood
and five for one. We laugh
Bastille laughter. These are
not men of death. A pot
of rice is their foul reward.

I have at last started
to understand the origin
of our vileness, and being
unable to deny it, I suggest
its nativity.
In the shame of knowledge
of our vileness, we shall fight.

From: http://www.stabroeknews.com/2010/features/07/18/storming-of-the-bastille-all-over-again/

Date: 1980

By: Martin Wylde Carter (1927-1997)

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

Saint Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell

The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as Saint Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

From: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/kinnell/online.htm

Date: 1980

By: Galway Kinnell (1927-2014)

Sunday, 28 October 2012

Homage to My Hips by Lucille Clifton

These hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

From: http://www.shewrites.com/profiles/blogs/homage-to-my-hips-by-lucille

Date: 1980

By: Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)

Thursday, 21 June 2012

Four Walls by Don Walker

They’re calling time for exercise
Round her Majesty’s hotel
The maid’ll hose the room out
When I’m gone
I never knew such luxury
Before my verdict fell
Four walls, washbasin, prison bed

Well the Bathurst riots ended
When they clubbed the rebels down
And in every congregation
There was silence
You can hear the Angels singin’
When Christmas comes around
Four walls, washbasin, prison bed

I love to march while some Nazi calls the time
Who’d wanna go home

I can’t see
I can’t hear
They’ve burnt out all the feeling
I’ve never been so crazy
And it’s just my second year
Four walls, washbasin, prison bed.

From: http://www.coldchisel.com/four-walls/

Date: 1980

By: Don Walker (1951- )