Posts tagged ‘1983’

Saturday, 24 April 2021

Anzac Morning in Orange by Warrick William Wynne

I thought I was up early,
almost alone
in the wide old streets
that run straight and long,
country-style, through this town,
and the trees already turning.
Until the inevitable park & statues,
one to Mafeking and one;
laden with flowers
bright and new as morning,
to Anzacs.
The park already empty
and the sound of bagpipes
somewhere in the distance.

From: Wynne, Warrick, “Anzac Morning in Orange” in Westerly, No. 4, December 1983, p. 54.
(https://setis.library.usyd.edu.au/ozlit/westerly/all/181698.pdf)

Date: 1983

By: Warrick William Wynne (1956- )

Wednesday, 25 November 2020

Cage by Josephine Louise Miles

Through the branches of the Japanese cherry
Blooming like a cloud which will rain
A rain white as the sun
The living room across the roadway
Cuts its square of light
And in it fight
Two figures, hot, irate,
Stuck between sink and sofa in that golden cage.
Come out into the night, walk in the night,
It is for you, not me.
The cherry flowers will rain their rain as white
Cool as the moon.
Listen how they surround.
You swing among them in your cage of light.
Come out into the night.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51732/cage-56d22fab19143

Date: 1983

By: Josephine Louise Miles (1911-1985)

Saturday, 21 November 2020

The Faces by Robert White Creeley

The faces with anticipated youth
look out from the current
identifications, judge or salesman,
the neighbor, the man who killed,

mattering only as the sliding world
they betoken, the time it never
mattered to accumulate, the fact that
nothing mattered but for what one

could make of it, some passing,
oblique pleasure, a pain immense
in its intensity, a sly but
insistent yearning to outwit it

all, be different, move far, far
away, avoid forever the girl
next door, whose cracked, wrinkled
smile will persist, still know you.

From: http://www.conjunctions.com/print/article/robert-creeley-c2

Date: 1983

By: Robert White Creeley (1926-2005)

Saturday, 7 March 2020

From “Return to Frankfurt” by Marie Luise von Holzing-Berslett Kaschnitz

The girl thinks     if I can only manage
not to step on any of these
delicate hands of shadow
cast on the sidewalk by the chestnut trees

The boy thinks     if I reach the trolley
in time and if it doesn’t have to wai
at the switch and the traffice policeman really
does his job and tries to clear the street

If     thinks the girl     before I reach that tree
the third on the left no nun comes out at me
and if not more than twice I pass small boys
crossing the street in groups, carrying toys
oh     then it’s certain that we’ll meet

Unless     the boy thinks     there’s a power failure
unless forked lightning strikes the driver
unless the trolley-car gets smashed to bits
surely we’ll meet     yes I can count on it

And many times the girl must shiver
And the boy think     will this last forever
until under the chestnut trees they meet,
wordless and smilling, in some quite street.

From: Philip, Neil (ed.), It’s A Woman’s World A Century of Women’s Voices in Poetry, 2000, Dutton Children’s Books: New York, p. 20.
(https://archive.org/details/isbn_9780525463283_0/)

Date: 1946 (original in German); 1983 (translation in English)

By: Marie Luise von Holzing-Berslett Kaschnitz (1901-1974)

Translated by: Esther Beatrice Cameron (1941- )

Tuesday, 10 December 2019

Morning, Thinking of Empire by Raymond Clevie Carver, Junior

We press our lips to the enameled rim of the cups
and know this grease that floats
over the coffee will one day stop our hearts.
Eyes and fingers drop onto silverware
that is not silverware. Outside the window, waves
beat against the chipped walls of the old city.
Your hands rise from the rough tablecloth
as if to prophesy. Your lips tremble …
I want to say to hell with the future.
Our future lies deep in the afternoon.
It is a narrow street with a cart and driver,
a driver who looks at us and hesitates,
then shakes his head. Meanwhile,
I coolly crack the egg of a fine Leghorn chicken.
Your eyes film. You turn from me and look across
the rooftops at the sea. Even the flies are still.
I crack the other egg.
Surely we have diminished one another.

From: Carver, Raymond, All of Us, 2016, Vintage Classics: London, p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=DbFnCwAAQBAJ)

Date: 1983

By: Raymond Clevie Carver, Junior (1938-1988)

Wednesday, 28 August 2019

To Poems by Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkosky

My poems: fledglings, heirs,
Plaintiffs and executors,
The silent ones, the loud,
The humble and the proud.

As soon as the shovel of time
Threw me onto the potter’s wheel—
Myself without kith or kin—
I grew beneath the hand, a miracle.

Something stretched out my long neck
And hollowed round my soul
And marked on my back
Legends of flowers and leaves.

I stoked the birch in the fire
As Daniel commanded
And blessed my red temper
Until I spoke as a prophet.

I had long been the earth—
Arid, ochre, forlorn since birth—
But you fell on my chest by chance
From beaks of birds, from eyes of grass.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/54749/to-poems

Date: 1983 (original in Russian); 2011 (translation in English)

By: Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky (1907-1989)

Translated by: Philip J. Metres III (1970- )

Sunday, 12 August 2018

Fog by Amy Clampitt

A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands’ spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
Tactile
definition, however, has not been
totally banished: hanging
tassel by tassel, panicled
foxtail and needlegrass,
dropseed, furred hawkweed,
and last season’s rose-hips
are vested in silenced
chimes of the finest,
clearest sea-crystal.
Opacity
opens up rooms, a showcase
for the hueless moonflower
corolla, as Georgia
O’Keefe might have seen it,
of foghorns; the nodding
campanula of bell buoys;
the ticking, linear
filigree of bird voices.

From: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/fog-0

Date: 1983

By: Amy Clampitt (1920-1994)

Sunday, 27 March 2016

Patience by Bobbi Katz

Chocolate Easter bunny
In a jelly bean nest,
I’m saving you for very last
Because I love you best.
I’ll only take a nibble
From the tip of your ear
And one bite from the other side
So that you won’t look queer.
Yum, you’re so delicious!
I didn’t mean to eat
Your chocolate tail till Tuesday.
Ooops! There go your feet!
I wonder how your back tastes
With all that chocolate hair.
I never thought your tummy
Was only filled with air!
Chocolate Easter bunny
In a jelly bean nest,
I’m saving you for very last
Because I love you best.

From: http://lists.project-wombat.org/pipermail/project-wombat-project-wombat.org/2009-May/000232.html

Date: 1983

By: Bobbi Katz (1933- )

Friday, 13 February 2015

I Could Go, But Why Should I? by Shakti Chattopadhyay

I think it best to turn around

My hands smeared so black
For so long
Never thought of you, as yours

When I stand by the ravine at night
The moon calls to me, come
When I stand by the Ganga, asleep
The pyre calls to me, come

I could go
I could go either way
But why should I?

I shall kiss my child’s face

I’ll go
But not just yet
Not alone, unseasonably

From: http://www.caravanmagazine.in/poetry/five-poems-0

Date: 1983 (original in Bengali); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Shakti Chattopadhyay (1933-1995)

Translated by: Arunava Sinha (19??- )

Thursday, 30 January 2014

Among Philistines by R S (Sam) Gwynn

The night before they meant to pluck his eyes
He caught his tale at six on Action News—
Some blow-dried moron blabbing the bald lies
The public swallowed as “Official Views.”

After a word for douche, Delilah made
A live appearance and was interviewed.
Complaining what a pittance she was paid,
She plugged the film she starred in in the nude.

Unbearable, he thought, and flipped the switch,
Lay sleepless on the bed in the bright room
Where every thought brought back the pretty bitch
And all the Orient of her perfume,

Her perfect breasts, her hips and slender waist,
Matchless among the centerfolds of Zion,
Which summoned to his tongue the mingled taste
Of honey oozing from the rotted lion;

For now his every mumble in the sack
(Bugged, of course, and not a whisper missed)
Would be revealed in lurid paperback
“As told to” Sheba Sleaze, the columnist.

Beefcake aside, he was a man of thought
Who heretofore had kept to the strict law:
For all the cheap celebrity it brought
He honestly deplored that ass’s jaw,

The glossy covers of their magazines
With taut chains popping on his greasy chest,
The ads for razors with the corny scenes
And captions: Hebrew Hunk Says We Shave Best!

Such were his thoughts; much more severe the dreams
That sped him through his sleep in a wild car:
Vistas of billboards where he lathered cream,
Gulped milk, chugged beer, or smoked a foul cigar,

And this last image, this, mile after mile—
Delilah, naked, sucking on a pair
Of golden shears, winking her lewdest smile
Amid a monumental pile of hair

And blaring type: The Babe Who Buzzed the Yid!
Starring in JUST A LITTLE OFF MY HEAD
.
He noted how his locks demurely hid
Those monstrous tits. And how her lips were red,

Red as his eyes when he was roused at seven
To trace back to its source the splendid ray
Of sunlight streaming from the throat of Heaven
Commanding him to kneel and thus to pray:

“Lord God of Hosts, whose name cannot be used
Promotion-wise, whose face shall not adorn
A cornflake box, whose trust I have abused:
Return that strength of which I have been shorn

That we might smite this tasteless shiksa land
With hemorrhoids and rats, with fire and sword.
Forgive my crime.  Put forth thy fearsome hand
Against them and their gods, I pray thee, Lord.”

So, shorn and strengthless, led through Gaza Mall
Past shoeshop, past boutique, Hallmark, and Sears,
He held his head erect and smiled to all
And did not dignify the scene with tears,

Knowing that God could mercifully ordain,
For punishment, the blessing in disguise.
“Good riddance,” he said, whispering to the pain
As searing, the twin picks hissed in his eyes.

From: http://www.poemtree.com/poems/AmongPhilistines.htm

Date: 1983

By: R S (Sam) Gwynn (1948- )