Posts tagged ‘1983’

Friday, 29 July 2022

On Silence by Jorie Pepper Graham

I think I am probably in love with silence,
that other world.

And that I write, in some way,
to negotiate seriously with it.

If poems are records of true risks
(attempts at change)
taken by the soul of the speaker,
then, as much as possible, my steps are towards silence.

Silence which drowns us out,
but also which ignores us, overrides us, silence,
which is doubt, madness, fear,
all that which makes the language bend and slip.

I need to feel the places where the language fails,
as much as one can.

Silence which is awe or astonishment,
the speech ripped out of you.

All forms of death and mystery, therefore, working in each poem
against the hurry of speech,
the bravery of speech.

And I think it is very important to feel the presence of that ocean in the poem,
in the act of writing the poem.
Its emissaries are the white space, of course,
the full stops.

But, also, all acts of grammar,
which are its inroads.
And the way the lines break,
or slow. I’d like to think you can feel, by its accurate failures,
the forces pressing against the sentence,
the time order. And certain kinds of words, too,
are messengers of silence.

Not just vagueness and inaccuracy, but prepositions
and conjunctions, for instance; and diction
deliberately flattened to deaden
pain.

And certain sounds that deepen and slow
the poem
into sounds
you can’t hear –all the long vowels
in the sharp teeth of consonants.

And echoes, and what is said by implication, by default …

Because there is, of course, always the desire, the hope,
that they are not two separate worlds,
sound and silence, but that they become each other,

that only our hearing fails.

From: https://anthonywilsonpoetry.com/2016/06/17/on-silence-by-jorie-graham/

Date: 1983

By: Jorie Pepper Graham (1952- )

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??- )