Posts tagged ‘2002’

Sunday, 31 July 2022

Making Quiltwork by Simon Joseph Ortiz

Like the coat of many colors, the letters, scraps,
all those odds and bits we live by, we have come
to know. Folks here live by the pretty quilts
they make, more than make actually, more than pretty.
They are histories, their lives and their quilts.
Indian people who have been scattered, sundered
into odds and bits, determined to remake whole cloth.
Nothing quits. It changes many times, sometimes
to something we don’t want, but we again gather
the pieces, study them, decide, make decisions again,
yes, and fit them to color, necessity, conditions,
taste and choice, and start again. Our lives are quilts,
letters, odds and bits, scraps, but always the thread
loving through them, compassionate knowledge
that what we make is worth it and will outlast
anything that was before and will be worthy
of any people’s art, endeavor, and final triumph.

Here, look at my clothes, quilts, coats of many colors!


Date: 2002

By: Simon Joseph Ortiz (1941- )

Saturday, 11 June 2022

Made in Los Angeles by David Harold Rowbotham

The Matterhorn in Disneyland is melting
in the sun of Anaheim. Los Angeles
is a planetary city making perishable toys
from realities.

The black yankee doodle dandy dances
in the boulevard, which grows from glass to trees,
dawn grape to dusk persimmon,
and the beautiful moon is made in Los Angeles.

The Twentieth Century is made in Los Angeles.
The stars amass and suffer its novelties.

The pre-historic creatures at the tar-pits
are as still as Disneyland’s.
Which are the toys? The monsters reconstructed
from the bubbles? Or the city’s real gargantuan sprawl?

In his house over Woking Way, Disney invented
an animated world cartoon. My eyes
watch Hollywood as a white film from a height
out of fantasy.

Already I feel removed.
On a melting summit in the sun of Anaheim
or on Woking Way in a cinematic sunfall,
I’m filmed and foreign; and who’s the toy?

Man the mammal? or the tar-pit creature? hauled
up from the past by here’s Los Angeles.

From: Rowbotham, David, Poems for America, 2002, Interactive Publications: Carindale, Queensland, p. 2.

Date: 2002

By: David Harold Rowbotham (1924-2010)

Saturday, 19 February 2022

It Is Here by Harold Pinter

(for A)

What sound was that?

I turn away, into the shaking room.

What was that sound that came in on the dark?
What is this maze of light it leaves us in?
What is this stance we take,
To turn away and then turn back?
What did we hear?

It was the breath we took when we first met.

Listen. It is here.


Date: 2002

By: Harold Pinter (1930-2008)

Thursday, 2 December 2021

Ends by Matthew Gerard Sweeney

At the end of the earth the Atlantic began.
On good days trawlers were flecks far out,
at night the green waves were luminous.
Gulls were the birds that gobbled my crusts
and the air in my bedroom was salty.
For two weeks once a whale decayed
on the pale beach while non one swam.
It was gelignite that cleared the air.

The uses of village carpenters were many.
Mine made me a pine box with a door,
tarpaulin-roofed, a front of fine-meshed wire.
It suited my friend, the albino mouse
who came from Derry and ate newspaper
and laid black grains on the floor.
When he walked his tail slithered behind.
And when I holidayed once, he starved.


Date: 2002

By: Matthew Gerard Sweeney (1952-2018)

Thursday, 28 October 2021

Depths by Richard Thomas Moore

Once more home is a strange place: by the ocean a
big house now, and the small houses are memories,
once live images, vacant
thoughts here, sinking and vanishing.

Rough sea now on the shore thundering brokenly
draws back stones with a roar out into quiet and
far depths, darkly to lie there
years, years—there not a sound from them.

New waves out of the night’s mist and obscurity
lunge up high on the beach, spending their energy,
each wave angrily dying,
all shapes endlessly altering,

yet out there in the depths nothing is modified.
Earthquakes won’t even move—no, nor the hurricane—
one stone there, nor a glance of
sun’s light stir its identity.


Date: 2002

By: Richard Thomas Moore (19??-2009)

Tuesday, 20 April 2021

[A Seagull] by Lorin Ford

a seagull
claims the sandcastle …
incoming tide

long drought –
boulder lichen
holds on

seagulls vs plovers
on the outfield

even the names
in the shade have faded –
memorial park

express train
a hag’s apparition
at the window

anzac parade –
swallows swoop over
the eternal flame


Date: 2002

By: Lorin Ford (1947- )

Sunday, 21 March 2021

Four Winds by April Bernard

At least that many buffet here, and I
erect as the monument despite my hope to be flattened.
If only the winds could take the horse-sobs
that heave from me, wind-whipped
without the grace of speech; if only
these small creatures with amused, skeptical eyes
could offer me their chittering, their business
of fetching and nesting in the fields.
One day I fear the barometer’s shift
will shatter the surface of the vessel,
jarring me into bloody words—catastrophe
will fill the strophe then—
Unless, winds, you take my speech and rend it
into untranslatable rainy hootings.


Date: 2002

By: April Bernard (1956- )

Monday, 15 February 2021

White Rose by Tom Pickard

you gave me a white rose
put the lamp on the stove
it caught fire
the I Ching said
thunder above the lake
lightning in Baker Street

switched on the cooker
and blew a fuse
blue flash
you see
the whole experience
is electric


Date: 2002

By: Tom Pickard (1946- )

Thursday, 17 December 2020

I Can Be A Bird by Rita Odeh

I can be a bird
If you promise not to be
A malicious cage.


Date: 2002

By: Rita Odeh (1960- )

Wednesday, 4 November 2020

Low Voices by Yu Ouyang

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

They are twinkling there, gathering together
Separated by a distant universe

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

They are dancing in the bonfire
Their lengthened shadows leaping in my face

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

The forest cut down neatly
The mountains remaining still

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

When there is only a single light on
The night is ten times as dark

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

Thnings that you are searching for have not been found
But things found have been lost

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

When the moon is shedding its light everywhere
People are asleep

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

Music has invaded the soul
And the wilderness is occupied by passions

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

The entrance is on the left side
But the exit is somehow on the right

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

The listener finds it hard to open his mouth
And the speaker opens his mouth but has nothing to say

If I can see them
They must be able to see me

The rain chases the wind
The spring follows the autumn in close steps

If I can see them
Can they really see me?


Date: 2002

By: Yu Ouyang (1955- )