Posts tagged ‘2010’

Sunday, 19 September 2021

Last Request by Michael Palmer

Bury me in a cocoa pod, it’s time.
Bury me in a Mercedes Benz, a
silver one, I’ve met my end.
Bury me in a lobster shell, a

carapace of red, now I’m dead.
Bury me in a jet marked KLM,
a typewriter labeled Remington,
a stove-in boat, symbol of my clan.

Bury me in a pot of India ink,
only place that I can think.
Bury me in a skull in Voronezh
that dreams of dragonflies

and the spider’s web, heaped
hills of human heads, since I’m dead.
Bury me in a can of flammable film
with Keaton (Buster) and Beckett (Sam).

Bury me in Little Boy and in Fat Man,
plunging toward the edge of time.
A cuckoo clock, a block
of bluest ice. Quincunx, Devil’s Trill,

or 22 June, Town Hall, ’45.
Lay me beside her in the Song of Songs,
our limbs forever intertwined,
now that I’m not alive.

Or plant me with the poets in an opium pipe,
its glowing ring of light.

Stick me in the ground
without a thought without a sound.

From: https://www.poetryinternational.org/pi/poem/17582/auto/0/0/Michael-Palmer/LAST-REQUEST/en/tile

Date: 2010

By: Michael Palmer (1943- )

Tuesday, 20 July 2021

Neither One by Catharina Questiers

Hence, Venus with your love
And Bacchus with your tun:
My taste chooses neither of you;
The Cypriot goddess aside I shove,
And drinking is no more fun.
Since it turns every head askew.
I enjoy a sweeter rest,
Which always gives me joy,
Let each love what they like best:
My freedom’s what I enjoy.

Parnassus’ mountainous pass
Is what my heart desires,
Where sensual joy I can view,
O fountain clear as glass.
I long for your liquid fires
That make me true to you;
In your wisdom I find rest
That always gives me joy.
Let each love what they like best:
My freedom’s what I enjoy.

O noble painter’s art,
To practise you delights
Much more than Venus’ love.
Your grace to me impart;
I hate Bacchus’ dizzy heights,
Your art is my heaven above,
Your love brings me such rest
And always brings me joy.
Let each love what they like best:
My freedom’s what I enjoy.

From: van Gemert, Lia; Joldersma, Hermina; van Marion, Olga; van der Poel, Dieuwke; and Schenkeveld-van der Dussen, Riet, Women’s Writing from the Low Countries 1200-1875: A Bilingual Anthology, 2010, Amsterdam University Press: Amsterdam, p. 289.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=Kj7YsJVHm4MC)

Date: 1663 (original in Dutch); 2010 (translation in English)

By: Catharina Questiers (1631-1669)

Translated by: Paul Vincent (19??- )

Tuesday, 22 June 2021

Again a Solstice by Jennifer Chang

It is not good to think
of everything as a mistake. I asked
for bacon in my sandwich, and then

I asked for more. Mistake.
I told you the truth about my scar:

I did not use a knife. I lied
about what he did to my faith
in loneliness. Both mistakes.

That there is always a you. Mistake.
Faith in loneliness, my mother proclaimed,

is faith in self. My instinct, a poor polaris.
Not a mistake is the blue boredom
of a summer lake. O mud, sun, and algae!

We swim in glittering murk.
I tread, you tread. There are children

testing the deep end, shriek and stroke,
the lifeguard perilously close to diving.
I tried diving once. I dove like a brick.

It was a mistake to ask the $30 prophet
for a $20 prophecy. A mistake to believe.

I was young and broke. I swam
in a stolen reservoir then, not even a lake.
Her prophesy: from my vagrant exertion

I’ll die at 42. Our dog totters across the lake,
kicks the ripple. I tread, you tread.

What does it even mean to write a poem?
It means today
I’m correcting my mistakes.

It means I don’t want to be lonely.

From: https://poets.org/poem/again-solstice

Date: 2010

By: Jennifer Chang (19??- )

Friday, 28 May 2021

Stet Stet Stet by Ange Mlinko

Where the curve of the road rhymes with the reservoir’s
and cleared of the leafy veils that for six months
obscured it,
the landscape’s wet chestnut
in the gray descended cloud
intones You’re lucky to live in a watershed
so no vast tracts of tacky drywall
turn the land into peremptory enclosures.
You’ve bought in.
The venial sin:
being exceptional.
Reading Hölderlin.
And the natural hallucinogen of joy
helium-cum-oxygen
leaving wordy outputs
hanging on piney tenterhooks
while all the wild protected liminal woods
contrive a blind.

From: https://poets.org/poem/stet-stet-stet

Date: 2010

By: Ange Mlinko (1969- )

Friday, 16 April 2021

Zombie by Mark O’Flynn

There is a species of zombie
that sits on its haunches all day
peeling tubers with its teeth.
It spends time over questions
such as where its next square meal
might come from, swatting
any stray insect that comes along.
It has no ambition, for which it is ridiculed
by other zombies who have plenty.
It wants nothing to do with foraging,
or saving for a rainy day.
It wants only to be left alone to think:
where is my next square meal coming from?
It has strong jaws and malleable lips.
It’s opposing thumbs are good for gripping
primitive tools most firmly,
useful also for cracking husks of seeds,
disturbing nests of honey ants
rending victims limb from limb.
It thinks the wayward clouds most beautiful.
It used to know the words for love.

From: http://cordite.org.au/poetry/zombie-2-0/zombies/

Date: 2010

By: Mark O’Flynn (1958- )

Friday, 19 February 2021

Touch the Edge and Then by Julia Meylor Simpson

tip tongue in salty rime
lift glass to lips
swallow sweet-thick burn
sing-hum a song you once knew
about a girl who could fly
let your eyes
drink in more than what is
touch the edge
and then
tip tongue in salty rime
let it dissolve
let it.

From: https://sliverofstonemagazine.com/julia-meylor-simpson-2/

Date: 2010

By: Julia Meylor Simpson (19??- )

Sunday, 14 February 2021

I Have to Tell You by Dorothea Gloria Dwartzin Grossman

I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/53359/i-have-to-tell-you

Date: 2010

By: Dorothea Gloria Dwartzin Grossman (1937-2012)

Thursday, 28 January 2021

There’s a Bomb on this Train of Thought by Cameron Fuller

Loaded with raw materials: colons, commas,
fragments of broken grammar. This poem
is wired with faulty rhetoric and ideas
strapped to the author’s chest.
Sensitive to sudden movement,
it won’t reach the final station
and its metaphors won’t survive
the ride to their logical conclusions.
It is not afraid to shout
in MAXIMAL CAPS
or exclaim emotions are explosive!
But it stays silent, containing
its secret until the end.
It believes poetry is full of risk
and targets innocent readers.
It spurns the ease of paraphrase
and the violence of bullet points.
But it can’t afford the precision
of laser guided imagery. All it has
is the shrapnel of language,
the lingua franca of blood
connecting the heart and brain.
This poem is a dirty bomb.
It is designed to detonate
when your eyes reach the final word.

From: https://overland.org.au/previous-issues/issue-199/poem-cameron-fuller/

Date: 2010

By: Cameron Fuller (19??- )

Friday, 16 October 2020

Untitled by Simkha-Bunim Shayevitsh

The sun has captured—
sounds from the prison
of cries and songs.

On a pine tree the sun
hangs sentenced –
the wind rocks the gallows
and a head that loved the sun.

My friend the young poet
kissed a wilted flower—
Mother is taking her son to be buried
and cries out the pain in her breast.

A huge cloud
has captured summer.

From: https://poetryinhell.org/death-anger-mourning/simkha-shayevitch-the-sun-captured/

Date: c1942 (original in Yiddish): 2010 (translation in English)

By: Simkha-Bunim Shayevitsh (1907-1944)

Translated by: Sarah Traister Moskovitz (192?- )

Monday, 21 September 2020

Phonm Penh Blues by Jim Christy

I’m leaning on the balcony and she’s
Holding up a lamppost
Down on Sisowath Quay.
There’s a guy behind shades
In a Lexus. We’re all looking
For something to call our own, another
Kind of key, the one’ll unlock
The fabled Silver Palace. She’s sixteen
With dark legs in short skirt, a cute
Little ass and her blouse
Is a couple of years old. Fat
White guys over Angkors
Are drawing straws. They flew over
From Saigon. “You can get ‘em younger
Over here,” one says.
There’s a parade of miracles passing,
Jetsam of the Khymer Rouge. You could
Fill a pagoda with their missing limbs.
I try pretending that compared to theirs
My own woes are a robust lot. But
It doesn’t help. Kali’s over my
Shoulder. Buddha’s down the block
And doesn’t want any of it. There’s
No Veronica to cloak my eyes.
I can shed a Tonle Sap of tears
They’ll flood a delta, grow
A brand new nightmare crop.

From: http://www.bigbridge.org/BB14/2010_Poetry/Christy/christy_Phonm_Penh_Blues.HTM

Date: 2010

By: Jim Christy (1945- )