Posts tagged ‘2014’

Friday, 12 January 2018

Wynter Wakeneth Al My Care (Art. 52) by Unknown with a translation into modern English by Susanna Greer Fein

Wynter wakeneth al my care;
Nou this leves waxeth bare.
Ofte Y sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie:
Hou hit geth al to noht!

Nou hit is, ant nou hit nys,
Also hit ner nere, ywys!
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille;
Alle we shule deye,
Thath us like ylle.

Al that gren me graveth grene;
Nou hit faleweth al bydene.
Jesu, help that hit be sene,
Ant shild us from helle,
For Y not whider Y shal,
Ne hou longe her duelle.

Winter awakens all my sorrow;
Now these leaves grow barren.
Often I sigh and sadly mourn
When it enters into my thought
Regarding this world’s joy:
How it goes all to nought!

Now it is, and now it isn’t,
As if it had never been, indeed!
What many a man says, true it is:
All passes except God’s will;
We all shall die,
Though we dislike it.

All that seed men bury unripe;
Now it withers all at once.
Jesus, help that this be known,
And shield us from hell,
For I know not whither I’ll go,
Nor how long here dwell.

From: http://d.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/text/fein-harley2253-volume-2-article-52

Date: 14th century (original in Middle English); 2014 (translation in modern English)

By: Unknown

Translated by: Susanna Greer Fein (1950- )

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Sunday, 24 December 2017

Festivus Celebrations in Room 7 by Jeff Gangwer

In my first year,
I held fast to my silly Festivus Pole—
Not a Rod of Iron,
But a nondenominational Festivus Pole—
Like the one that Frank Costanza held in “The Strike”—
And I stood at the head of my classroom
With a feigned scowl on my face
And aired my grievances—
To each and all

Most of my students laughed,
But poor Mollie Ditty cried because
I told her that I didn’t like her head of curls

I was being facetious—
A word they didn’t know—
And time will heal her wounds….

During The Feats of Strength,
My favorite student,
Jaden Fordham—
The one that I called “Red Wolf”—
This lovely little White trash girl who wrote so well—
Defeated every arm wrestler that stood up to challenge her

Imagine a beautiful, complicated young poet
With bright blonde hair and a “fuck-the-world” attitude
Pinning football jocks and would-be gangsters against the tables….

In my second year,
Our Festivus was equally wonderful…
…but Fordham’s equal never rose to the occasion.

From: Gangwer, Jeff, …to Nowhere but Here. Free Verse Poems, 2014, BookBaby: Oregon, p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=f3BXDQAAQBAJ)

Date: 2014

By: Jeff Gangwer (1984- )

Friday, 24 November 2017

Station 40, Chiriu: the Poet Ariwara no Narihira at Eight Bridges by Debora Greger

What is sky but water, more water,
crossed by eight bridges?
Is the ancient poet in a rush to reach land?

No, he’s already one of the Six Immortals.
How long before the papery iris-petals
he admires wrinkle? They barely grow beards.

In a thousand years, pilgrims will come.
They will stand where he stood. Where, they will ask,
are the flowers that empurpled his poem?

From: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/station-40-chiriu-poet-ariwara-no-narihira-eight-bridges

Date: 2014

By: Debora Greger (1949- )

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

Thinking of You on the Train by William Marr

the more I wipe
the more it becomes blurry
the foggy skies
the foggy fields
the foggy windows

yet you
are looking at me
with such clear eyes
from another scenery
from another world.

From: https://www.eastlit.com/eastlit-february-2014/eastlit-february-2014-content/william-marr-poetry/

Date: 2014

By: William Marr (1936- )

Saturday, 29 April 2017

Peruvianus by Jacob Riyeff

Making love to February air;
staring out at neon lights freezing.
Droning into a rising sun
and drinking soma in the mind—
this beatific brace stunting every thought
and settles simply with a longing laugh.

From: https://euphonyjournal.org/2014/04/28/poetry-peruvianus-by-jacob-riyeff/

Date: 2014

By: Jacob Riyeff (19??- )

Friday, 28 April 2017

Almsgiving by Unknown

That disciple is blest whose spirit burns
with generosity, renovating the inner room
of her heart. The world rejoices at her worthiness
and the Lord glories in the welcome glow of her light.

Jesus ben Sirach says a surging
flame will be snuffed, raging fires
put down with welling water—no longer
able to damage dwellings with burning—
when that disciple douses sin, healing souls
with the gracious gift of her alms.

From: https://sites.nd.edu/manuscript-studies/2015/04/30/almsgiving/

Date: c970 (original in Anglo-Saxon); 2014 (translation in English)

By: Unknown

Translated by: Jacob Riyeff (19??- )

Thursday, 13 April 2017

Poem in Which I Consider My Labours by Kate Potts

It’s like the cotton mills of the eighteenth century,
he says. Yes – yes. My mouth

is open and tilted, a golf hole. Outside, the students
squall, butting their foreheads

against the dome of the afternoon. I am stunted,
frayed from the defibrillator kick

of early wakeups, shifts that begin in dim morning toffee
and end in the dumb blackout of sleep.

Yes – I’m deafened by the machine’s gut-snap clatter.
Such heat and dust! Such grotesque accidents!

The walls are shored up with staples and knucklebone.
I pack thick wads of student assignments

(my students – that puddle of yellow beaks) into my bag,
and set out into the dark

where my ancestors stand in a wonky, makeshift chorus.
They’re hard-fired, lean as striplings,

got up in their double-darned best. Their sighing’s
the engine of my endeavour;

their sighing’s the bright sting of all my luck,
and ADULT is all about using your anger

just so: kitten piston, slow combustor,
mechanism of the soft intestine.

From: https://poemsinwhich.com/tag/kate-potts-poem-in-which/

Date: 2014

By: Kate Potts (1978- )

Saturday, 18 March 2017

Café Future by David Dalton Yezzi

The bunting they put out for the grand opening
never got put away, so every day

looks as if it might be opening day.
You inquire if Café Future carries pie,

and sure enough it’s right there on the menu.
A piece of rhubarb and black coffee, please.

The pie tastes like you’d hoped it would, but sweeter.
And though you’re wary of newfangledness,

you’ve never had a piece of pie this good.
You think you’ll make the Future your new place.

The long counter’s reflected in plate glass,
where sunlight pours in from the parking lot,

and the guy who’s looking back at you is you
and not quite you. The morning rush is over.

The chrome gleams with a perfect gleaminess.
The waitress’s smile lets you know she agrees.

It makes you want to stay and eat more pie.
She comes by, young-looking, like her own daughter,

and whisks your plate away. Another slice.
I know I really shouldn’t. Just one more.

That’s fine with her, she says. She’s on a double
and happy to bring you pie all day long.

From: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/cafe-future-new-poem-david-yezzi-180951173/

Date: 2014

By: David Dalton Yezzi (1966- )

Saturday, 7 January 2017

Two Paths by Richard Parker

I came to a division;
Along the one grassy turn to left
Leaf-logged and dewy-grassed and mulched
With fosse and pool and fosse and pool,
Danced black monsters at the path sides
You might see move like steel firing, bellows through the ribs
As, icy, the creatures’ clean clear minds
They knew knowing between the vines
Under dockleaf and cowslip.

While to right, a clearing, out-spreading and open
And in the trees interstellar entropy,
Torpor. On one path white chill clouds
And rolling grey, with swatches of that rimey blue–
Above the other conjecturally you see the stars spin
Or flashing and popping.

I needn’t state the path I trod,
Or my head thick and buzzing against the molten gale,
That one might fall out of life and into the autonomous.
Blackness and blackness.

From: http://poetrywales.co.uk/wp/1933/poem-two-paths-by-richard-parker/

Date: 2014

By: Richard Parker (19??- )

Sunday, 6 November 2016

Disengagement by Shai Dotan

Jerusalem has disengaged itself
From the earth.
It is floating in the sky
Like a flock of hot-air balloons.
No one knows where it will land.
Maybe Baghdad
Maybe Athens
Maybe Prague
And maybe Jerusalem will glide
Straight into Tel Aviv’s warm bosom,
Embraced to its teeming heart
Like a rare and
Courageous lie.

From: http://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/culture/poem-of-the-week/1.722435

Date: 2014 (original in Hebrew); 2016 (translation in English)

By: Shai Dotan (1969- )

Translated by: Vivian Sohn Eden (19??- )