Posts tagged ‘poetry’

Monday, 24 June 2019

Testimony of Baby Haydova by Seni Seneviratne

Beirut – 14th August 2006

In days to come I may grow older
learn to speak the names for anger, fear, forgiveness

but these days all I know is how my mother often
holds my face so tight against her that I feel

the tremors of her heartbeat pumping through my veins.
The smell of her blood will never leave me.

Take your picture now
then tell me why I have been saved.

From: https://badilishapoetry.com/seni-seneviratne/#inline1

Date: 2006

By: Seni Seneviratne (19??- )

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Sunday, 23 June 2019

Another Country by James Harrison

I love these raw moist dawns with
a thousand birds you hear but can’t
quite see in the mist.
My old alien body is a foreigner
struggling to get into another country.
The loon call makes me shiver.
Back at the cabin I see a book
and am not quite sure what that is.

From: https://lithub.com/where-is-jim-harrison-seven-poems-from-a-master/

Date: 2016

By: James Harrison (1937-2016)

Saturday, 22 June 2019

You May Have Heard of Me by Shazea Quraishi

My father was a bear.
He carried me through forest, sky
and over frozen sea. At night
I lay along his back
wrapped in fur and heat
and while I slept, he ran,
never stopping to rest, never
letting me fall.
He showed me how to be as careful as stone,
sharp as thorn and quick
as weather. When he hunted alone
he’d leave me somewhere safe – high up a tree
or deep within a cave.
And then a day went on …
He didn’t come.
I looked and looked for him.
The seasons changed and changed again.
Sleep became my friend. It even brought my father back.
The dark was like his fur,
the sea’s breathing echoed his breathing.
I left home behind, an empty skin.
Alone, I walked taller, balanced better.
So I came to the gates of this city
—tall, black gates with teeth.
Here you find me, keeping my mouth small,
hiding pointed teeth and telling stories,
concealing their truth as I conceal
the thick black fur on my back.

From: https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/may/18/poem-of-the-week-shazea-quraishi

Date: 2015

By: Shazea Quraishi (19??- )

Friday, 21 June 2019

Saving Daylight by C. M. Davidson-Pickett

Suppose for a moment you live in a land,
Amazed at what happens during summer solstice.
Very strange things begin to occur,
Instantly, there is little darkness,
Night that we are so used to
Gone; what is left is the brilliant colors.

Daylight from dusk to dawn to dusk again,
Alight in all its energy and brightness.
Yes, we are north of the sixtieth parallel;
Land of the midnight sun.
I have been here before and seen things,
Gazed upon the horizon, waiting for darkness to reappear,
Holding on to summer in all its life, love and beauty;
To see it ebb once more as daylight fades to night.

From: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/saving_daylight_638838

Date: 2015

By: C. M. Davidson-Pickett (19??- )

Thursday, 20 June 2019

Winter Solstice by Alison Clark

Look at Anna under the vine—
standing with her arm out, in hope
if she keeps Perfectly Still
(so still she doesn’t seem like Anna)
a robin or blue wren will perch.

Day, wintry-clear, is
poised between frost and sun—
equal forces: which will win?

Yellow greens and grey greens stir
as wind passes through the clearing;
birds counterpoint the waves’ continuo;
the yellow robin in a patch of sun is seen
by us as if we were not there, perfectly still.

From: https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/clark-alison/winter-solstice-0588028

Date: 1987

By: Alison Clark (1945- )

Wednesday, 19 June 2019

Winter Solstice by Janlori Goldman

for Jean Valentine

O odd light
bring me the old season
that winter familiar
a slow sheathing of moon in shadow
as if sky were a gill
through which all things
flow in                 filter out
bring me a home with no right angles
a space of curling in
not too bright or sharp
and bring me the time before that
with the garden dark with broken-down
coffee grounds                 rows of flowering mustard greens
the smell of ripped roots fresh
from the pull
and then before that
to my round house a friend will come
or maybe the friend’s mother
I’ll say stay for dinner
she’ll say let me sew that button.

From: https://www.gwarlingo.com/2012/the-sunday-poem-janlori-goldman/

Date: 2012

By: Janlori Goldman (19??- )

Tuesday, 18 June 2019

Piano by Dan Howell

Her wattled fingers can’t
stroke the keys with much
grace or assurance anymore,
and the tempo is always
rubato, halting, but still
that sound—notes quivering
and clear in their singularity,
filing down the hallway—
aches with pure intention, the
melody somehow prettier
as a remnant than
whatever it used to be.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/54918/piano-56d235d90a017

Date: 2011

By: Dan Howell (19??- )

Monday, 17 June 2019

On Becoming a Poet in the 1950s by Stephen Beal

There was love and there was trees.
Either you could stay inside and probe your emotions
or you could go outside and keenly observe nature.
Describe the sheen on carapaces,
the effect of breeze on grass.

What’s the fag doing now? Dad would say.
Picking the nose of his heart?
Wanking off on a daffodil?

He’s not homosexual, Mom would retort, using her apron
as a potholder
to remove the apple brown betty from the oven.
He’s sensitive. He cares.
He wishes to impart values and standards to an indifferent world.

Wow! said Dad, stomping off to the pantry for another scotch.
Two poets in
the family. Ain’t I a lucky duck?

As fate would have it, I became one of your tweedy English
teachers, what
Dad would call a daffodil-wanker,
and Mom ended up doing needlepoint, seventy-two kneelers for
St. Fred’s
before she expired of the heart broken on the afternoon that
Dad
roared off with the Hell’s Angels.
We heard a little from Big Sur. A beard. Tattoos. A girlfriend
named Strawberry.
A boyfriend named Thor.
Bars and pot and coffeehouses, stuff like that.

After years of quotation by younger poets, admiration but no real
notice,
Dad is making the anthologies now.
Critics cite his primal rage, the way he nails Winnetka.

From: https://poets.org/poem/becoming-poet-1950s

Date: 2004

By: Stephen Beal (1939-2010)

Sunday, 16 June 2019

Poem Reaching For Something by Quincy Thomas Troupe, Junior

we walk through a calligraphy of hats slicing off foreheads
ace-deuce cocked, they slant, razor sharp, clean through imagination, our
spirits knee-deep in what we have forgotten entrancing our bodies now to
dance, like enraptured water lilies
the rhythm in liquid strides of certain looks
eyeballs rippling through breezes
riffing choirs of trees, where a trillion slivers of sunlight prance across
filigreeing leaves, a zillion voices of bamboo reeds, green with summer
saxophone bursts, wrap themselves, like transparent prisms of dew drops
around images, laced with pearls & rhinestones, dreams
& perhaps it is through this decoding of syllables that we learn speech
that sonorous river of broken mirrors carrying our dreams
assaulted by pellets of raindrops, prisons of words entrapping us
between parentheses — two bat wings curving cynical smiles
still, there is something here, that, perhaps, needs explaining
beyond the hopelessness of miles, the light at the end of a midnight tunnel —
where some say a speeding train is bulleting right at us ——
so where do the tumbling words spend themselves after they have spent
all meaning residing in the warehouse of language, after they have slipped
from our lips, like skiers on ice slopes, strung together words linking
themselves through smoke, where do the symbols they carry
stop everything, put down roots, cleanse themselves of everything
but clarity —— though here eye might be asking a little too much of any
poet’s head, full as it were with double-entendres.

From: https://www.lacan.com/frameIII5.htm

Date: 1991

By: Quincy Thomas Troupe, Junior (1939- )

Saturday, 15 June 2019

Buying Stock by Denise Duhamel

“…The use of condoms offers substantial protection, but does not guarantee total protection and that while there is no evidence that deep kissing has resulted in transfer of the virus, no one can say that such transmission would be absolutely impossible.” –The Surgeon General, 1987

I know you won’t mind if I ask you to put this on.
It’s for your protection as well as mine–Wait.
Wait.  Here, before we rush into anything
I’ve bought a condom for each one of your fingers. And here–
just a minute–Open up.
I’ll help you put this one on, over your tongue.
I was thinking:
If we leave these two rolled, you can wear them
as patches over your eyes. Partners have been known to cry,
shed tears, bodily fluids, at all this trust, at even the thought
of this closeness.

From: https://poets.org/poem/buying-stock

Date: 1993

By: Denise Duhamel (1961- )