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|Thursday, March 1st, 2012|
I found myself
Walking along a distant road
Covered in pure, sparkling snow
Looking for something I had lost long ago
One night, in a dream I dreamt
I stopped only to pick lovely flowers
And gather them in my arms
I felt a warmth spread into my bones
And as I gazed upon them,
I felt oddly clean
I touched their velvety petals
And allowed myself to cry
I laid them softly to rest
Buried beneath that virgin snow
And I continued on
Feeling so lost and very alone
I came upon a small house
That beckoned to me
Promising me shelter and protection
I struggled to the door
The snow now around my knees
Gathered all the strength and courage I could muster
And gave a soft knock on the door
The door opened
And I trudged in
Longing for something I knew
My breath caught in my chest
For sitting there was you
I felt happiness sweep away the cold
And I ran to embrace you
I whispered lightly in your ear
All things I had always wanted to say
And felt you pull me closer
An understanding passed between us
Took my words away and left me calm and assured
I knew you must of felt the same
Because of those three words you had uttered
Tears came to my eyes
Because I knew no longer would I walk that snowy path alone
Searching for something I thought I would never know
I found what I was searching for
I found you
With lovely sun caressing my face
And a smile touching my lips
I knew that it just wasn’t a dream
I knew it was all to real
And for that I must remember to thank you
For making my dreams and my reality as one
|Friday, June 24th, 2005|
|Friday, February 11th, 2005|
|Saturday, January 8th, 2005|
Cat's Dream, by Pablo Neruda: for Myrtis
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
Translated by Alastair Reid
|Thursday, January 6th, 2005|
David Mason: Fog Horns
A very lovely, casual poem called "Fog Horns" by David Mason can be read here
. Somehow Mason has made sure that his poem rolls along quite like fog: it curls around the edges, it renders objects rather fuzzy and vague. Notice also how many of his words contain "o" - a languid, booming sound which reminds us of the title.
"Fog Horns" is lovely and a delightful surprise.
|Tuesday, January 4th, 2005|
|Friday, December 31st, 2004|
|Wednesday, December 29th, 2004|
A.R. Ammons: So I Said I Am Ezra
I have tried to find a poem that would work in the context of the earthquake/tsunami disaster we have all been reading about these past few days. But for once words have slipped through my fingers and I have been unable to find anything appropriate. Most poems that deal with feelings of devastation write about it in the context of love or war.
Then I happened across an interview with Harold Bloom (US scholar and self-satisfied Shakespeare nut) and I managed to stomach him for about 30 minutes. Among other things he spoke of American poetry and mentioned A.R. Ammons specifically. This was when I realised I might have something to post after all.
Read with tired eyes that have seen photos, news reports and read far too many articles from Thailand/Indonesia/India/etc, Ammons' poem So I Said I Am Ezra
comes across as chilling, uncomfortable and perhaps just what I needed to read right now. I cannot quite explain why as the poem clearly has nothing to do with tsunamis or earthquakes, but there is something there
I apologise in advance for the linked site but I have been unable to find the poem elsewhere.
|Tuesday, December 28th, 2004|
I was down in the laundry room, ironing, and suddenly the memory of this poem broke through whatever else I was thinking about. So here you go.Love Calls Us to the Things of This World
. The poet, Richard Wilbur
, is known well enough that I'm just including the link to his bio.
And yes, this is late in the day. Sleep well, everyone.
|Friday, December 17th, 2004|
|Wednesday, December 15th, 2004|
Rupert Brooke: Sonnet - Oh! Death Will Find Me
Nowadays Rupert Brooke is primarily known for his patriotic First World War poem beginning "If I should die, think only this of me / That there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England". He is remembered as a stunningly beautiful poet who died before seeing battle, but his poetry is no longer widely read or held in high regard. Brooke was enormously famous and loved when he lived. He cut a dashing figure, scared Virginia Woolf by running naked across a lawn, had love affairs with both men and women, travelled widely - and also found time to write poetry.
However, perhaps the memory of Brooke's poetry is tainted by the fact that he never did
see battle (so he did not die a hero) and also by the fact that his mode of poetry was quickly rendered obsolete by the beginning of the Modernist movement. Personally I think some of the last poems he wrote before dying pointed towards a more mature poetic voice.
The poem I have chosen today is not one of his last poems, but it is a pretty, almost macabre, sonnet. Musings inside the cut.( Rupert Brooke: Sonnet - Oh! Death Will Find Me!Collapse )
|Tuesday, December 14th, 2004|
Pablo Neruda: Ode to a Book
In my home, I have two shelves devoted to books about books - and I am not talking about literary criticism! No, I love to read books about loving
books. Bibliophiles writing about how they discover this bookshop or read that book whilst sitting on the steps of an old Parisian church. I love to read about other readers. But, however much I love books (and reading about other bibliophiles reading), I also know there is a life outside books and life is to be cherished and treasured.
Pablo Neruda's poem Ode to the Book
seems to share this sentiment. He celebrates the written word but refuses to let himself be swallowed whole.
I think there is a lesson in that.
|Tuesday, December 7th, 2004|
Fernando Pessoa: Flashes of Madness II
One of the most fascinating poets I have come across in recent weeks is Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935). He was four poets in one: Fernando Pessoa, Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis and Alvaro dos Campos. Each of his poetic "personas" had a distinct personality and poetic style. Pessoa claimed that he was somehow "channelling" each of these poets - a bad Hollywood script might suggest a case of split personalities, as all of these poets led seperate lives and wrote about very different things. Pessoa's English translator described it as though Pessoa wrote poets, not poems.( Fernando Pessoa: Flashes of Madness IICollapse )
You can read more about Pessoa here
|Monday, December 6th, 2004|
Jozsef Attila: No Shriek of Mine
Now for something exotic: a Hungarian poem from 1924. The poet is Jozsef Attila (1905-1937) and I must admit I know very little about him other than he worked as a journalist. ( No Shriek of Mine (Nem én kiáltok)Collapse )
Atilla captures the zeitgeist
- the spirit of the age - with this harsh, almost angry poem about the Modern era with its manmade machines, rejection of everything natural and the whiff of violence in the air. What I like about this poem is that he never aims to be obscure or difficult: the words are concrete and although this is free verse, it is rather straight-forward.
Perhaps not quite the poem to put you in a festive mood - but I plan to remedy that in later entries :)
|Friday, December 3rd, 2004|
Mona Van Duyn: Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri
Mona Van Duyn was the first woman to be Poet Laureate in the US. She died yesterday, the 2nd of December.
Relating to today's poem: The state of Missouri is in the middle of the country and south of center. The New Madrid fault line runs through the state, and while geologists continually predict that a Big One will hit us soon (or eventually), significant earthquakes are very rare. Tremors happen now and then, though, I understand. Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri
, by Mona Van Duyn
|Thursday, December 2nd, 2004|
|Wednesday, December 1st, 2004|
Joy Harjo: Deer Dancer
This poem references specific Native American mythology, but you don't have to be familiar with the mythology to read it. The mythic qualities burn up through the human qualities. It's beautiful, and the prose-poem format brings out the echoes of the oral tradition.Deer Dancer
, by Joy Harjo
ADMIN: December Sign-up Calendar
Firstly, apologies for the mostly lost month of November, and enormous thanks to coconutswirl
for posting and keeping us going!
If you would like to post a poem this month, reply to let me know which day, and I'll put your name on the calendar.
Note: I will most likely be unable to post between Dec. 23 - Jan. 2, so those days are particularly up for grabs. :)
Thank you for signing up! ( CalendarCollapse )
|Sunday, November 28th, 2004|
Adrian Mitchell and Thomas Carew: Poems to Celia
A double treat for you today. I have chosen two poems (for the price of one!) simply because the poem I first decided to post is a short four-line poem.
(I hope this does not upset our Mod too much. I'll reduce this post to one poem, if I'm breaking the rules too much!)
First, a poem called "Celia, Celia" written by contemporary British poet Adrian Micthell who is a bit of a renegade poet. He mixed with the American Beat poets and is active within counterculture circles in Britain. Rumour has it that he's mellowed somewhat in later years. His "Celia, Celia" is probably his best known poem. It was set to music by British popband "The Bluetones" in the mid-90s (the song is called "Bluetonic") and Mitchell enjoyed a small revival following that.Adrian Mitchell: Celia, Celia
The name "Celia" is often used in poetry as an abstract way of addressing one's beloved - i.e. the woman about whom the poem is written need not be called Celia. Although writing love poetry to "Celia" is no longer commonplace, contemporary poets such as Adrian Mitchell sometimes revive the tradition (perhaps as a way of giving a sly nod to their poetic predecessors?). One famous predecessor who wrote many poems to Celia was Thomas Carew (1595-1639). His "Know, Celia" is playful (you could
argue that the first stanza is implicitly about the practice of writing poems to "Celia") whilst being rather charmingly clumsy and archaic.( Thomas Carew: Know, CeliaCollapse )
|Tuesday, November 23rd, 2004|
Anne Sexton: To a Friend Whose Work has Come to Triumph
I thought it was time that we had a (somewhat) contemporary female poetic voice here at poetry_is
. Here is Anne Sexton's "To a Friend Whose Work has Come to Triumph"link
The poem actually comes complete with a reflection upon it by Ben Watt, so there is not much I can add except that yet again I have chosen a very formal piece of poetry. I'll try to go free verse next time :)