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poetry.
POESY: MAY 2019
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JULY 2017
Emma Lazarus July 22, 1849 – November 19, 1887 New York born American Jewish poet best known for "The New Colossus" written in 1883. In 1912 the lines from her poem were used on a bronze plaque on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty.POESY: JUNE 7
Gwendolyn Brooks (June 7, 1917 – December 3, 2000) Shortly after her birth in Topeka, Kansas, Gwendolyn Brooks's family moved to Chicago. She grew up during turbulent racial times, the dynamics of which influenced her writing.POESY: JANUARY 2016
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: WINTER POETRY po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: REMEMBRANCE DAY po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: FEBRUARY 2010 French poet, novelist, essayist, human rights activist, statesman. Originally a Royalist, over time he became an ardent proponent of Republicanism and served both in congress and in the senate.POESY: JULY 2014
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: SEPTEMBER 2014 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: FEBRUARY 2017 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: MAY 2019
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JULY 2017
Emma Lazarus July 22, 1849 – November 19, 1887 New York born American Jewish poet best known for "The New Colossus" written in 1883. In 1912 the lines from her poem were used on a bronze plaque on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty.POESY: JUNE 7
Gwendolyn Brooks (June 7, 1917 – December 3, 2000) Shortly after her birth in Topeka, Kansas, Gwendolyn Brooks's family moved to Chicago. She grew up during turbulent racial times, the dynamics of which influenced her writing.POESY: JANUARY 2016
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: WINTER POETRY po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: REMEMBRANCE DAY po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: FEBRUARY 2010 French poet, novelist, essayist, human rights activist, statesman. Originally a Royalist, over time he became an ardent proponent of Republicanism and served both in congress and in the senate.POESY: JULY 2014
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: SEPTEMBER 2014 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: AUGUST 2019
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JANUARY 2016
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: FEBRUARY 2019 Howard Nemerov (February 29, 1920 – July 5, 1991) was United States Poet Laureate on two separate occasions: from 1963 to 1964, and from1988 to 1990.
POESY: JUNE 2012
English poet and novelist Hardy's first fame and success came with his popular novels. Some of his better-known works include Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), The Return of the Native (1878), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), Tess of the D'Urbervilles (1891), and Jude the Obscure (1895). Along with receiving literary praise, his work was criticized as too shocking for Victorian sensibilities POESY: FEBRUARY 2011 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JULY 2012
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: SEPTEMBER 2014 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: NOVEMBER 2010 Tennessee-born Agee (pronounced AY-jee) was a poet, novelist, journalist, screenwriter and influential film critic. In 1958 he won a posthumous Pulitzer Prize for his autobiographical novel, A Death in the Family. In 1934, he published his only volume of poetry, Permit Me Voyage. Among his screenwriting credits in the 1950s: The African Queen (1951) and The Night of the Hunter (1955). POESY: NOVEMBER 2014 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: MAY 2009
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: MARCH 2009
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JANUARY 2016
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: MAY 2009
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: WINTER POETRY po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JULY 12 -- HENRY DAVID THOREAU Massachusetts-born Thoreau is best known for his book Walden, based on journals he wrote during a two-year solitary stay at Walden Pond, and his essay Civil Disobedience, a statement of his philosophy of passive resistance against unjust laws and wars.POESY: IN MEMORIAM
Kevan F. Hartwell Dec. 21, 1920 - Oct. 3, 2001 I immediately thought of my father when I came across this quote by George Bernard ShaPOESY: REMEMBERING
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: APRIL 23
Happy Birthday William Shakespeare *April 23, 1564 - April 23, 1616POESY: HAPPY 2008
A poem to bring in the New Year: From 1850 -- Do people's hopes, dreams, wistful desires ever change? "Ring out, wild bells" from In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) POESY: SEPTEMBER 2007 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: MARCH 2009
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JANUARY 2016
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: MAY 2009
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: WINTER POETRY po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: JULY 12 -- HENRY DAVID THOREAU Massachusetts-born Thoreau is best known for his book Walden, based on journals he wrote during a two-year solitary stay at Walden Pond, and his essay Civil Disobedience, a statement of his philosophy of passive resistance against unjust laws and wars.POESY: IN MEMORIAM
Kevan F. Hartwell Dec. 21, 1920 - Oct. 3, 2001 I immediately thought of my father when I came across this quote by George Bernard ShaPOESY: REMEMBERING
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: APRIL 23
Happy Birthday William Shakespeare *April 23, 1564 - April 23, 1616POESY: HAPPY 2008
A poem to bring in the New Year: From 1850 -- Do people's hopes, dreams, wistful desires ever change? "Ring out, wild bells" from In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) POESY: SEPTEMBER 2007 po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY: NOVEMBER 11TH po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
POESY
po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composingpoetry.
ABOUT ME
*
NAME: Cat Dubie
LOCATION: Canada
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SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 2019 JORGE LUIS BORGES -- AUGUST 24 Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo August 24,1899 -- June 14, 1986 Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, died in Geneva, Switzerland. Writer, poet, essayist, critic, translator, librarian, known as Jorge Luis Borges.The Art Of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water And remember Time is another river. To know we stray like a river and our faces vanish like water. To feel that waking is another dream that dreams of not dreaming and that the death we fear in our bones is the death that every night we call a dream. To see in every day and year a symbol of all the days of man and his years, and convert the outrage of the years into a music, a sound, and a symbol. To see in death a dream, in the sunset a golden sadness--such is poetry, humble and immortal, poetry, returning, like dawn and the sunset. Sometimes at evening there's a face that sees us from the deeps of a mirror. Art must be that sort of mirror, disclosing to each of us his face. They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders, wept with love on seeing Ithaca, humble and green. Art is that Ithaca, a green eternity, not wonders. Art is endless like a river flowing, passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same and yet another, like the river flowing.Adam Cast Forth
Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream? Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried, Almost for consolation, if the bygone period Over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme, Might not have been just a magical illusion Of that God I dreamed. Already it's imprecise In my memory, the clear Paradise, But I know it exists, in flower and profusion, Although not for me. My punishment for life Is the stubborn earth with the incestuous strife Of Cains and Abels and their brood; I await no pardon. Yet, it's much to have loved, to have known true joy, To have had -- if only for just one day -- The experience of touching the living Garden. Translated by Genia Gurarie History Of The Night Throughout the course of the generations men constructed the night. At first she was blindness; thorns raking bare feet,fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word for the interval of shadow dividing the two twilights; we shall never know in what age it came to meanthe starry hours.
Others created the myth. They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates that spin our destiny, they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock who crows his own death. The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses; to Zeno, infinite words. She took shape from Latin hexameters and the terror of Pascal. Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland of his stricken soul. Now we feel her to be inexhaustible like an ancient wine and no one can gaze on her without vertigo and time has charged her with eternity. And to think that she wouldn't exist except for those fragile instruments, the eyes. Remorse For Any Death Free of memory and of hope, limitless, abstract, almost future, the dead man is not a dead man: he is death. Like the God of the mystics, of Whom anything that could be said must be denied, the dead one, alien everywhere, is but the ruin and absence of the world. We rob him of everything, we leave him not so much as a color or syllable: here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see, there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait. Even what we are thinking, he could be thinking; we have divvied up like thieves the booty of nights and days.To A Cat
Mirrors are not more silent nor the creeping dawn more secretive; in the moonlight, you are that panther we catch sight of from afar. By the inexplicable workings of a divine law, we look for you in vain; More remote, even, than the Ganges or the setting sun, yours is the solitude, yours the secret. Your haunch allows the lingering caress of my hand. You have accepted, since that long forgotten past, the love of the distrustful hand. You belong to another time. You are lord of a place bounded like a dream. Labels: Argentine poet, Jorge
Luis Borges
,
Spanish poet
posted by Cat Dubie | 10:48 PM| 0 comments
TUESDAY, MAY 07, 2019 MAY 7 -- ARCHIBALD MACLEISH Archibald MacLeish (May 7, 1892 – April 20, 1982) Prolific American poet, essayist, playwright, political activist, and for several years at the request of FDR, the Librarian of Congress. He won numerous awards for his poems and plays, among them Pulitzer Prizes and an Academy Award. An Eternity by Archibald MacLeish There is no dusk to be, There is no dawn that was, Only there's now, and now, And the wind in the grass.Days I remember of
Now in my heart, are now; Days that I dream will bloom White the peach bough. Dying shall never be Now in the windy grass; Now under shooken leavesDeath never was.
Dr. Sigmund Freud Discovers the Sea Shell by Archibald MacLeish Science, that simple saint, cannot be bothered Figuring what anything is for: Enough for her devotions that things are And can be contemplated soon as gathered. She knows how every living thing was fathered, She calculates the climate of each star, She counts the fish at sea, but cannot care Why any one of them exists, fish, fire or feathered. Why should she? Her religion is to tell By rote her rosary of perfect answers. Metaphysics she can leave to man: She never wakes at night in heaven or hell Staring at darkness. In her holy cell There is no darkness ever: the pure candle Burns, the beads drop briskly from her hand. Who dares to offer Her the curled sea shell! She will not touch it!--knows the world she sees Is all the world there is! Her faith is perfect! And still he offers the sea shell . . .What surf
Of what far sea upon what unknown ground Troubles forever with that asking sound? What surge is this whose question never ceases?Nocturne by Archibald MacLeish The earth, still heavy and warm with afternoon,
Dazed by the moon:
The earth, tormented with the moon’s light, Wandering in the night: La, La, The moon is a lovely thing to see— The moon is an agony. Full moon, moon rise, the old old pain Of brightness in dilated eyes,The ache of still
Elbows leaning on the narrow sill, Of motionless cold hands upon the wet Marble of the parapet, Of open eyelids of a child behind The crooked glimmer of the windown blind, Of sliding faint remindful squares Across the lamplight on the rocking-chairs: Why do we stand so late Stiff fingers on the moonlit gatWhy do we stand
To watch so long the fall of moonlight on the sand? What is it we cannot recall? Tormented by the moon’s light The earth turns maundering through the night. The Rock In The Sea by Archibald MacLeishThink of our blindness where the water burned! Are we so certain that those wings, returned And turning, we had half discerned Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen The bird aloft there, did not mean?— Our hearts so seized upon the sign! Think how we sailed up-wind, the brine Tasting of daphne, the enormous wave Thundering in the water cave— Thunder in stone. And how we beached the skiff And climbed the coral of that iron cliff And found what only in our hearts we’d heard— The silver screaming of that one, white bird: The fabulous wings, the crimson beak That opened, red as blood, to shriek And clamor in that world of stone, No voice to answer but its own. What certainty, hidden in our hearts before, Found in the bird its metaphor?
The End of the World by Archibald MacLeish Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot The armless ambidextrian was lighting A match between his great and second toe, And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb Quite unexpectedly the top blew off: And there, there overhead, there, there hung over Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes, There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover, There with vast wings across the cancelled skies, There in the sudden blackness the black pall Of nothing, nothing, nothing -- nothing at all.
-- Cat
Labels: 20th-century, American
poet ,
Archibald McLeish
,
Pulitzer Prize winner posted by Cat Dubie | 12:00 AM| 0 comments
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2019 FEBRUARY 29 -- HOWARD NEMEROV Howard Nemerov (February 29, 1920 – July 5, 1991) was United States Poet Laureate on two separate occasions: from 1963 to 1964, and from 1988 to 1990. The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov won the National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize. He was brother to photographer DianeNemerov Arbus.
"I got the idea that you were supposed to be plenty morbid and predict the end of civilization many times, but civilization has ended so many times during my brief term on earth that I got a little bored with the theme." -- Howard Nemerov "Write what you know. That should leave you with a lot of free time."-- Howard Nemerov
A Spell before Winter
After the red leaf and the gold have gone, Brought down by the wind, then by hammering rain Bruised and discolored, when October's flame Goes blue to guttering in the cusp, this land Sinks deeper into silence, darker into shade. There is a knowledge in the look of things, The old hills hunch before the north wind blows. Now I can see certain simplicities In the darkening rust and tarnish of the time, And say over the certain simplicities, The running water and the standing stone, The yellow haze of the willow and the black Smoke of the elm, the silver, silent light Where suddenly, readying toward nightfall, The sumac's candelabrum darkly flames. And I speak to you now with the land's voice, It is the cold, wild land that says to you A knowledge glimmers in the sleep of things: The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.
The Blue Swallows
Across the millstream below the bridge Seven blue swallows divide the air In shapes invisible and evanescent, Kaleidoscopic beyond the mind’s Or memory’s power to keep them there. “History is where tensions were,” “Form is the diagram of forces.” Thus, helplessly, there on the bridge, While gazing down upon those birds— How strange, to be above the birds!— Thus helplessly the mind in its brain Weaves up relation’s spindrift web, Seeing the swallows’ tails as nibs Dipped in invisible ink, writing… Poor mind, what would you have them write? Some cabalistic history Whose authorship you might ascribe listening do To God? to Nature? Ah, poor ghost, You’ve capitalized your Self enough. That villainous William of Occam Cut out the feet from under that dream Some seven centuries ago. It’s taken that long for the mind To waken, yawn and stretch, to see With opened eyes emptied of speech The real world where the spelling mind Imposes with its grammar book Unreal relations on the blue Swallows. Perhaps when you will have Fully awakened, I shall show you A new thing: even the water Flowing away beneath those birds Will fail to reflect their flying forms, And the eyes that see become as stones Whence never tears shall fall again. O swallows, swallows, poems are not The point. Finding again the world, That is the point, where loveliness Adorns intelligible things Because the mind’s eye lit the sun. Fugue by Howard Nemerov You see them vanish in their speeding cars, The many people hastening through the world, And wonder what they would have done before This time of time speed distance, random streams Of molecules hastened by what rising heat? Was there never a world where people just sat still? Yet they might be all of them contemplatives Of a timeless now, drivers and passengers In the moving cars all facing to the front Which is the future, which is destiny, Which is desire and desire's end - What are they doing but just sitting still? And still at speed they fly away, as still As the road paid out beneath them as it flows Moment by moment into the mirrored past; They spread in their wake the parading fields of food, The windowless works where who is making what, The grey towns where the wishes and the fears are done. The View From An Attic Window Among the high-branching, leafless boughs Above the roof-peaks of the town, Snowflakes unnumberably come down. I watched out of the attic window The laced sway of family trees, Intricate genealogies Whose strict, reserved gentility, Trembling, impossible to bow, Received the appalling fall of snow. All during Sunday afternoon, Not storming, but befittingly, Out of a still, grey, devout sky, The snowflakes fell, until all shapes Went under, and thickening, drunken lines Cobwebbed the sleep of solemn pines. Up in the attic, among many things Inherited and out of style, I cried, then fell asleep awhile, Waking at night now, as the snow- flakes from darkness to darkness go Past yellow lights in the street below.
2
I cried because life is hopeless and beautiful. And like a child I cried myself to sleep High in the head of the house, feeling the hull Beneath me pitch and roll among the steep Mountains and valleys of the many years That brought me to tears. Down in the cellar, furnace and washing machine, Pump, fuse-box, water heater, work their hearts Out at my life, which narrowly runs between Them and this cemetery of spare parts For discontinued men, whose hats and canes Are my rich remains. And women, their portraits and wedding gowns Stacked in the corners, brooding in wooden trunks; And children’s rattles, books about lions and clowns; And headless, hanging dresses swayed like drunks Whenever a living footstep shakes the floor;I mention no more;
But what I thought today, that made me cry, Is this, that we live in two kinds of thing: The powerful trees, thrusting into the sky Their black patience, are one, and that branching Relation teaches how we endure and grow; The other is the snow, Falling in a white chaos from the sky, As many as the sands of all the seas, As all the men who died or who will die, As stars in heaven, as leaves of all the trees; As Abraham was promised of his seed;Generations bleed,
Till I, high in the tower of my time Among familiar ruins, began to cry For accident, sickness, justice, war and crime, Because all died, because I had to die. The snow fell, the trees stood, the promise kept, And a child I slept.-- Cat
Labels: 20th century poet,
American poet
, Howard
Nemerov
posted by Cat Dubie | 12:00 AM| 0 comments
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 2018 NOVEMBER 23 -- PAUL CELAN Paul Celan November 23, 1920 — April 20, 1970 Born Paul Antschel in Romania, into a German-Jewish family, he was one of the major German language poets of post-World War II. His parents were killed during the Holocaust and Paul spent time in a concentration camp. His experiences during the war became strong forces in his poetry and use of language. He committed suicide at the age of 49 in Paris, drowning in the Seineriver.
Homecoming
Snowfall, denser and denser, dove-coloured as yesterday, snowfall, as if even now you were sleeping. White, stacked into distance.Above it, endless,
the sleigh track of the lost.Below, hidden,
presses up
what so hurts the eyes,hill upon hill,
invisible.
On each,
fetched home into its today, an I slipped away into dumbness:wooden, a post.
There: a feeling,
blown across by the ice wind attaching its dove- its snow- coloured cloth as a flag.Corona
Out of my hand autumn eats its leaf: we are friends. We shell time from the nuts and teach it to walk; time goes back into its shell. In the mirror it is Sunday, in the dream there is sleeping, the mouth speaks the truth. My eye descends to the sex of my loved one: we look at each other, we whisper darkness to each other, we love each other like poppy and memory, we sleep like wine in the sea shells, like the sea in the ray of blood of the moon. We stand entwined in the window, they watch us from the street: it is time the people knew. It is time that the stone condescended to bloom, that unrest inspired a heart to beat. It is time that it became time.It is time.
Translated by Michael Hamburger O Little Root of a Dream 0 little root of a dreamyou hold me here
undermined by blood, no longer visible to anyone,property of death.
Curve a face
that there may be speech, of earth,of ardor, of
things with eyes, even here, where you read me blind,even
here,
where you
refute me,
to the letter.
Psalm
No-man kneads us again out of earth and loam, no-man spirits our dust.No-man.
Praise to you, No-man.For love of you
we will flower.
Moving
towards you.
A Nothing
we were, we are, we shall still be, flowering:the Nothing-, the
No-man’s-rose.
With
our pistil soul-bright, our stamen heaven-torn,our corolla red
with the violet word we sangabove, O above
Your Hand
Your hand full of hours, you came to me – and I said: ‘Your hair is not brown.’ You lifted it, lightly, onto the balance of grief, it was heavier than I. They come to you on ships, and make it their load, then put it on sale in the markets of lust. You smile at me from the deep. I weep at you from the scale that’s still light. I weep: Your hair is not brown. They offer salt-waves of the sea, and you give them spume. You whisper: ‘They’re filling the world with me now, and for you I’m still a hollow way in the heart! You say: ‘Lay the leaf-work of years by you, it’s time, that you came here and kissed me. The leaf-work of years is brown, your hair is not brown.--Cat
Labels: German Jewish poet,
major German language poet,
World War II era
posted by Cat Dubie | 12:00 AM| 0 comments
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2018 REMEMBRANCE DAY POETS – POSTING FROM 2007 osted by Cat Dubie | 12:00 AM| 1
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SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2007 REMEMBRANCE DAY POETS Keith Dougla_s_ (Jan 4, 1920 - June 9, 1944) The most famous English poet of WWII, he was killed in Normandy. To Restore a Dead Child by Keith DouglasSometimes while I sleep I hear the single cry and the tire screekthat never end.
My blond and foolish brown-eyed brother lugging his fretful loveshambles after me
as the cunning Mack truck lurching out of nowherecuts him down.
He's a long dead almost-three. I'm a long lived five just turned sixty-one still running in a dead heat with the rolling cab that swooped him up heading for the vanished hospital.It's then on waking
I feel the snot of infant facesleak into my mouth.
1925
Vergissmeinnicht (Forget-me-not) Elegy for an 88 Gunner by Keith DouglasThree weeks gone and the combatants gone returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun. The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Look. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht in a copybook gothic script. We see him almost with content, abased, and seeming to have paid and mocked at by his own equipment that's hard and good when he's decayed. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt.~
Sidney Arthur Kilworth Keyes (May 27, 1922 - 19 April 1943) joined the army in 1942 and fought in Tunis as a lieutenant in the West Kent Regiment. He was killed in action one month before his 21st birthday.War Poet
by Sidney Keyes
I am the man who looked for peace and foundMy own eyes barbed,
I am the man who groped for words and found An arrow in my hand. I am the builder whose firm walls surroundA slipping land.
When I grow sick or mad Mock me not nor chain me: When I reach for the windCast me not down:
Though my face is a burnt bookAnd a wasted town.
Leave
- 1942
--Cat
posted by Cat Dubie | 12:17 AM| 0
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posted by Cat Dubie | 12:30 AM| 0 comments
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 22, 2018 AUGUST 22 — DOROTHY PARKER Dorothy Parker August 22, 1893 – June 7, 1967 American poet, author, critic, well known for her witty,satirical writings
A Very Short Song Once, when I was young and true, Someone left me sad- Broke my brittle heart in two; And that is very bad. Love is for unlucky folk, Love is but a curse. Once there was a heart I broke; And that, I think, is worse.Anecdote
So silent I when Love was by He yawned, and turned away; But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings, I have so much to say. Ballade Of A Talked-Off Ear Daily I listen to wonder and woe, Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace, Telling me stories of lava and snow, Delicate fables of ribbon and lace, Tales of the quarry, the kill, the chase, Longer than heaven and duller than hell- Never you blame me, who cry my case: "Poets alone should kiss and tell!" Dumbly I hear what I never should know, Gently I counsel of pride and of grace; Into minutiae gayly they go, Telling the name and the time and the place. Cede them your silence and grant them space- Who tenders an inch shall be raped of an ell! Sympathy's ever the boaster's brace; Poets alone should kiss and tell. Why am I tithed what I never did owe? Choked with vicarious saffron and mace? Weary my lids, and my fingers are slow- Gentlemen, damn you, you've halted my pace. Only the lads of the cursed race, Only the knights of the desolate spell, May point me the lines the blood-drops trace- Poets alone should kiss and tell.L'ENVOI
Prince or commoner, tenor or bass, Painter or plumber or never-do-well, Do me a favor and shut your face Poets alone should kiss and tell. Chant For Dark HoursSome men, some men
Cannot pass a
Book shop.
(Lady, make your mind up, and wait your life away.)Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Crap game.
(He said he'd come at moonrise, and here's another day!)Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Bar-room.
(Wait about, and hang about, and that's the way it goes.)Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Woman.
(Heaven never send me another one of those!)Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Golf course.
(Read a book, and sew a seam, and slumber if you can.)Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Haberdasher's.
(All your life you wait around for some damn man!)Charles Dickens
Who call him spurious and shoddy Shall do it o'er my lifeless body. I heartily invite such birds To come outside and say those words!Epitaph
The first time I died, I walked my ways; I followed the file of limping days. I held me tall, with my head flung up, But I dared not look on the new moon's cup. I dared not look on the sweet young rain, And between my ribs was a gleaming pain. The next time I died, they laid me deep. They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep. They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern, They weighted me down with a marble urn. And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry, And watch the worms slip by, slip by. Dorothy Parker— Cat
Labels: American poet,
Dorothy Parker
, poet
, witty
, writer
posted by Cat Dubie | 12:00 AM| 0 comments
FRIDAY, MAY 25, 2018 MAY 25 – RAYMOND CARVER Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr. May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988 Award-winning American short story writer and poet.Late Fragment
And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?I did.
And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. The Best Time Of The DayCool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder. These the happiest moments in the day. Next to the early morning hours, of course. And the timejust before lunch.
And the afternoon, and early evening hours.But I do love
these summer nights.Even more, I think,
than those other times. The work finished for the day. And no one who can reach us now.Or ever.
The Cobweb
A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck of the house. From there I could see and hear the water, and everything that's happened to me all these years. It was hot and still. The tide was out. No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing a cobweb touched my forehead. It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned and went inside. There was no wind. The sea was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade. Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath touches it. A fine thread. Intricate. Before long, before anyone realizes, I'll be gone from here.This Morning
This morning was something. A little snow lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green, as far as the eye could see. Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went for a walk -- determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer. I passed close to some old, bent-over trees. Crossed a field strewn with rocks where snow had drifted. Kept going until I reached the bluff. Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and the gulls wheeling over the white beach far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts began to wander. I had to will myself to see what I was seeing and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what mattered, not the other. (And I did see it, for a minute or two!) For a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrong -- duty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat with my former wife. All the things I hoped would go away this morning. The stuff I live with every day. What I've trampled on in order to stay alive. But for a minute or two I did forget myself and everything else. I know I did. For when I turned back i didn't know where I was. Until some birds rose up from the gnarled trees. And flew in the direction I needed to be going.— Cat
Labels: American poet,
American short story writer,
award-winning
,
influential
, Raymond
Carver
posted by Cat Dubie | 12:30 AM|
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