tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75820217874526342942024-03-04T22:29:18.722-08:00the real dealjohn cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.comBlogger647125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-13993865826038790042012-08-09T11:31:00.001-07:002012-08-09T11:32:20.480-07:00Chips, a poem by Jenny Walker.<br />
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<b>Post 666 - Here's a winner from the Foyle's Young Poets of the Year Award, 2011.</b></div>
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<b> </b><strong>Chips by Jenny Walker</strong></div>
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It is our night, so we buy chips<br />
and grin guiltily over the greasy wrapper<br />
at each other, crumpling yesterday's paper in our<br />
sticky, unharnessed hands.<br />
We are fools for love and salt<br />
and we see that it is good.</div>
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Our feet scatter stars in the inky black,<br />
with the click-clack clatter that's classed<br />
so coolly cosmopolitan these days.<br />
They have lit up all the lights for us,<br />
for our arms and lips and eyes wide open<br />
to drink it all in. But,</div>
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bending at the waist at the pavement's gutter,<br />
clutching each other on the dark street corner -<br />
Sudden vertiginous precision<br />
finds the old woman with the cataract vision,<br />
cramming the memories into her mouth in<br />
salty handfuls and smacking her lips. </div>
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<em>Jenny is 17 and from Cumbria, and is just starting at Edinburgh University studying English Literature. She has always been interested in writing but only became serious about writing poetry in the last few years. Jenny enjoys playing the piano, cloud watching, reading, and talking at length about all these things. She was a runner up in the Anne Pierson Award in 2010.</em></div>
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<em><br /></em></div>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-51279168533595727302012-08-05T15:12:00.003-07:002012-08-05T15:12:40.761-07:00The Ghost Of Marilyn Monroe, a poem by Bill Meissner.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Post 665 - Remembering today is the 50th anniversary of the death of Marilyn Monroe, here's a new poem by Bill Meissner which first appeared in the Atlanta Review.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Bill is the author of seven books, most recently, his first novel, SPIRITS IN THE GRASS, [U of Notre Dame Press], the story of a small town ballplayer who discovers the remains of a Native American burial ground on a baseball field.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">THE GHOST OF MARILYN MONROE SPEAKS IN THE</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">HOLLYWOOD ROOSEVELT HOTEL</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"></span><br />
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<br />Have you seen me in the<br />mirror? I loved the breeze from the subway grate that lifted my skirt<br />to my waist, loved the cool billowing<br />as that white pleated skirt rose and rose<br />like a mushroom cloud and I half-tried to push it down<br />while a million men’s eyes—a little embarrassed but still looking—<br /><br />stared at me.<br />I wanted men to memorize every inch<br />of my skin so they’d remember me,<br />so that I’d always come alive inside their minds,<br />balanced on a grate and laughing seductively,<br />train after subway train making the sidewalk shudder beneath<br /><br />my white heels.<br />I always yearned for their eyes to follow me like camera lenses<br />everywhere I went. I wanted to collect their eyes,<br />keep them in fishbowls in my bedroom like so many glass marbles.<br />Look at me, I always said, look at me look at me look at me.<br />I still try to say it, on the stairways of the Roosevelt Hotel, but<br />my lips can’t<br /><br />find any words.<br />I feel translucent now, like the wings of a moth with all the dust worn off.<br />I’m nothing more than a swirl of those lace curtains<br />when the window’s closed.<br />These halls are too dim, the burgundy carpeting too thick.<br />I hate the way the bellboys walk by me, speaking in muffled tones.<br />Sometimes I appear in the old mirror in the lobby: a maid, cleaning the glass in slow circles, notices a sad blonde in the reflection. Turning,<br />she sees no one is<br />there. Late at night in the hallways,<br /><br />I want to whisper in the ears of men<br />who stroll nonchalantly past me, I want to scream at them.<br />I want my pleated white dress to billow upward<br />like a blooming flower, some A-bomb cloud they can’t ignore.<br />But they never seem to hear me.<br />To them, I’m just a sudden odd draft in this hallway,<br />a faint, smoky scent of exotic perfume.<br />For a moment, they might wonder where it came from, and then<br />turn to look back into their girlfriends’<br />flawed faces.</div>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-20407231471234941532012-07-11T12:16:00.000-07:002012-07-11T12:16:46.201-07:00Everything is Waiting for You, a poem by David Whyte.<br />
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Everything is Waiting for You.</h3>
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Your great mistake is to act the drama<br />
as if you were alone. As if life<br />
were a progressive and cunning crime<br />
with no witness to the tiny hidden<br />
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny<br />
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,<br />
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;<br />
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding<br />
out your solo voice You must note<br />
the way the soap dish enables you,<br />
or the window latch grants you freedom.<br />
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.<br />
The stairs are your mentor of things<br />
to come, the doors have always been there<br />
to frighten you and invite you,<br />
and the tiny speaker in the phone<br />
is your dream-ladder to divinity.</div>
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Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into<br />
the conversation. The kettle is singing<br />
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots<br />
have left their arrogant aloofness and<br />
seen the good in you at last. All the birds<br />
and creatures of the world are unutterably<br />
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.</div>
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<span class="style20" style="font-size: 12px;">-- David Whyte<br /> from <em><a href="http://www.davidwhyte.com/everything.html" style="color: #666666; text-decoration: underline;">Everything is Waiting for You </a></em><br /> ©2003 Many Rivers Press</span></div>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-42251476728774783742012-05-14T15:05:00.001-07:002012-05-14T15:06:58.416-07:00The Freedom of the Moon, a poem by Robert Frost.Post 663 - The Freedom of the Moon by Robert Frost.
I've tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water star almost shining.
I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later,
I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-81992567598201298852012-04-10T12:47:00.003-07:002012-05-14T15:08:30.741-07:00Maiden Name, a poem by Philip Larkin.Post 662 - Maiden name, a poem by Philip Larkin.<br />
<br />
Marrying left your maiden name disused.<br />
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face,<br />
Your voice, and all your variants of grace;<br />
For since you were so thankfully confused<br />
By law with someone else, you cannot be<br />
Semantically the same as that young beauty:<br />
It was of her that these two words were used.<br />
<br />
Now it's a phrase applicable to no one,<br />
Lying just where you left it,scattered through<br />
Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two<br />
Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon -<br />
Then is it scentless, weightless, strengthless, wholly<br />
Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly.<br />
No, it means you. Or, since you're past and gone,<br />
<br />
It means what we feel now about you then:<br />
How beautiful you were, and near, and young,<br />
So vivid, you might still be there among<br />
Those first few days, unfingermarked again.<br />
So your old name shelters our faithfulness,<br />
Instead of losing shape and meaning less<br />
With your depreciating luggage laden.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-47053622169352394282012-04-05T10:16:00.003-07:002012-04-05T10:44:25.277-07:00Aunt Jennifer's Tigers, a poem by Adrienne Rich.Post 661 - Adrienne Cecile Rich (May 16, 1929 – March 27, 2012) was an American poet, essayist and feminist. She was considered one of the most widely read and influential poets of the second half of the 20th century, and was credited with bringing the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse. In 1971, she was the recipient of the Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America and was awarded the National Book Award for Poetry in 1974. She also was awarded the Ruth Paul Lilly Poetry Prize in 1986, the Elmer Holmes Bobst Award in Arts and Letters from NYU, and the National Poetry Association Award for Distinguished Service to the Art of Poetry in 1989. In 1997, Rich declined the National Medal of Arts in protesting against the House of Representatives’ vote to end the National Endowment for the Arts as well as other policies of the Clinton Administration regarding the arts generally and literature in particular. In 2002, she was appointed a chancellor of the newly augmented board of the Academy of American Poets. She was the winner of the 2003 Yale Bollingen Prize for American Poetry.<br /><br />Aunt Jennifer's Tigers by Adrienne Rich.<br /><br />Aunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen,<br />Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.<br />They do not fear the men beneath the tree;<br />They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.<br /><br />Aunt Jennifer’s fingers fluttering through her wool
<br />Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.<br />The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band
<br />Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer’s hand.<br /><br />When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
<br />Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.<br />The tigers in the panel that she made
<br />Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-48628380894919875012012-04-02T16:44:00.002-07:002012-04-02T16:58:58.488-07:00Woman Waving to Trees, a poem by Dorothea Tanning.Dorothea Tanning was an American painter, printmaker, sculptor and writer. She also designed sets and costumes for ballet and theatre. She died earlier this year at 101 having just published her second anthology of poems, <span style="font-style:italic;">Coming To That.</span><br /><br />Woman Waving to Trees, a poem by Dorothea Tanning.<br /><br />Not that anyone would<br />notice it at first.<br />I have taken to marveling<br />at the trees in our park.<br />One thing I can tell you:<br />they are beautiful<br />and they know it.<br />They are also tired,<br />hundreds of years<br />stuck in one spot—<br />beautiful paralytics.<br />When I am under them,<br />they feel my gaze,<br />watch me wave my foolish<br />hand, and envy the joy<br />of being a moving target.<br /><br />Loungers on the benches<br />begin to notice.<br />One to another,<br />"Well, you see all kinds..."<br />Most of them sit looking<br />down at nothing as if there<br />was truly nothing else to<br />look at until there is<br />that woman waving up<br />to the branching boughs<br />of these old trees. Raise your<br />heads, pals, look high,<br />you may see more than<br />you ever thought possible,<br />up where something might<br />be waving back, to tell her<br />she has seen the marvelous.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-28340148791602146742012-03-22T10:57:00.003-07:002012-03-22T11:05:19.556-07:00Testy Pony, a poem by Zachary Schomburg.Post 659 - Zachary Schomburg was born in Omaha, Nebraska, spent his childhood in Iowa, and received his BA from College of the Ozarks. Currently, he's pursuing a doctorate in creative writing from the University of Nebraska. Schomburg edits Octopus Magazine and Octopus Books, and co-curates the Clean Part Reading Series in Lincoln, NE. His debut collection, The Man Suit, was published Black Ocean in 2007.<br /><br />Testy Pony by Zachary Schomburg.<br /><br />I am given a pony for my birthday, but it is the wrong <br />kind of pony. It is the kind of pony that won't listen. <br />It is testy. When I ask it to go left, it goes right. <br />When I ask it to run, it sleeps on its side in the tall <br />grass. So when I ask it to jump us over the river into <br />the field I have never before been, I have every <br />reason to believe it will fail, that we will be swept down <br />the river to our deaths. It is a fate for which I am <br />prepared. The blame of our death will rest with the<br /> testy pony, and with that, I will be remembered with <br />reverence, and the pony will be remembered with <br />great anger. But with me on its back, the testy pony <br />rears and approaches the river with unfettered <br />bravery. Its leap is glorious. It clears the river with <br />ease, not even getting its pony hooves wet. And then <br />there we are on the other side of the river, the sun <br />going down, the pony circling, looking for something <br />to eat in the dirt. Real trust is to do so in the face of <br />clear doubt, and to trust is to love. This is my failure, <br />and for that I cannot be forgiven.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-91571151356718650782012-03-04T15:39:00.000-08:002012-03-04T15:40:46.999-08:00Are You Drinking? a poem by Charles Bukowski.Post 658 - Are You Drinking? by Charles Bukowski.<br /><br />washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
<br />out again
<br />I write from the bed
<br />as I did last
<br />year.
<br />will see the doctor,
<br />Monday.
<br />"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
<br />aches and my back
<br />hurts."
<br />"are you drinking?" he will ask.
<br />"are you getting your
exercise, your
<br />vitamins?"
<br />I think that I am just ill
<br />with life, the same stale yet
<br />fluctuating
<br />factors.
<br />even at the track
<br />I watch the horses run by
<br />and it seems
<br />meaningless.
<br />I leave early after buying tickets on the
<br />remaining races.
<br />"taking off?" asks the motel
<br />clerk.
<br />"yes, it's boring,"
<br />I tell him.
<br />"If you think it's boring
<br />out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
<br />back here."
<br />so here I am
<br />propped up against my pillows
<br />again
<br />just an old guy
<br />just an old writer
<br />with a yellow
<br />notebook.
<br />something is
<br />walking across the
<br />floor
<br />toward
<br />me.
<br />oh, it's just
<br />my cat
<br />this
<br />time.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-20693075545401733622012-02-20T15:17:00.000-08:002012-02-20T15:18:14.117-08:00Pebble, a poem by Zbigniew Herbert.Post 657 - Zbigniew Herbert was born in 1924 in Lvov, which was then in eastern Poland but is currently in the Ukraine. In a world which seems confusing to many, Herbert’s honesty and clarity are perhaps unparalleled among poets. He would be my choice as the most under-appreciated poet of our times. <br /><br />Pebble.<br /><br />The pebble
<br />is a perfect creature<br /> <br />equal to itself
<br />mindful of its limits<br /><br />filled exactly
<br />with a pebbly meaning<br /> <br />with a scent that does not remind one of anything
<br />does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire<br /> <br />its ardour and coldness
<br />are just and full of dignity<br /> <br />I feel a heavy remorse
<br />when I hold it in my hand
<br />and its noble body
<br />is permeated by false warmth<br /> <br />- Pebbles cannot be tamed
<br />to the end they will look at us
<br />with a calm and very clear eye<br /> <br />Translated by Peter Dale Scott and Czeslaw Miloszjohn cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-38777736657695821592012-02-13T17:52:00.000-08:002012-02-13T17:53:03.867-08:00Their Lonely Betters, a poem by W.H. Auden.Post 656 - Their Lonely Betters by W.H. Auden.<br /><br />As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade<br />To all the noises that my garden made, <br />It seemed to me only proper that words<br />Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.<br /><br />A robin with no Christian name ran through
<br />The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
<br />And rustling flowers for some third party waited
<br />To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.<br /><br />Not one of them was capable of lying,
<br />There was not one which knew that it was dying
<br />Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
<br />Assumed responsibility for time.<br /><br />Let them leave language to their lonely betters
<br />Who count some days and long for certain letters;
<br />We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
<br />Words are for those with promises to keep.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-6595509638906446252012-02-05T12:38:00.000-08:002012-02-05T12:45:42.640-08:00If You Forget Me, a poem by Pablo Neruda.Post 655 - Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973) was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pen name after Czech poet Jan Neruda. The Italian film <span style="font-style:italic;">Il Postino</span>, inspired by Antonio Skármeta's 1985 novel Ardiente Paciencia (Ardent Patience, later known as El cartero de Neruda, or Neruda's Postman), centres on the story of Pablo Neruda (Philippe Noiret) living in exile on Salina Island near Sicily during the 1950s. While there, he befriends the local postman and inspires in him a love of poetry.<br /><br />If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda.<br /><br />I want you to know<br />one thing. <br /><br />You know how this is: <br />if I look <br />at the crystal moon, at the red branch <br />of the slow autumn at my window, <br />if I touch <br />near the fire <br />the impalpable ash <br />or the wrinkled body of the log, <br />everything carries me to you, <br />as if everything that exists, <br />aromas, light, metals, <br />were little boats <br />that sail <br />toward those isles of yours that wait for me. <br /><br />Well, now, <br />if little by little you stop loving me <br />I shall stop loving you little by little. <br /><br />If suddenly <br />you forget me <br />do not look for me, <br />for I shall already have forgotten you. <br /><br />If you think it long and mad, <br />the wind of banners <br />that passes through my life, <br />and you decide <br />to leave me at the shore <br />of the heart where I have roots, <br />remember <br />that on that day, <br />at that hour, <br />I shall lift my arms <br />and my roots will set off <br />to seek another land. <br /><br />But <br />if each day, <br />each hour, <br />you feel that you are destined for me <br />with implacable sweetness, <br />if each day a flower <br />climbs up to your lips to seek me, <br />ah my love, ah my own, <br />in me all that fire is repeated, <br />in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, <br />my love feeds on your love, beloved, <br />and as long as you live it will be in your arms <br />without leaving mine.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-90874535768671968842012-02-01T15:47:00.000-08:002012-02-01T15:51:16.718-08:00Clouds, a poem by Wisława Szymborska.Post 654 - Sad news today about Wisława Szymborska (2 July 1923 – 1 February 2012). Szymborska was a Polish poet, essayist, translator and recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. Born in Prowent in Western Poland, she lived in Kraków from 1931 until the end of her life today when she died peacefully in her sleep. <br />Some of her prizes and awards include:<br />• 1954: The City of Kraków Prize for Literature<br />• 1963: The Polish Ministry of Culture Prize<br />• 1991: The Goethe Prize<br />• 1995: The Herder Prize<br />• 1995: Honorary Doctor of the Adam Mickiewicz University (Poznań)<br />• 1996: The Polish PEN Club prize<br />• 1996: Nobel Prize for Literature<br /><br /><br />Clouds by Wisława Szymborska.<br /><br />I’d have to be really quick<br />to describe clouds -<br />a split second’s enough<br />for them to start being something else.<br /><br />Their trademark:<br />they don’t repeat a single <br />shape, shade, pose, arrangement.<br /><br />Unburdened by memory of any kind, <br />they float easily over the facts.<br /><br />What on earth could they bear witness to? <br />They scatter whenever something happens.<br /><br />Compared to clouds, <br />life rests on solid ground, <br />practically permanent, almost eternal.<br /><br />Next to clouds<br />even a stone seems like a brother, <br />someone you can trust, <br />while they’re just distant, flighty cousins.<br /><br />Let people exist if they want,<br />and then die, one after another:<br />clouds simply don't care<br />what they're up to<br />down there.<br /><br />And so their haughty fleet<br />cruises smoothly over your whole life<br />and mine, still incomplete.<br /><br />They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone.<br />They don't have to be seen while sailing on. <br /> <br />Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-37634150416736325802012-01-21T16:25:00.000-08:002012-01-21T16:29:17.276-08:00Three in the Morning, a poem by Judith Viorst.Post 653 - Judith Stahl Viorst was born in Newark, NJ in 1931. She graduated from Rutgers University in 1952 and subsequently from the Washington Psychoanalytic Institute in 1981 where she’s now a research affiliate. She lectures widely on topics, ranging from the subjects of loss and control to children's literature. She lives in Washington, DC with her husband Milton, a political writer. <br />Viorst received an Emmy Award for poetic monologues written for a CBS television special, <span style="font-style:italic;">Annie, the Woman in the Life of a Man</span>, in 1970. She received the Foremother Award for lifetime achievements from the National Research Center for Women & Families in 2011. <br />She says her first writing attempt when she was seven or eight was a poem to her dead mother and father - who were both actually alive and not particularly pleased with their poetic fate!<br /><br />Three (O'Clock) in the Morning.<br /><br />At three in the morning I used to be sleeping an untroubled<br />sleep in my bed.<br />But lately at three in the morning I'm tossing and turning,<br />Awakened by hypochondria, and gas, and nameless dread,<br />Whose name I've been learning. (worry)<br /><br />At three in the morning I brood about what my cholesterol<br />count might reveal,<br />And the pains in my chest start progressing from gentle to racking,<br />While certain intestinal problems make clear that the onions<br />I ate with my meal<br />Plan on counter attacking.<br /><br />At three in the morning I look toward the future with blankets<br />pulled over my ears,<br />And all of my basic equipment is distinctly diminished.<br />My gums are receding, my blood pressure's high, and I can't<br />begin listing my fears<br />Or I'll never get finished.<br />At three in the morning I used to be sleeping but lately I wake<br />and reflect<br /><br />That my girlhood has gone and I'll now have to manage without it.<br />They tell me that I'm heading into my prime. From the previews<br />I do not expect<br />To be crazy about it.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-34339043847590338822012-01-16T12:37:00.000-08:002012-01-16T12:40:38.009-08:00The Contortionist’s Wife, a poem by Bill Meissner.Post 652 - Bill Meissner is the Director of Creative Writing at St. Cloud State University in St. Cloud, Minnesota and the author of seven books. His writing has appeared in more than 200 journals, magazines and anthologies. His numerous awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship, a Loft-McKnight Award in Poetry, a Loft-McKnight Award of Distinction in Fiction, a Minnesota State Arts Board Fellowship, a Jerome Foundation Fellowship, and five PEN/NEA Syndicated Fiction Awards. He's one of my favorite poets.<br /><br />The Contortionist’s Wife.<br /><br />She knows him, yet she doesn’t always recognize him -<br />some mornings she finds him in the kitchen cupboard<br />flattened among the cereal boxes,<br />some evenings, he’s folded beneath her chair<br />when she sits down for dinner.<br />Once he surprised her when he rose from the washing machine tub<br />like a genie, gave her three wishes<br />and a box of Cheer.<br /><br />Some days she doesn’t know if he’s shaping himself<br />or if she’s shaping him. All she knows is the way<br />he twists her emotions: he makes her laugh, he makes her cry.<br /><br />She’s not sure if it’s funny that he<br />could be lying between the sheets of her bed without her<br />noticing him.<br />Some times he’s closer to her than she ever imagined, like the<br />tub full of warm bath water she slides herself into.<br />Sometimes he’s distant, pinpricks of stars in the night sky.<br />But most often he’s both near and far, lifting himself<br />from the vase in the corner, his smile full of flowers.<br /><br />Ah, she wishes she could be a contortionist, too.<br />She wishes she could be the one to surprise him<br />some morning, disguising herself as the wheat bread<br />popping from the toaster<br />or the coat rack as he reaches for his jacket.<br />She gazes at her stiff flesh with the brittle bones inside,<br />thinking if only she could slip herself around his finger<br />like a ring he didn’t know he was wearing<br />for the rest of his life.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-7765309879669253472012-01-05T11:08:00.000-08:002012-01-05T14:14:44.685-08:00Awkward Party Talk, a poem by Tanya Davis.Post 651 - Tanya Davis is a Canadian poet, storyteller, musician and a singer-songwriter. Since bursting onto the Halifax music scene in 2006 with her debut, M<span style="font-style:italic;">ake a List</span>, Tanya has garnered praise from industry, audience, and peers, as well as multiple award nominations, including one for her sophomore release, <span style="font-style:italic;">Gorgeous Morning</span>, for the 2009 ECMA Female Recording of the Year. She is a two-time winner in the CBC National Poetry Face-off as well as the Canadian Winner of the 2008 Mountain Stage NewSong contest. In 2009, with support from Bravo, she collaborated with independent filmmaker Andrea Dorfman to produce a short videopoem entitled <span style="font-style:italic;">How to Be Alone</span>; the short has since been featured at numerous film festivals, including The Vancouver Film Fest, The Worldwide Short Film Festival, and the VideoPoetry Festival (Berlin). It also has 1.8 million views on Youtube.<br /><br /><br />Awkward Party Talk by Tanya Davis.<br /><br />Hello. Do you wish to make small talk?<br />ok. my name is tanya, i am 30 years old<br />oh, that is not appropriate information to lay out on the table<br />okay then, my name is tanya and i am an adult<br />who are you?<br />I mean.. and your name? Is?<br />And what do you do?<br />Oh, i see, you are a job<br />well, i have a job, too<br />i also eat and sleep and breathe and drink and poo<br />you know, the essentials<br />i am, after all, merely a mammal<br />oh, your drive is here and you gotta run?<br />Ok, nice talking to you<br /><br />hi. i am a child of the age of aquarius<br />and i wish my parents had named me something more daring and glamorous<br />like tatianna<br />which means princess in russian but they just named me tanya<br />what is your name?<br />Oh, hi bob.<br />And why did you come to this party?<br />Oh, you know so-and-so, well that's neat<br />i came for the chips and dip<br />i knew they'd be here<br />i also think i should go out more, so people don't forget me<br />and also, i don't like bars but i do like company<br />and i like to watch people dancing and humping<br />oh, i don't mean, like, people having sex in the living room<br />although i would watch that, too, if it was happening right now<br />no, i mean dancing to attract mates<br />there's interesting dynamics at house parties, don't you think?<br />Oh, you need to go get another drink?<br />Ok, nice talking to you<br /><br />hi. tanya.<br />Nice to meet you<br />oh, that's a great handshake<br />do you have strong arms, too?<br />Hahahah.... ooooh<br />those are nice<br />i like where biceps connect to shoulders<br />i like strong and defined shoulders<br />girls or guys, i like both<br />to have them over me at night, i like them to hold me down like i am the project and they are the vice<br />oh, am i making you shy?<br />never mind, i talk too much<br />no? you don't think?<br />Okay, great, well my boyfriend in high school<br />caused me internal ridicule<br />when i told him i wanted to have strong shoulders<br />and he said “what kind of guy wants to date a girl with strong shoulders<br />that won't do”<br />and so now when i love strong shoulders on the bodies of my lovers<br />i can't tell if i want them<br />or want to be them, you know?<br />Oh, you have to go?<br />Ok, nice talking to you.<br /><br />hi. (eat a chip)john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-10519969311998740192011-12-29T13:11:00.000-08:002011-12-29T13:25:33.918-08:00I Will Wade Out, a poem by E.E.Cummings.<style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-;font-family:Courier;" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Post 650 - Here's a poem for the New Year.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I Will Wade Out by E.E.Cummings.</span></p><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">i will wade out</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I will take the sun in my mouth </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">and leap into the ripe air</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Alive</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">with closed eyes </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">to dash against darkness</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">in the sleeping curves of my body </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">with chasteness of sea-girls</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Will i complete the mystery</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">of my flesh I will rise</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">After a thousand years </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">lipping </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">flowers</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;font-size:85%;" > </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">And set my teeth in the silver of the moon </span></p>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-80138121895728204752011-12-22T12:29:00.000-08:002011-12-29T13:30:19.783-08:00A wedding is the entrance to a marriage by William Byrd.<span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Arial; panose-1:2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Post 649 - William Byrd (born in London in 1543, died in 1623 at Stondon Place in Essex) was the son of a musician, and studied music <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/william-byrd/biography/"><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:windowtext;" ></span></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>principally under Thomas Tallis. Byrd was the most prolific composer of his time in England and was known as the English Palestrina. Here is his wedding poem:<br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><br />A Wedding Is.. by William Byrd.</b></span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" > </span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >A wedding is the entrance to a marriage:</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >One drives through, and suddenly one's there!</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Stepping from a fairy tale carriage
</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Into quite ordinary air.</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Life is now a dance, though beautiful,</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Requiring intense coordination;</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Each self becomes, in ways inscrutable,</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >More fully what it is in combination.</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >And we who love you wait, of course, outside
</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >As you become through love that mystery:</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >One flesh made whole of separate groom and bride;</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Two selves, one life; two notes, one harmony.</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >When you are one, we then may cherish two:</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" >Loving not just one, but both of you.</span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;" > </span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-34875616885117092132011-12-11T16:43:00.000-08:002011-12-11T16:54:39.847-08:00Beannacht, a poem by John O'Donohue.<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Arial; panose-1:2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times; panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Times; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family:Times; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial">Beannacht </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 7.5pt;font-family:Arial">("Blessing") by John O’Donohue.</span><span style="font-family:Arial"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial">On the day when<br />the weight deadens<br />on your shoulders<br />and you stumble,<br />may the clay dance<br />to balance you. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial">And when your eyes<br />freeze behind<br />the grey window<br />and the ghost of loss<br />gets in to you,<br />may a flock of colors,<br />indigo, red, green,<br />and azure blue<br />come to awaken in you<br />a meadow of delight. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial">When the canvas frays<br />in the currach of thought<br />and a stain of ocean<br />blackens beneath you,<br />may there come across the waters<br />a path of yellow moonlight<br />to bring you safely home. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in;line-height:normal"><span style="font-family:Arial">May the nourishment of the earth be yours,<br />may the clarity of light be yours,<br />may the fluency of the ocean be yours,<br />may the protection of the ancestors be yours.<br />And so may a slow<br />wind work these words<br />of love around you,<br />an invisible cloak<br />to mind your life.</span></p> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Arial; panose-1:2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times; panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Times; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family:Times; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-12706535609678732122011-12-06T15:36:00.001-08:002011-12-06T15:59:01.897-08:00Interview with the Wind, a poem by Alice Oswald.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Post 646 - </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span>Alice Oswald was born in 1966. She read Classics at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_College,_Oxford"><span style="color: windowtext;">New College</span></a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oxford_University"><span style="color: windowtext;">Oxford</span></a>, has worked as a
gardener at Chelsea Physic Garden, and today lives with her husband, the
playwright <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Oswald"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Peter Oswald</span></a> (also
a trained classicist), and her three children in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devon"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Devon</span></a>. In 1994, she
was the recipient of an Eric Gregory Award. Her debut collection, <i>The
Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile</i>, won the 1996 Forward Best First Collection
prize and her second collection, <i>Dart</i>, won the 2002 TS Eliot prize. In
2004, Oswald was named as one of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Book_Society"><span style="color: windowtext;">Poetry Book Society</span></a>'s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Next_Generation_poets"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Next
Generation poets</span></a>. Her collection <i>Woods etc.</i>, published
in 2005, was shortlisted for the Forward Poetry Prize (Best Poetry Collection
of the Year). In 2009 she published both <i>A sleepwalk on the Severn</i> and <i>Weeds
and Wildflowers</i>, which won the inaugural <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Hughes#Ted_Hughes_Award"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Ted Hughes
Award</span></a> for New Work in Poetry, and was shortlisted for the T. S.
Eliot Prize. In October 2011, Oswald published her 6th collection, <i>Memorial</i>.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span></div>
Interview with the Wind by Alice Oswald.<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once the Wind existed as a person
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Carrying its unguarded inner mouth wide open . . .</div>
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And I notice a kind of girlish nervousness
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Sensitive to any tiny shock, tell me,</div>
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When did it lose its mind?</div>
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I love the kind of sounds it carries.</div>
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I think of the Wind as the Earth's voice muscle,</div>
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Very twisted and springy, but is it tired?</div>
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What happens to bells for example</div>
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Being lifted over hills?</div>
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And prayers?</div>
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<br /></div>
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There are millions of grass-nibs trying their names on the
air.</div>
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There are phrases not fully expressed, shaking the bars of
the trees.</div>
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Never any conclusion. Every decision being taken back again
into movement.</div>
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Why?</div>
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<br /></div>
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And on a long road on a hot day,</div>
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When the Wind gets under the Wind
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And blows up a mist of dust,</div>
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Obviously it speaks in verse, obviously
</div>
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It inhales for a while and then describes by means of breath
</div>
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Some kind of grief, what is it?</div>
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<br /></div>
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A kind of kiss. A coldness.</div>
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And yet not uptight, not afraid to fondle.</div>
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Is it blind is it some kind of blindness
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The way it breezes at Dusk
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And goes on and on turning over and over
</div>
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More and more leaves in the darkness?</div>
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<br /></div>
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A kind of huge, hushed up,</div>
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Inexhaustible, millions of years old sister.</div>
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Would she describe herself, when running over grass for
example,</div>
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Would she describe herself as a light breeze?</div>
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Or is she serious?</div>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-25273474781396728842011-11-24T15:17:00.001-08:002011-11-24T15:18:10.325-08:00If You Forget Me, a poem by Pablo Neruda.<br />
Post 645 - If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda.<br />
<br />
I want you to know<br />
one thing.<br />
You know how this is:<br />
if I look<br />
at the crystal moon, at the red branch<br />
of the slow autumn at my window,<br />
if I touch<br />
near the fire<br />
the impalpable ash<br />
or the wrinkled body of the log,<br />
everything carries me to you,<br />
as if everything that exists,<br />
aromas, light, metals,<br />
were little boats<br />
that sail<br />
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.<br />
<br />
Well, now,<br />
if little by little you stop loving me<br />
I shall stop loving you little by little.<br />
<br />
If suddenly<br />
you forget me<br />
do not look for me,<br />
for I shall already have forgotten you.<br />
<br />
If you think it long and mad,<br />
the wind of banners<br />
that passes through my life,<br />
and you decide<br />
to leave me at the shore<br />
of the heart where I have roots,<br />
remember<br />
that on that day,<br />
at that hour,<br />
I shall lift my arms<br />
and my roots will set off<br />
to seek another land.<br />
<br />
But<br />
if each day,<br />
each hour,<br />
you feel that you are destined for me<br />
with implacable sweetness,<br />
if each day a flower<br />
climbs up to your lips to seek me,<br />
ah my love, ah my own,<br />
in me all that fire is repeated,<br />
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,<br />
my love feeds on your love, beloved,<br />
and as long as you live it will be in your arms<br />
without leaving mine.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-34868992433245597472011-11-21T16:01:00.001-08:002011-11-21T16:09:29.708-08:00Thanksgiving, a poem by Edgar Albert Guest.Post 644 - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Eddie Guest</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> (1881</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">– 1959</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">was a prolific English-born American poet </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">who was popular in the first half of the 20th century and became known as the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">People's Poet</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">In 1891, Guest came with his family to the United States from England. After he began at the <i>Detroit Free Press</i> as a copy boy and then a reporter, his first poem appeared on December 11, 1898. He became a naturalized American citizen in 1902. For 40 years, Guest was widely read throughout North America, and his sentimental, optimistic poems were in the same vein as the light verse of Nick Kenny, who also wrote syndicated columns during the same decades.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.4em;">
From his first published work in the <i>Detroit Free Press</i> until his death in 1959, Guest penned some 11,000 poems which were syndicated in some 300 newspapers and collected in more than 20 books, including <i>A Heap o' Livin'</i> (1916) and <i>Just Folks</i> (1917). Guest was made Poet Laurate of Michigan, the only poet to have been awarded the title.</div>
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;">Thanksgiving by Edgar Albert Guest.</span></span></div>
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Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,<br />An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;<br />An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they<br />Are growin' more beautiful day after day;<br />Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,<br />Buildin' the old family circle again;<br />Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,<br />Just for awhile at the end of the year.<br />Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door<br />And under the old roof we gather once more<br />Just as we did when the youngsters were small;<br />Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.<br />Father's a little bit older, but still<br />Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.<br />Here we are back at the table again<br />Tellin' our stories as women an' men.<br /><br />Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;<br />Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.<br />Home from the east land an' home from the west,<br />Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.<br />Out of the sham of the cities afar<br />We've come for a time to be just what we are.<br />Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,<br />Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.<br /><br />Give me the end of the year an' its fun<br />When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;<br />Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,<br />Let me sit down with the ones I love best,<br />Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,<br />See the old faces unblemished by wrong,<br />See the old table with all of its chairs<br />An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.</div>john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-38252047624981874292011-11-09T10:35:00.000-08:002011-11-09T10:40:02.396-08:00That Sure is My Little Dog, a poem by Eleanor Lerman.<br />
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Post 643 - Eleanor Lerman (1952 - ) is an American
poet and author and a lifelong New Yorker, born in the Bronx. Lerman
was the recipient of the inaugural <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Juniper_Prize&action=edit&redlink=1"><span style="color: windowtext;">Juniper Prize</span></a>,
the 2002 Joy Bale Boone Award for Poetry, the 2006 Milton Dorfman Poetry Prize,
and a fiction grant from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_Foundation_for_the_Arts"><span style="color: windowtext;">New York
Foundation for the Arts</span></a>. In 2007, she received a Literature
Fellowship from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Endowment_for_the_Arts"><span style="color: windowtext;">National
Endowment for the Arts</span></a>. In 2011, she was awarded a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guggenheim_Fellowship"><span style="color: windowtext;">Guggenheim
Fellowship</span></a>. She currently lives on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_Island"><span style="color: windowtext;">Long Island</span></a>, in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nassau_County,_New_York"><span style="color: windowtext;">Nassau County</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That Sure is My Little Dog by Eleanor Lerman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, indeed, that is my house that I am
carrying around <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
on my back like a bullet-proof shell and yes,
that sure is<o:p></o:p></div>
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my little dog walking a hard road in hard
boots. And <o:p></o:p></div>
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just wait until you see my girl, chomping on
the chains<o:p></o:p></div>
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of fate with her mouth full of jagged steel.
She’s damn<o:p></o:p></div>
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ready and so am I. What else did you expect
from the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
brainiacs of my generation? The survivors, the
nonbelievers, <o:p></o:p></div>
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the oddball-outs with the Cuban Missile Crisis
still <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
sizzling in our blood? Don’t tell me that you
bought <o:p></o:p></div>
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our act, just because our worried parents (and
believe me,<o:p></o:p></div>
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we’re nothing like them) taught us how to dress
for work<o:p></o:p></div>
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and to speak as if we cared about our
education. And <o:p></o:p></div>
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I guess the music fooled you: you thought we’d
keep <o:p></o:p></div>
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the party going even to the edge of the abyss.
Well,<o:p></o:p></div>
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too bad. It’s all yours now. Good luck on the
ramparts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What you want to watch for is when the sky
shakes<o:p></o:p></div>
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itself free of kites and flies away. Have a
nice day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-66071725579801427232011-10-31T12:35:00.000-07:002011-10-31T12:46:50.400-07:00Nearly A Valediction, a poem by Marilyn Hacker.Post 642 - Marilyn Hacker (born 1942) is an American poet, translator and critic. She is Professor of English at the City College of New York. Her books of poetry include <i>Going Back to the River</i> (1990), <i>Love, Death, and the Changing of the Seasons</i> (1986), and <i>Presentation Piece</i> (1974), which won the National Book Award and was also a Lamont Poetry Selection of the Academy of American Poets. <i>Winter Numbers</i> (1996), details the loss of many of her friends to AIDS and her own struggle with breast cancer, garnered a Lambda Literary Award and The Nation's Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. In 2009, Hacker won the PEN Award for Poetry in Translation for <i>King of a Hundred Horsemen</i> by Marie Étienne, which also garnered the first Robert Fagles Translation Prize from the National Poetry Series. In 2010, she received the PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry.<br />
<br />
Nearly A Valediction by Marilyn Hacker.<br />
<br />
You happened to me. I was happened to<br />
like an abandoned building by a bull-<br />
dozer, like the van that missed my skull<br />
happened a two-inch gash across my chin.<br />
You were as deep down as I've ever been.<br />
You were inside me like my pulse. A new-<br />
born flailing toward maternal heartbeat through<br />
the shock of cold and glare: when you were gone,<br />
swaddled in strange air I was that alone
again,<br />
inventing life left after you.<br />
<br />
I don't want to remember you as<br />
that
four o'clock in the morning eight months long<br />
after you happened to me like a wrong<br />
number at midnight that blew up the phone<br />
bill to an astronomical unknown<br />
quantity in a foreign currency.<br />
The U.S. dollar dived since you happened to me.<br />
You've grown into your skin since then; you've grown<br />
into the space you measure with someone<br />
you can love back without a caveat.<br />
<br />
While I love somebody I learn to live<br />
with through the downpulled winter days' routine<br />
wakings and sleepings, half-and-half caffeine-<br />
assisted mornings, laundry, stock-pots, dust-<br />
balls in the hallway, lists instead of longing, trust<br />
that what comes next comes after what came first.<br />
She'll never be a story I make up.<br />
You were the one I didn't know where to stop.<br />
If I had blamed you, now I could forgive<br />
you, but what made my cold hand, back in prox-<br />
imity to your hair, your mouth, your mind,<br />
want where it no way ought to be, defined<br />
by where it was, and was and was until<br />
the whole globed swelling liquefied and spilled<br />
through one cheek's nap, a syllable, a tear,<br />
was never blame, whatever I wished it were.<br />
You were the weather in my neighborhood.<br />
You were the epic in the episode.<br />
You were the year poised on the equinox.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7582021787452634294.post-59051929250797512352011-10-20T15:59:00.000-07:002011-12-06T16:01:03.479-08:00The Ball, a poem by Wislawa Szymborska.Post 641 - Here's a poem by the Polish Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska. which was published in the New Yorker in 2003.
From <i>Monologue of a Dog: New Poems</i>, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.<br />
<br />
THE BALL.<br />
<br />
As long as nothing can be known for sure
(no signals have been picked up yet),
as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,
as long as there’s neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,
as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,
as long as we still haven’t heard the word
of better or worse mozarts,
platos, edisons, elsewhere,
as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,
as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,
as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,
as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens –
let’s act like very special guests of honour
at the district firemen’s ball,
dance to the beat of the local oompah band
and pretend that it’s the ball
to end all balls.
I can’t speak for other –
for me this is misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.john cotterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00729979379600150523noreply@blogger.com0