December 20, 2012
"A Song On The End Of The World" by Czeslaw Milosz
On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.
And those who expected lightning and thunder
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.
Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.
November 29, 2012
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun by Alan Rickman
Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
(Source: tiny-sized, via iamsuperannoying)
*insert witty title here*
November 5, 2012
In Blackwater Woods, by Mary Oliver
Look, the trees
their own bodies
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
the long tapers
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
#mary oliver #poetry #poem
November 2, 2012
The Laughing Heart
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
- Charles Bukowski
#poem #poetry #bukowski
Everyone who made love the night before
was walking around with flashing red lights
on top of their heads-a white-haired old gentlemen,
a red-faced schoolboy, a pregnant woman
who smiled at me from across the street
and gave a little secret shrug,
as if the flashing red light on her head
was a small price to pay for what she knew.
- Hugo Williams
#hugo williams #saturday morning #poem #poetry
the way it is now
I’ll tell you
I’ve lived with some gorgeous women
and I was so bewitched by those
beautiful creatures that
my eyebrows twitched.
but I’d rather drive to New York
than to live with any of them
the next classic stupidity
will be the history
of those fellows
who inherit my female
in their case
as in mine
they will find
is caused by not
being often enough
- Charles Bukowski
#bukowski #poem #poetry #charles bukowsi
The Changed Man
If you were to hear me imitating Pavarotti
in the shower every morning, you’d know
how much you have changed my life.
If you were to see me stride across the park,
waving to strangers, then you would know
I am a changed man—like Scrooge
awakened from his bad dreams feeling feather-
light, angel-happy, laughing the father
of a long line of bright laughs—
“It is still not too late to change my life!”
It is changed. Me, who felt short-changed.
Because of you I no longer hate my body.
Because of you I buy new clothes.
Because of you I’m a warrior of joy.
Because of you and me. Drop by
this Saturday morning and discover me
fiercely pulling weeds gladly, dedicated
as a born-again gardener.
Drop by on Sunday—I’ll Turtlewax
your sky-blue sports car, no sweat. I’ll greet
enemies with a handshake, forgive debtors
with a papal largesse. It’s all because
of you. Because of you and me,
I’ve become one changed man.
- Robert Phillips
#poetry #poem #robert phillips
January 11, 2012
One of my favorite poems by him.
“escape” from Charles Bukowski’s You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense.
Pray to God and you are prey to God.
#charles bukowski #bukowski #poem #poetry
October 29, 2011
September 16, 2011
The person sat opposite you on the bus is not much more than a mayfly in the great scheme of things, given a brief window in the eternity of time to live and to fall in love, to taste strawberries and to ride bicycles and experience cold sores, to have baths that had too much cold water in them and to hate the taste of oysters and not understand poetry. There is so much for each of us to get done and so little time to do it in that we can’t possibly do it without help, so we should make space for one another, clear a path to allow those of us through who need a helping hand.
Jon Richardson, It’s Not Me, It’s You (via mrs-norris)
#jon richardson #quote
September 14, 2011
At a Window
Give me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!
But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.
- Carl Sandburg
#poem #poet #poetry #carl sandburg
September 3, 2011
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o’clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying—
He had always taken funerals in his stride—
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were “sorry for my trouble,”
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o’clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
- Seamus Heaney
#seamus heaney #mid-term break #poem #poetry
July 8, 2011
After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deepera
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder
about the mental capacity of baseball players -
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.
In the half darkness we look at each other
and touch arms across his little, startling muscled body -
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
- Galway Kinnell
#after making love we hear footsteps #galway kinnell #poem #poetry
July 7, 2011
At North Farm
Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents,
through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you?
Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?
- John Ashbery
#john ashbery #at north farm #poem #poetry
June 23, 2011
An Old Whorehouse
We climbed through a broken window,
walked through every room.
Out of business for years,
the mattresses held only
rainwater, and one
woman’s black shoe. Downstairs
spiders had wrapped up
the crystal chandelier.
A cracked cup lay in the sink.
But we were fourteen,
and no way dust could hide
the expected glamour from us,
or teach us anything.
We whispered, we imagined.
It would be years before
we’d learn how effortlessly
sin blooms, then softens,
like any bed of flowers.
– Mary Oliver
#poem #poetry #mary oliver #an old whorehouse