Got Poetry?

[Ginger]

Asleep - William Winter

HE knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch of the night,
And he heard her gentle breathing, but her face was still and white,
And on her poor, wan cheek a tear told how the heart can weep,
And he said, "My love was weary--God bless her! she's asleep."

He knelt beside her gravestone in the shuddering autumn night,
And he heard the dry grass rustle, and his face was thin and white,
And through his heart the tremor ran of grief that cannot weep,
And he said, "My love was weary--God bless her! she's asleep."

[Tony&Cheri]

Nice Day for a Lynching ~ Kenneth Patchen

The bloodhounds look like sad old judges
In a strange court. They point their noses
At the Negro jerking in the tight noose;
His feet spread crow-like above these
Honorable men who laugh as he chokes.

I don’t know this black man.
I don’t know these white men.

But I know that one of my hands
Is black, and one white. I know that
One part of me is being strangled,
While another part horribly laughs.

Until it changes,
I shall be forever killing; and be killed.

[Ginger]

Great poem, Papa T.


Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us -
I can live only wholly with you or not at all -
Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits -
Yes, unhappily it must be so -
You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart - never - never -
Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves.
And yet my life in V is now a wretched life -
Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men -
At my age I need a steady, quiet life - can that be so in our connection?
My angel, I have just been told that the mailcoach goes every day - therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the letter at once -
Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together -
Be calm - love me - today - yesterday - what tearful longings for you - you - you - my life - my all - farewell.
Oh continue to love me - never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.
ever thine
ever mine
ever ours

L. Beethoven

[melliedee]

Closer and closer to election day, here's "America" by Ginsberg. Cool photo montage and the complete audio:

YouTube - Allen Ginsberg

[melliedee]

The Dead

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,

which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

-Billy Collins

[Coccinelle]

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend-
Bed awaits me at the end.

Though I go in pride and strength,
I'll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I'm bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall-
I'm a fool to rise at all!

Dorothy Parker
(1893-1967)

[PlayadelSoul]

UNDERGROUND

Under water grottos, caverns

Filled with apes

That eat figs.

Stepping on the figs

That the apes

Eat, they crunch.

The apes howl, bare

Their fangs, dance,

Tumble in the

Rushing water,

Musty, wet pelts

Glistening in the blue.

- Barrack Obama

[Tony&Cheri]

Thoughts on Attending a Dharma Lecture by Tenshin Roshi

Incense smoke floats up
around the impassive faces of Buddhas
made of stone and wood.

The famous teacher sits in lotus position.
Head shaved bare, body encased in pale robe.
He sips tea from a glazed bowl.

In a small meditation hall near the base of Mount Tamalpais
with eighty or more people.
Pilgrims, searchers, and the just plain curious.

I don’t know
which group I belong in,
so I take a seat in a far corner of the room.

We wait for his words,
the teachings from a lifetime of spiritual effort.
We wait for the answers.

“It might be time for a song” he says.
I expect chanting, maybe with brass temple bells.
He sings an old standard, “What a Wonderful World”.

“I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.”

At first, it’s embarrassing.
Doesn’t he know he looks foolish?
Does he really think we came for pop song wisdom?

Then, I feel angry. Is he making fun of us?
Or is he just trying to be cool?
“Look how surprising I can be for you.”

But then I begin to see. Truth is constant,
whether meditating or praying,
...or even singing in the style of Bodhisattva Louis Armstrong.

“The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do
They're really saying I love you.

I hear babies crying, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll never know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world”.

When he finishes we all sit silently… us, him, every one together.
And of course, you can’t help it.
You think to yourself…“what a wonderful world.”

-Papa T

[melliedee]

Degrees Of Gray In Philipsburg


You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs--
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won't fall finally down.

Isn't this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn't this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?
Don't empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it's mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

Richard Hugo

[redhairgirl1]

Originally Posted by melliedee

The Dead

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,

which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

-Billy Collins

[melliedee]

Originally Posted by redhairgirl1

Do you like it, or is it too sad? I like it.

[redhairgirl1]

Originally Posted by melliedee

Do you like it, or is it too sad? I like it.

I like it too, i mean it is but also

[melliedee]

Originally Posted by Tony&Cheri

Thoughts on Attending a Dharma Lecture by Tenshin Roshi

Incense smoke floats up
around the impassive faces of Buddhas
made of stone and wood.

The famous teacher sits in lotus position.
Head shaved bare, body encased in pale robe.
He sips tea from a glazed bowl.

In a small meditation hall near the base of Mount Tamalpais
with eighty or more people.
Pilgrims, searchers, and the just plain curious.

I don’t know
which group I belong in,
so I take a seat in a far corner of the room.

We wait for his words,
the teachings from a lifetime of spiritual effort.
We wait for the answers.

“It might be time for a song” he says.
I expect chanting, maybe with brass temple bells.
He sings an old standard, “What a Wonderful World”.

“I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.”

At first, it’s embarrassing.
Doesn’t he know he looks foolish?
Does he really think we came for pop song wisdom?

Then, I feel angry. Is he making fun of us?
Or is he just trying to be cool?
“Look how surprising I can be for you.”

But then I begin to see. Truth is constant,
whether meditating or praying,
...or even singing in the style of Bodhisattva Louis Armstrong.

“The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do
They're really saying I love you.

I hear babies crying, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll never know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world”.

When he finishes we all sit silently… us, him, every one together.
And of course, you can’t help it.
You think to yourself…“what a wonderful world.”

-Papa T

Enlightenment comes in all forms, but a "Bodhisattva Louis Armstrong" is particularly appealing. I like the initial mistrust, that the answer could not possibly be so simple or stem from "pop song wisdom." Yet it does.

Formally, I like a uniform line length in free verse. You break on the natural clause, as I do, which adds sanity but will always sacrifice the tidiness of the line. I'm tripped up a bit by the fragment which begins the third stanza (just first two lines, the last is wonderful).

The ending is both surprising and expected, which might be a good indication of its authenticity. But I have to wonder if the reader would arrive at "what a wonderful world" on their own? It's a risk. Maybe take it out of quotations to make it more organic or even leave what it is we think to ourselves unfinished? Closure is my own constant struggle; the best advice I ever got on the subject is to not write toward an ending you already have in mind.

Good stuff, Tony! I'd like to see more originals on this thread. Roo workshop, anyone?

[Tony&Cheri]

Originally Posted by melliedee

Enlightenment comes in all forms, but a "Bodhisattva Louis Armstrong" is particularly appealing. I like the initial mistrust, that the answer could not possibly be so simple or stem from "pop song wisdom." Yet it does.

Formally, I like a uniform line length in free verse. You break on the natural clause, as I do, which adds sanity but will always sacrifice the tidiness of the line. I'm tripped up a bit by the fragment which begins the third stanza (just first two lines, the last is wonderful).

The ending is both surprising and expected, which might be a good indication of its authenticity. But I have to wonder if the reader would arrive at "what a wonderful world" on their own? It's a risk. Maybe take it out of quotations to make it more organic or even leave what it is we think to ourselves unfinished? Closure is my own constant struggle; the best advice I ever got on the subject is to not write toward an ending you already have in mind.

Good stuff, Tony! I'd like to see more originals on this thread. Roo workshop, anyone?

Thank you, but please don't speak as if we were collegues or equals. You're a published poet...I'm a scratch paper scribbler!

Wonderful suggestions.

That third stanza was tough. I wanted a sense of place and I wanted the symbolism of the bottom of the mountain/journey, but the phrasing was tricky. I'm now thinking:

At the base of Mount Tamalpais,
In a Meditation Hall with eighty people.
Pilgrims, searchers, and the just plain curious.

Perhaps the ending works better if I make it me and not the reader who reaches the conclusion...and let the reader decide if they agree or not? I'll play with it.

Thanks for the help.

Papa T

[Tony&Cheri]

Back in the Seventies, then Governor Jerry Brown appointed Pulitzer Prize winning Poet and author Gary Snyder to be head of the California Arts Council. Snyder lived on a small farm in the Sierra foothills with no electicity and no phone. In order to conduct business for the State he had to travel twelve miles to the nearest public phone located at a small restaurant and store named Toki’s Okinawan Noodle and Bait shop.


Under the Sign of Toki’s by Gary Snyder

Is this Palo Alto?
“No, Wisconsin”.
So gentle – distant older woman’s voice –
faint accent – Swede?
“Where are you?” “This is Wisconsin.”
Area code was wrong.
what stream slipped from
together in another life to touch base
ten seconds here in this?

Toki’s
Snack bar
Juice bar
Ice
worms

And the operators
Keep asking me what do I want?
Sacramento, San Diego, Indiana, Ohio
as I stand here with lists and letters,
outside, cold feet in the slush,
at the pay phone
(my office)

Phone truck comes and takes coins while we talk
About art in LA
under the ice sign
next to the high way
talking, ice, worms

And snow
falls off the limbs
down my notebook
down into my neck
drip drip
red brick, iron doors, stone walls
old town run down
at Toki’s
ice
worms