June, 2013
Fortune
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 29, 2013
FortuneThey see our hard earned fortune there,
in marbled city suites,
floating on a silky sail,
the nap of leather seats.We had the opportunity,
the pool of genes in code,
a secret reservation for
a public school and Spode.We had the opportunity
to own the reason why,
that predicates no chance for those
unable to comply.Our felony, was founded on
a life of common good,
to serve as flotsam in the sea
of guns and power and food.Consuming guns and power and food,
an irony indeed
that helps the cause of those, who crave
a hope of being freed?It’s more because they need the work
to feed their flesh and blood;
prevent starvation, declining health
and keep them from the flood.But threats to blood will ensure
their easy motivation.
So much to recommend the source
of limitless privation.They have much more, by way of help:
attention of the press;
the poets and the playwrights too,
but nothing of redress.It’s irony to say ’twas fuelled,
on rapid growth by debt
who is to benefit thereby,
who is to win and, yet …who is to say what fortune means
if nothing else but luck?
Should we condemn all those who have,
who wouldn’t give a buckfor those whose sad congenital crime,
their birthright, is to blame,
for them, their lot, their plight, their fight,
but who should feel the shame..?
UK
Colour
POSTED IN classic poetry June 27, 2013
Colour
The lovely things that I have watched unthinking,
Unknowing, day by day,
That their soft dyes have steeped my soul in colour
That will not pass away –
Great saffron sunset clouds, and larkspur mountains,
And fenceless miles of plain,
And hillsides golden-green in that unearthly
Clear shining after rain;
And nights of blue and pearl, and long smooth beaches,
Yellow as sunburnt wheat,
Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses,
Enticing weary feet.
And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals,
And Asian marble, veined
With scarlet flame, and cool green jade, and moonstones
Misty and azure-stained;
And almond trees in bloom, and oleanders,
Or a wide purple sea,
Of plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison,
The evil Darling pea.
If I am tired I call on these to help me
To dream -and dawn-lit skies,
Lemon and pink, or faintest, coolest lilac,
Float on my soothed eyes.
There is no night so black but you shine through it,
There is no morn so drear,
O Colour of the World, but I can find you,
Most tender, pure and clear.
Thanks be to God, Who gave this gift of colour,
Which who shall seek shall find;
Thanks be to God, Who gives me strength to hold it,
Though I were stricken blind.”
by Dorothea Mackellar
Compassion Hurts
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 26, 2013
Compassion HurtsConnected to everything
we carry the universe
or are crushed by it.
We must be strong to love
the world. It’s hard
to sit at the table
of earth’s worst horrors
My rich imagination
is the power that shoves
me off the seat of self
and shows how blind
my eyes turned in can be.Let me close enough to you
that your tears will appear
on my cheek, as you seek
to share experience
that I may never meet.
I must grow strong enough
to love the world as it is
and be empty enough
to stay with your pain.
Let us huddle together
to keep out the cold,
for we need eyes
that still can weep,
and smiles so big
we can’t see ourselves.
Gael Bage
UK
My Gran had a Time machine
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 26, 2013
My Gran had a Time machineMy Gran had a time machine
There’s no other explanation.
She had no CCTV screen
or snitches to grass me in,
from friends or neighbours looking
behind twitching curtains, unseen.
But she always knew what I had done
when I was naughty, bad or cursed,
or played cards on the Sabbath day
or stole or spat or worse.
No lie detector tests for her-
just those burning eyes
that looked deep down inside you.
and saw right through your lies.
She was always an old lady so
no point of view of a kid.
no secret mirrors or x-ray specs
or invisibility cloak where she hid.
She wasn’t psychic or a 7th daughter
Of a 7th daughter, it would seem
There’s no other explanation.
My Gran had a time machine
John Black
UK
Consolation
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 25, 2013
Consolation
I could be consoled with much less effort
than it takes to chase a fly from my face –
a smile, a nod of approval, the touch of a hand.
I prefer not, I rather prefer clinging
to this self-criticism of mine –
useless, shameless, a prison of guilt.
Natural in human terms,
a desire like the gravity of the earth –
pulling, holding its own, escape disallowed.
Supernatural in human terms,
an ability to rend the chains and fly –
free flight, passing the clouds, transcending the rules.
I prefer this, prefer to conclude
escape from this habitual gravity:
look up, reflect on life, transform into gold.
I could be inspired with much less effort
than it takes to take one step forward…
The Vampire
POSTED IN classic poetry June 24, 2013
The VampireA fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair–
(Even as you or I!)Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn’t the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn’t know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside–
(But it isn’t on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died–
(Even as you or I!)“And it isn’t the shame and it isn’t the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand–
It’s coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!”
by Rudyard Kipling
Authentic muse
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 23, 2013
Authentic museReleased from a life of freedom
into ties that are sheer delight.
my muse choreographs dreams,
her thoughts are a surreal canter
on the black stallion of night.
Blush of dawn illumines her flight.
her words eagle’s wings that soarover mountains and quicksilver seas.
in solitude flies far, she’s not free
yet feels complete. In shining hours
where indigo swirls high, she plays
with ghost forms afloat in the sky,
prehistoric and gene-crafted creatures,
images that meet her moments and runthe gamut of a wild imagination.
She endures suffering beset by doubts
and fears, understands others caught
in the net of illusion. She swears
that she will not ingest more seeds
of doubt and fear, severs a beanstalk
of melodrama and stems the tears.Accepting both darkness and light,
she blends imperceptibly with All.
by Gael Bage
Menu
POSTED IN classic poetry June 22, 2013
Menu
For breakfast a thin buttered slice
Of life.
With it we take water which rises incessantly
(Last night it covered three-quarters of the globe}
And boil it sterile of microbes.
For lunch we eat well and substantially
Three courses of earth:
Black earth, loess and clay.
We don’t usually have a cooked dinner.
We take
Either a star with a bit of honey
Or if it isn’t finished
Some happiness (which in fact we keep
For Sundays)
And whatever else is left over.
by Marin Sorescu
Fresco
POSTED IN classic poetry June 22, 2013
FrescoWhen the wicked
Are processed in hell
Nothing goes to waste.By means of tweezers
The women’s heads are emptied of
Combs, grips, pins, rings,
Soft goods and bed linen.
Then they are thrown
Into bubbling cauldrons
To see that the brimstone
Doesn’t boil over.Afterwards some
Are changed into Saucepans
And carry to retired devils’ homes
Hot sins.The males too are made use of
For all the heavy work;
Except for the very hairy
They are rewoven
And made into doormats.
by Marin Sorescu
Rondeau (Mort, j’appelle de ta rigueur)
POSTED IN classic poetry June 22, 2013
Rondeau (Mort, j’appelle de ta rigueur)Mort, j’appelle de ta rigueur,
Qui m’as ma maîtresse ravie,
Et n’es pas encore assouvie
Si tu ne me tiens en langueur :Onc puis n’eus force ni vigueur ;
Mais que te nuisoit-elle en vie,
Mort ?Deux étions et n’avions qu’un coeur ;
S’il est mort, force est que dévie,
Voire, ou que je vive sans vie
Comme les images, par coeur,
Mort !
par Francois Villon
