February, 2014
His Books
POSTED IN classic poetry February 21, 2014
His BooksMy days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where’er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew’d
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
Robert Southey
Longing
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 20, 2014
Longing
A seagull dives and wheels along the shore,
Adjusts its wings in calm and measured flight.
Brief skiffs of rain paint shadows on the lake,
A boy holds fast his wild and frenzied kite.
I long to leave this place; soar with the gull,
But something pulls me down and won’t let go.
A distant voice that speaks in ancient tongue,
Not yet, not yet, there’s more you need to know.
I turn my face toward the coming storm,
Still my heart and count in measured beat.
Comb my trembling fingers through my hair,
Refuse to let my mind admit defeat.
Amanda Edwards
I kid you not
POSTED IN Stories February 17, 2014
I Kid You Not
My eyes tell always: “I shan’t!”
when people want the hunters’ hunt,
yet, in their hunt I have been caught,
I kid you not.
At times I’m Arthur and Merlin,
my thoughts as swords come out and in,
Aye, with my crabbit thoughts I fought,
I kid you not.
While running on piano chord
my fingers build a better world
where children sleep in their cot,
I kid you not.
I teach a flower how to bloom,
a sun ray to avoid the gloom,
yet, people like not to be taught.
I kid you not.
A thousand years I tried to find
a blink of soul in every mind,
Yet, I cannot find what I sought,
I kid you not.
The magic words sleep in my wand
to unveil Shamrock from beyond
the rainbow to the golden pot.
I kid you not.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Close Close
POSTED IN classic poetry February 16, 2014
Close Close
Close close all night
the lovers keep.
They turn together
in their sleep,
close as two papers
in a book
that read each other
in the dark.
Each knows all
the other knows
learnt by heart
from head to toes.
Elisabeth Bishop
The Sandman
POSTED IN classic poetry February 15, 2014
The Sandman
The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down, And now the sandman’s gentle tread Comes stealing through the town. “White sand, white sand,” he softly cries, And, as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies’ eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. From sunny beaches far away, Yes, in another land, He gathers up at break of day His store of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes! And every child right well he knows— Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. So when you hear the sandman’s song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting on the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
Margaret Vandegrift
A Valentine
POSTED IN classic poetry February 14, 2014
A Valentine
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
The words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet’s, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.
Edgar Allan Poe
“And Night Illuminated the Night”
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 9, 2014
And Night Illuminated the Night
I watch you holding one cut stem,
three thorns, no blossom—
night, a shade of red
your teeth trace on my lips.
Everything I touch and all I am
is thirsting.
When the rain falls
it won’t ask who you are—
a statue, or the blind man
who sees by feeling.
Rain won’t forgive us,
it doesn’t know our names
Alex Dimitrov
The Trouble with Poetry
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 5, 2014
The Trouble with Poetry: A Poem of Explanation
The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night —
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky —
the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti —
to be perfectly honest for a moment —
the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.
Billy Collins
Si Tú Me Olvidas
POSTED IN classic poetry February 4, 2014
Si Tú Me Olvidas
Quiero que sepas
una cosa.
Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe,
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.
Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.
Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en ese día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.
Pero
si cada día,
cada hora
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable.
Si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.
Pablo Neruda
Dime
POSTED IN classic poetry February 2, 2014
Dime
Dime por favor donde no estás
en qué lugar puedo no ser tu ausencia
dónde puedo vivir sin recordarte,
y dónde recordar, sin que me duela.
Dime por favor en que vacío,
no está tu sombra llenando los centros;
dónde mi soledad es ella misma,
y no el sentir que tú te encuentras lejos.
Dime por favor por qué camino,
podré yo caminar, sin ser tu huella;
dónde podré correr no por buscarte,
y dónde descanzar de mi tristeza.
Dime por favor cuál es la noche,
que no tiene el color de tu mirada;
cuál es el sol, que tiene luz tan solo,
y no la sensación de que me llamas.
Dime por favor donde hay un mar,
que no susurre a mis oídos tus palabras.
Dime por favor en qué rincón,
nadie podrá ver mi tristeza;
dime cuál es el hueco de mi almohada,
que no tiene apoyada tu cabeza.
Dime por favor cuál es la noche,
en que vendrás, para velar tu sueño;
que no puedo vivir, porque te extraño;
y que no puedo morir, porque te quiero.
Jorge Luis Borges
