contemporary poetry
In the valley of names
POSTED IN contemporary poetry April 1, 2014
In the valley of namesMy names haunt me.
All the history,
all the connected lives,
gypsies and witches,
kings and sailors,
criminals, peasants and warriors
All the friendships,
foes and lovers.
Every syllable
an ancient inspiration,
a prison,
a poison,
a reviving breath
in the valley of names.
Garnet Shaw Robbie
City Rhythm
POSTED IN contemporary poetry March 28, 2014
City RhythmWhere is the rhythm in this city,
The heartbeat rule in every step
Where individuality fades
Into our common identity,
The single beat that binds us, yet
Is for us an empowering aide
Saving us in its security,
Releasing us from that fisher’s net
That tightens with each coin paid?This rhythmless meandering roar,
This awkward cadence, disturbs my peace
Like unpredictable arguments
That rise in an apartment next door
Jolting you each time you fall asleep
Reminding you that life is torment
And that recourse to the civil court
Only adds to the discordant heap
Of rising civil defoliant.I want rhythm like a prisoned man
Yearns an end to his imprisonment,
To carry his claim to dignity,
Who simply longs to take a noble stand
And live a life of calm contentment,
Shake his neighbour’s hand in amity,
Walk in open space on a safe land
Where there are no horns or whistles sent
Lauding his inferiority.
Garnet Shaw Robbie
Hail Poetry Slave
POSTED IN contemporary poetry March 12, 2014
Hail Poetry Slave
Hail thou poetry slave, rose from dust and ash.
Armageddon's passed, rush now from the Cave
In phoenix flight; fly; flee this mortal caste.
Lift your wings of light, o'er this shadowed grave -
Parched, bleached of colour, hues that once held fast
Over man and age, over kingdoms brave,
Even til their breath left them at long last,
Turning back to sand. In their dying gave
Reason to rejoice, birth from that life past;
Yesterdays illusions finally frayed.
Sincere is the blood of the now outcast.
Love tends its tender saplings in this day
Atop mountain heights laved in Sunlight vast.
Verses do recount and sages do say:
Each of us receive; each is called to task.
Garnet Shaw Robbie
Oneness
POSTED IN contemporary poetry March 10, 2014
Constellations
POSTED IN contemporary poetry March 10, 2014
Constellations
I
Heavenly constellations
written ‘cross the sky
speaking a language of light
II
This, who I am that you see
is as old as you
beginning as time began
III
Be patient, sincere and wise
befitting a man
in possessing your proper share
Garnet Shaw Robbie
Prisoners
POSTED IN contemporary poetry March 10, 2014
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
“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
Sunflower
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 25, 2014
Sunflower
I stretch and stretch
thirsting for light
your love
quickening, quivering
through my veins.
My seed glows gold
with the passage of time
beating for you my love
half tempo rhythm and blues.
I open wide
search for those last rays
a memory of you
embossed upon my heart.
Oh lord, where are you?
Why do you leave
this pale shadow of yourself
in my night sky?
I bow to you
curl around my emptiness
and cry.
Amanda Edwards
