Poetry Corner

[danasgoodstuff]

Now I really will have to find and post my Hank Mobley poem, along with something by my brother Sam a far better writer than I. Maybe in a seperate thread.

[connoisseur series500]

I tend to steer clear of rankings like "greater than" in poetry, music, painting -- just to leave lots of space for being receptive to the great inventions of those who aren't "as great as..."

So true.

I mentioned Lowell's name within that context only to highlight that he is a must-read.

Here is a sonnet about his daughter:

Harriet

Spring moved to summer--the rude cold rain

hurries the ambitious, flowers and youth;

our flash-tones crackle for an hour, and then

we too follow nature, imperceptibly

change our mouse-brown to white lion's mane,

thin white fading to a freckled, knuckled skull,

bronzed by decay, by many, many suns...

Child of ten, three quarters animal,

three years from Juliet, half Juliet,

already ripened for the night on stage--

beautiful petals, what shall we hope for,

knowing one choice not two is all you're given,

health beyond the measure, dangerous

to yourself, more dangerous to others?

Also from "For Lizzie and Harriet" is this powerful opening sonnet from the Mexico sequence which relates his affair with a young woman:

The difficulties, the impossibilities...

I, fifty, humbled with the years' gold garbage,

dead laurel grizzling my back like spines of hay;

you, some sweet, uncertain age, say twenty-seven,

untempted, unseared by honors or deception.

What help then? Not the sun, the scarlet blossom,

and the high fever of this seventh day,

the predestined diarrhea of the pilgrim,

the multiple mosquito spots, round as pesos.

Hope not for God here, or even for the gods;

the Aztecs knew the sun, the source of life,

will die, unless we feed it human blood--

we two are clocks, and only count in time...

the hand a knife-edge pressed against the future.

Another one from the Mexico sequence. The opening line influenced the opening line of my own poem: "Noonday siesta in Hua Hin."

Midwinter in Cuernavaca, tall red flowers

stand up on many trees; the rock is in leaf.

Large wall-bricks like loaves of risen bread--

somewhere I must have met this feverish pink

and knew its message; or is it that I've walked

you past them twenty times, and now walk back?

The stream will not flow back to hand, not twice, not once.

I've waited, I think, a lifetime for this walk.

The white powder slides out beneath our feet,

the sterile white salt of purity and blinding:

your puffed laced blouse is salt. the red brick glides;

bread for a dinner never to be served...

When you left, I thought of you each hour of the day,

each minute of the hour, each second of the minute.

[king ubu]

How about Langston Hughes? I absolutely love his work! I have nothing at hand, but could post some later. One of my favorites, too!

(and then there's his prose, too. Ever read some of his Simple stories?)

ubu

[maren]

How about Langston Hughes?

“Harlem: A Dream Deferred”

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

Like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

[brownie]

Frank O'Hara.

The Day Lady Died

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday

three days after Bastille day, yes

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner

and I don't know the people who will feed me

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun

and have a hamburger and a malted and buy

an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets

in Ghana are doing these days

in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank

and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)

doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life

and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine

for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do

think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or

Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres

of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine

after practically going to sleep with quandariness

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE

Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and

then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue

and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and

casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton

of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of

leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT

while she whispered a song along the keyboard

to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

[Guest Chaney]

Hope you don't mind -- not a poem but a short prose piece - that I would dearly love to have written - by the wonderful Alison Bundy entitled...

Chihuahua Primer

Every person has an idea or two about chihuahuas. Some people feel it is proper to dress the creatures in festive, seasonal outfits and invite them up on laps for a visit. Others are concerned about the shape of the chihuahua’s skull: its divergence from the common dog skull form causes them worry and even gives a few sensitive souls nightmares. But the chihuahua cannot help it if he has a skull which looks like a simple cap, the type of a cap knit by an unpromising beginning knitter.

The chihuahua, like many other dogs, is not allowed to exercise his will very often. This was different, of course, in ancient times, when chihuahuas ran wild in the forests of northern Mexico and burrowed into the ground there in the deep secret folds of nature. Now and then ladies or men, happening by, lost perhaps, or hunting the colorful hypomyces lactifluorum, would catch sight of the chihuahua and they would clap their hands and emit small cries of pleasure, for the little smooth-haired creatures were considered good luck indeed.

And then at some point – it is difficult to say exactly when, history of this sort being always shrouded in darkness -, at some point unknown to most of us but not, one suspects, to the chihuahua, they were lured out of their forests, promised treats, no doubt, caught in cages, ambushed in the dark of night. Their captors may well have had good intentions, may merely have been down on their luck, in need of a charm to start their way back. Such is the attraction of the chihuahua.

We do not, of course, know the names of their captors, but it is a few mere steps from that violent night to this day, when chihuahuas are carried through cities in boxes and bags; dressed in tutus and clown suits and petted unceremoniously by every Tom, Dick, and Harry, as the saying goes; kept on leashes in parks and required to stand on two legs at odd hours of the day and night, waving their front paws helplessly before themselves.

So it is that for some of us, familiar with chihuahua history, a faint coldness clutches the heart when a Lincoln Towncar pulls beside us, carrying a lady who herself carries upon her lap a chihuahua dressed in a miniature and perfect Santa Claus suit. It is winter, snow begins to fall, the chihuahua’s tender dark eyes look out and meet ours, and we try to signal to the delicate creature, to put into one glance between species knowledge of a distant and honorable past. But already the car has pulled ahead, is turning, the tiny Santa hat rides out of sight, and we must continue on our way in the snow that is falling everywhere, over houses, cars, and people, over the strange heads of the chihuahuas, those beautiful creatures the sight of whom provokes a sense of loss, as they suggest to us another time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Alison Bundy was born in Texas in 1959 and grew up in Unity, Maine. These days she lives in Providence, Rhode Island. Her books are A Bad Business (Lost Roads, 1985) and Tales of a Good Cook (paradigm press, 1992) and DunceCap (Burning Deck, 1998). Alison received her M.A. from the graduate writing program of Brown University.

[chris]

William Matthews wrote some great poems about jazz and musicians. I will post some later when I have time. There is also a dedicated jazz poetry publication tht is interesting-- and some collections on the topic. I realize this thread is not just about jazz related poetry... but still

Some of my favorite poets (writing poetry is my first love, and my taste is relatively diverse): Charles Simic, Sherman Alexie, Galway Kinnell, Ray Carver, Mark Strand, James Wright, Weldon Kees, David Kirby, Pablo Neruda-- I am pretty big into the Romantics (the poets, not the band). I really like prose poetry (or whatever one would want to call it) in all its forms.

I can go on forever on this topic, but I will spare you... for now

[brownie]

Lester Young was pure poetry...

[Late]

Just in case anyone would like a new book of poems to read ...

[Spontooneous]

C'mon, Late! Give us a taste!

(I'm insanely envious.)

[Jim Alfredson]

I heard a story about Mr. Menashe on NPR this weekend. Here's one I like.

Cargo

For Rachel Hadas

Old wounds leave good hollows

Where one who goes can hold

Himself in ghostly embraces

Of former powers and graces

Whose domain no strife mars—

I am made whole by my scars

For whatever now displaces

Follows all that once was

And without loss stows

Me into my own spaces

Samuel Menashe

[paul secor]

A favorite of mine from Gilbert Sorrentino:

A Classic Case

The Moon's a little arch

pasted on black cardboard

just outside his bedroom

window,

lovely Major Hoople.

I swear the room is warm,

the night is cold, the bedspread

turned down has a comfortable

feel,

lovely Major Hoople.

Tomorrow he'll get up, put on

his fez, and stand behind

his gut, the sagging furniture

his friends,

lovely Major Hoople.

Yow! That world

of yours is crumbling away,

the rotary lawn sprayers and The

Neighbors,

lovely Major Hoople.

when will they posess

your useless yard and send

you out to work, to

work!

lovely Major Hoople.

[jazzbo]

The Pax Americana

Over there

Anywhere

You put your oil in jeopardy

We'll be there

(I'll take covert operations for 1500 Alex)

[jazzbo]

Kissing by the candle

Three times

Ritual before leaving

This cool room

Today the passion

Drowns

Today the hunger

Roars

No one leaves.

[jazzbo]

Eat Starch Ma!

Grace Slick

He's just an american boy

& he loves his machine.

No back-talk from a machine.

When was the last time a television set

gave you shit about who

you met last night?

No back-talk machine.

If your motor doesn't turn over

smooth for you, you don't feed it right.

Give it a little grease

--give it a little gas, drive

straight on through the night. Man-made

mechanical mover--

love your machine.

You say

nothing's right but natural things--

you fool.

Poison oak is a natural plant

why don't you

put some in your food.

I don't care if there's chemicals in it

as long as my lettuce is crisp!

Preservatives might just be preserving you,

I think that's something you missed!

Ya you missed it.

Man-made mechanical mover, I love his machine.

He's just an american boy & I love his machine.

Smooth moving steel.

Keep your engine warm & wet

be friendly to your steel.

Feed it right, your mechanical pet

then get behind the wheel.

Put a little starch in the old corvette

then give it a feel.

Smooth moving steel--give it a feel

man-made mechanical mover--it'll move faster than

you can--vegetable lover.

[paul secor]

Not saying that the two threads should be combined - they don't cover exactly the same ground - but people interested in this one might want to check out this one.

[page]

Not saying that the two threads should be combined - they don't cover exactly the same ground - but people interested in this one might want to check out

I understood that thread is about work of famous poets while this one was originally meant for work of the people who are member here? Well, that is why I've posted my musing here anyway. Hope that that was okay.

[Larry Kart]

Not saying that the two threads should be combined - they don't cover exactly the same ground - but people interested in this one might want to check out

I understood that thread is about work of famous poets while this one was originally meant for work of the people who are member here? Well, that is why I've posted my musing here anyway. Hope that that was okay.

OK by me.

[page]

Not saying that the two threads should be combined - they don't cover exactly the same ground - but people interested in this one might want to check out

I understood that thread is about work of famous poets while this one was originally meant for work of the people who are member here? Well, that is why I've posted my musing here anyway. Hope that that was okay.

OK by me.

Thanks.

[page]

I admire the poet William Elsschot, a Flemish poet.
This is my free interpretation/ translation of his poem "Avond".

Evening

Plastered in shades

the arch of sky.

Lark aflutter

all way up high;

flies his vocals in hum

to the colours of sun.

Wind whistles his eve’s chant

amidst the rattan palm.

Trees tall of whisper,

stars there a listener.

Edited November 23, 2013 by page

[jazzbo]

Just for you

I'm a burly man, a manly bear

Looking after my mate

I only want to be

What you want to see

[jazzbo]

Falling

We fall, and we fall hard,

Landing on a hopeful cushion

Of our past, our present, our future.

I believe

I revel

I pray in gratitude.

Now I can at last open my eyes

Looking forward.

[Jim R]

The veteran actor/comedian Larry Miller does a weekly podcast, which includes a regular slot devoted to what he calls (coincidentally) "The Poetry Corner", where he reads classic poetry. Worth a listen, imo.

http://lmblog.adamcarolla.com/

[Larry Kart]

Prompted by a dream, I looked again at a book by a fairly obscure poet Katherine Hoskins (1909-88) that I stumbled across years ago and liked (Robert Lowell did, too) and found the two lines of hers that stuck in my mind from a poem called an “An Environment.” They’re the last two lines of this first stanza:

Down in the basement with the bargain-hunting
Parents — while they prowl wild-eyed
Piles of glad rags, piles of mourning weeds,
Ill-fitting, out of date and very dear —
The children scamper mud-coloured fields
Of floor, ancient in grime and cambered like
An oily sea. Half lost amid incessant
Legs and feet, they play they’ve lost each other —
Hide back of night-gowns dripping off a counter,
Under a fallen coat or skirt; there mute
And breathless stay till found. Interminably
Found and finders start the game again;
For as the big ones put on parent masks,
Files of babies stagger to the gaps.


Hoskins can get clotted at times, the poem's second stanza almost grinds to a halt, but when she breaks into the open...

[danasgoodstuff]

Lester Young was pure poetry...

I totally agree, poetry v. prose is a much better capture of the difference twixt he and Hawkins than the more usual horizontal v. verticle