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#21
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I, Too, Sing America
by Langston Hughes I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed-- I, too, am America. |
#22
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Robert Frost
The Mending Wall Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." |
#23
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#24
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Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. |
#25
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[ QUOTE ]
Wordsworth: The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. [/ QUOTE ] Man, I love Wordsworth |
#26
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Its a song but he is considered a Poet
LEONARD COHEN LYRICS "Anthem" The birds they sang at the break of day Start again I heard them say Don't dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be. Ah the wars they will be fought again The holy dove She will be caught again bought and sold and bought again the dove is never free. Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in. We asked for signs the signs were sent: the birth betrayed the marriage spent Yeah the widowhood of every government -- signs for all to see. I can't run no more with that lawless crowd while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud. But they've summoned, they've summoned up a thundercloud and they're going to hear from me. Ring the bells that still can ring ... You can add up the parts but you won't have the sum You can strike up the march, there is no drum Every heart, every heart to love will come but like a refugee. Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in. Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That's how the light gets in. That's how the light gets in. That's how the light gets in. |
#27
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I suffered a horrible loss almost a year ago. I read and think of this poem often.
The Ball Poem by John Berryman What is the boy now, who has lost his ball, What, what is he to do? I saw it go Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then Merrily over—there it is in the water! No use to say 'O there are other balls': An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down All his young days into the harbour where His ball went. I would not intrude on him, A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now He senses first responsibility In a world of possessions. People will take balls, Balls will be lost always, little boy, And no one buys a ball back. Money is external. He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes, The epistemology of loss, how to stand up Knowing what every man must one day know And most know many days, how to stand up And gradually light returns to the street A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight, Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere, I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move With all that move me, under the water Or whistling, I am not a little boy. |
#28
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here's one of my all-time faves; by Yusef Komunyakaa
My Father's Love Letters On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax After coming home from the mill, & ask me to write a letter to my mother Who sent postcards of desert flowers Taller than men. He would beg, Promising to never beat her Again. Somehow I was happy She had gone, & sometimes wanted To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou Williams' "Polka Dots & Moonbeams" Never made the swelling go down. His carpenter's apron always bulged With old nails, a claw hammer Looped at his side & extension cords Coiled around his feet. Words rolled from under the pressure Of my ballpoint: Love, Baby, Honey, Please. We sat in the quiet brutality Of voltage meters & pipe threaders, Lost between sentences . . . The gleam of a five-pound wedge On the concrete floor Pulled a sunset Through the doorway of his toolshed. I wondered if she laughed & held them over a gas burner. My father could only sign His name, but he'd look at blueprints & say how many bricks Formed each wall. This man, Who stole roses & hyacinth For his yard, would stand there With eyes closed & fists balled, Laboring over a simple word, almost Redeemed by what he tried to say. Written by Yusef Komunyakaa |
#29
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Jack Kerouac - Chinese Poem Song
(if you search for "Warren Zevon Chinese Poem Song" on iTunes, you'll hear a version recorded by Warren Zevon for the Kerouac tribute CD Kicks, Joy, Darkness that's absolutely amazing) Running Through - Chinese Poem Song O I today Sad as Chu Yuan Stumbled to the store In broiling Florida October Morning heat cursing For my wine, sweating Like rain, & came to my chair Weak & trembling Wondering if I'm crazy at last - O Chu Yuan! No! No suicide! Wine please wine! What shall we all do All knowing we're dying Without wine to guide us To winking at death & life too -- My heart belongs To Chinese poets & their scrolls We cant just die --Men need wine & poetry at least O Mao, poet Mao, Not Boss Mao, Here in America Wine is laughed at & poetry a joke --Death's a grim reminder to everybody already dead crashing in cars all around here- Here men & women dryly scowl At poets' sad attempts To make our lot Lesser- I, a poet, suffer Even for bugs I find upsidedown Dying in the grass- So I drink wine Alone- I shudder to think How dead The astronauts Are Going to a dead Moon Of no wine All our best men Are laughed at In this nightmare land But the newspapers preen In virtue-Throughout The world the left & right, The east & west, are both vicious- The happy old winebibber is gone- I want him to reappear- For Modern China preens In virtue too For no better reason Than America- Nobody has respect for the cat Asleep, and I am hopelessly Inadequate in this poem -Nobody has respect for the self centered irresponsible wine invalid -Everybody wants to be strapped in a hopeless space suit where they cant move -I urge you, China, go back to Li Po & Tao Yuan Ming What am I talking about? I don't know, I'm sick today- I didn't sleep all night, Walked stumbling in the field To get wine, now I'm drinking it, I feel better and worse- I have something to say to Mao & the poets of China that wont come out- It's all about how America Ignored poetry & wine, & so does China, & I'm a fool without a river & a boat & a flower suit- without a wineshop at dawn -Without self respect- - -Without the truth- but I'm a better man than all of you- that's what I wanted to say |
#30
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[ QUOTE ]
[ QUOTE ] Wordsworth: The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. [/ QUOTE ] Man, I love Wordsworth [/ QUOTE ] Ironic, because this week I have been quoting that very Auden poem you cite above. Seems we have similar tastes. |
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