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A nice little poem amidst the rampant nationalism of the Olympics from my favourite book of poetry, Mexico City Blues by Jack Kerouac:
51st Chorus
America is a permissible dream,
Providing you remember ants
Have Americas and Russians
Like the Possessed have Americas
And little Americas are had
By baby mules in misty fields
And it is named after Americus
Vespucci of Sunny Italy,
And nobody cares how you hang
Your spaghetti wash
On the Pasta Rooftops
Of Oh Yawn Opium
Fellaheen Espagna
Olvierto Milano
Afternoon, when men
gamble & ramble & fuck
and women watch the wash
with one eye on the grocer boy
and one eye on the loon
and one eye
in the universe
is Tathagata’s
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My personal favorite is Frost's "The Road Not Taken". It carries some deep meaning for me, and it flows so silky when read allowed.
*Warning: blatant tomfoolery above this line
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Posts: 378
Threads: 8
Joined: Mar 2013
Under Fair Use for educational purposes:
Workshop
"Where have you been," says my old friend the poet,
"and what have you been doing?" The question
weighs and measures me like an unpaid bill,
hangs in the air, waiting for some remittance.
Well, I've been coring apples, layering them
in raisins and brown sugar; I've been finding
what's always lost, mending and brushing,
pruning houseplants, remembering birthdays.
The wisdom of others thunders past me
like sonic booming; what I know of the world
fits easily in the palm of one hand
and lies quietly there, like a child's cheek.
Spoon-fed to me each evening, history
puts on my children's faces, because they
are the one alphabet all of me reads.
I've been setting the table for the dead,
rehearsing the absence of the living,
seasoning age with names for the unborn.
I've been putting a life together, like
supper, like a poem, with what I have.
Rhina P. Espaillat
Posts: 42
Threads: 15
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I love me this one...yum, yum, yummy!
The Ninth Elegy
Rainer Maria Rilke
Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely
in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all
other green, with tiny waves on the edges
of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze)–: why then
have to be human–and, escaping from fate,
keep longing for fate? . . .
Oh not because happiness exists,
that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.
Not out of curiosity, not as practice for the heart, which
would exist in the laurel too. . . . .
But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.
And so we keep pressing on, trying to achieve it,
trying to hold it firmly in our simple hands,
in our overcrowded gaze, in our speechless heart.
Trying to become it.–Whom can we give it to? We would
hold on to it all, forever . . . Ah, but what can we take along
into that other realm? Not the art of looking,
which is learned so slowly, and nothing that happened here. Nothing.
The sufferings, then. And above all, the heaviness,
and the long experience of love,– just what is wholly
unsayable. But later, among the stars,
what good is it–they are better as they are: unsayable.
For when the traveler returns from the mountain-slopes into the valley,
he bings, not a handful of earth, unsayable to others, but instead
some word he has gained, some pure word, the yellow and blue
gentian. Perhaps we are here in order to say: house,
bridge, fountain, gate, pitcher, fruit-tree, window–
at most: column, tower. . . . But to say them, you must understand,
oh to say them more intensely than the Things themselves
ever dreamed of existing. Isn’t the secret intent
of this taciturn earth, when it forces lovers together,
that inside their boundless emotion all things may shudder with joy?
Threshold: what it means for two lovers
to be wearing down, imperceptibly, the ancient threshold of their door–
they too, after the many who came before them
and before those to come. . . . ., lightly.
Here is the time for the sayable, here is its homeland.
Speak and bear witness. More than ever
the Things that we might experience are vanishing, for
what crowds them out and replaces them is an imageless act.
An act under a shell, which easily cracks open as soon as
the business inside outgrows it and seeks new limits.
Between the hammers our heart
endures, just as the tongue does
between the teeth and, despite that,
still is able to praise.
Praise this world to the angel, not the unsayable one,
you can’t impress him with glorious emotion; in the universe
where he feels more powerfully, you are a novice. So show him
something simple which, formed over generations,
lives as our own, near our hand and within our gaze.
Tell him of Things. He will stand astonished; as you stood
by the ropemaker in Rome or the potter along the Nile.
Show him how happy a Thing can be, how innocent and ours,
how even lamenting grief purely decides to take form,
serves as a Thing, or dies into a Thing–, and blissfully
escapes far beyond the violin.–And these Things,
which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient,
they look to us for deliverance: us, the most transient of all.
They want us to change them, utterly, in our invisible heart,
within–oh endlessly–within us! Whoever we may be at last.
Earth, isn’t this what you want: to arise within us,
invisible? Isn’t it your dream
to be wholly invisible someday?–O Earth: invisible!
What, if not transformation, is your urgent command?
Earth, my dearest, I will. Oh believe me, you no longer
need your springtimes to win me over–one of them,
ah, even one, is already too much for my blood.
Unspeakably I have belonged to you, from the first.
You were always right, and your holiest inspiration
is our intimate companion, Death.
Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future
grows any smaller . . . . . Superabundant being
wells up in my heart.
You can't hate me more than I hate myself. I win.
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."
Posts: 845
Threads: 57
Joined: Aug 2013
(03-05-2014, 06:32 PM)NobodyNothing Wrote: I love me this one...yum, yum, yummy!
The Ninth Elegy
Rainer Maria Rilke
Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely
in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all
other green, with tiny waves on the edges
of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze)–: why then
have to be human–and, escaping from fate,
keep longing for fate? . . .
Oh not because happiness exists,
that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.
Not out of curiosity, not as practice for the heart, which
would exist in the laurel too. . . . .
But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.
And so we keep pressing on, trying to achieve it,
trying to hold it firmly in our simple hands,
in our overcrowded gaze, in our speechless heart.
Trying to become it.–Whom can we give it to? We would
hold on to it all, forever . . . Ah, but what can we take along
into that other realm? Not the art of looking,
which is learned so slowly, and nothing that happened here. Nothing.
The sufferings, then. And above all, the heaviness,
and the long experience of love,– just what is wholly
unsayable. But later, among the stars,
what good is it–they are better as they are: unsayable.
For when the traveler returns from the mountain-slopes into the valley,
he bings, not a handful of earth, unsayable to others, but instead
some word he has gained, some pure word, the yellow and blue
gentian. Perhaps we are here in order to say: house,
bridge, fountain, gate, pitcher, fruit-tree, window–
at most: column, tower. . . . But to say them, you must understand,
oh to say them more intensely than the Things themselves
ever dreamed of existing. Isn’t the secret intent
of this taciturn earth, when it forces lovers together,
that inside their boundless emotion all things may shudder with joy?
Threshold: what it means for two lovers
to be wearing down, imperceptibly, the ancient threshold of their door–
they too, after the many who came before them
and before those to come. . . . ., lightly.
Here is the time for the sayable, here is its homeland.
Speak and bear witness. More than ever
the Things that we might experience are vanishing, for
what crowds them out and replaces them is an imageless act.
An act under a shell, which easily cracks open as soon as
the business inside outgrows it and seeks new limits.
Between the hammers our heart
endures, just as the tongue does
between the teeth and, despite that,
still is able to praise.
Praise this world to the angel, not the unsayable one,
you can’t impress him with glorious emotion; in the universe
where he feels more powerfully, you are a novice. So show him
something simple which, formed over generations,
lives as our own, near our hand and within our gaze.
Tell him of Things. He will stand astonished; as you stood
by the ropemaker in Rome or the potter along the Nile.
Show him how happy a Thing can be, how innocent and ours,
how even lamenting grief purely decides to take form,
serves as a Thing, or dies into a Thing–, and blissfully
escapes far beyond the violin.–And these Things,
which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient,
they look to us for deliverance: us, the most transient of all.
They want us to change them, utterly, in our invisible heart,
within–oh endlessly–within us! Whoever we may be at last.
Earth, isn’t this what you want: to arise within us,
invisible? Isn’t it your dream
to be wholly invisible someday?–O Earth: invisible!
What, if not transformation, is your urgent command?
Earth, my dearest, I will. Oh believe me, you no longer
need your springtimes to win me over–one of them,
ah, even one, is already too much for my blood.
Unspeakably I have belonged to you, from the first.
You were always right, and your holiest inspiration
is our intimate companion, Death.
Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future
grows any smaller . . . . . Superabundant being
wells up in my heart.
A nice selection. I have a favorite quote by Rilke that I may use to preface a poem in the works:
“If we surrendered to earth's intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees. ”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
Welcome to the site!/Chris
My new watercolor: 'Nightmare After Christmas'/Chris
Posts: 42
Threads: 15
Joined: Mar 2014
Hi. I'm glad that one speaks to you as well. I also like the quote you mentioned.
What I was personally drawn to in Rilke was the mesmeric quality of his poetic voice, which is amazing considering that I read him in translation. I found the Stephen Mitchell translations to be the best in this regard so far. Maybe there have been even better ones since. I don't know.
What I adore about the Ninth Elegy is his attempt to give poetic credence/legitimacy to what might be called the transcendent. In this age we live in, I find it almost impossible to do so, perhaps because I have so taken to heart and mind all that we have come to learn of this existence of ours. To put it starkly, modern scientific knowledge/discoveries, if really taken to heart and mind, have posed incredible challenges/restrictions to the modern imagination in this regard, at least an imagination to be taken seriously.
Anyway...best to you.
You can't hate me more than I hate myself. I win.
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."
Posts: 1,548
Threads: 942
Joined: Dec 2016
[youtube]q90JPFgMS7E[/youtube]
(02-12-2014, 06:05 AM)newsclippings Wrote: Everyone starts somewhere:
![[Image: 4566999408_a4ee43a9ed.jpg]](http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4050/4566999408_a4ee43a9ed.jpg)
Awh... That one's really quite sweet. And the drawing too 
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe
Posts: 1,323
Threads: 82
Joined: Sep 2013
ssshhhhh. 
For Owen By Stephen King
Walking to school you ask me
what other schools have grades.
I get as far as Fruit Street and your eyes go away.
As we walk under these yellow trees
you have your army lunch box under one arm and your
short legs, dressed in combat fatigues,
make your shadow into a scissors
that cuts nothing on the sidewalk.
You tell me suddenly that all the students there are fruits.
Everyone picks on the blueberries because they are so small.
The bananas, you say, are patrol boys.
In your eyes I see homerooms of oranges,
assemblies of apples.
All, you say, have arms and legs
and the watermelons are often tardy.
They waddle, and they are fat.
"Like me," you say.
I could tell you things but better not.
That watermelon children cannot tie their own shoes;
the plums do it for them.
Or how I steal your face --
steal it, steal it, and wear it for my own.
It wears out fast on my face.
It's the stretching that does it.
I could tell you that dying's an art
and I am learning fast.
In that school I think you have already
picked up your own pencil
and begun to write your name.
Between now and then I suppose we could
someday play you truant and drive over to Fruit Street
and I could park in a rain of these October leaves
and we could watch a banana escort the last tardy watermelon
through those tall doors.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
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Daily Express
I've seen the poison letters of the horrible hacks
About the yellow peril and the reds and the blacks
And the TUC and its treacherous acts
Kremlin money - All right Jack
I've seen how democracy is under duress
But I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
I've seen the suede jack boot the verbal cosh
Whitehouse Whitelaw whitewash
Blood uptown where the vandals rule
Classroom mafia scandal school
They accuse - I confess
I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
Angry columns scream in pain
Love in vain domestic strain
Divorce disease it eats away
The family structure day by day
In the grim pursuit of happiness
I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
This paper's boring mindless mean
Full of pornography the kind that's clean
Where William Hickey meets Michael Caine
Again and again and again and again
I've seen millionaires on the DHSS
But I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
John Cooper Clark
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
e.e.cummings
Posts: 170
Threads: 53
Joined: Jan 2013
from Something Happened by Andy Falkous
...and it's the same thing
over and over and over and over,
the classic tale of love:
boy meets girl,
ignores girl,
kills girl in tragic accident,
is haunted by girl
in woodland vista nightmares;
or perhaps, it's just the blood talking.
Posts: 42
Threads: 15
Joined: Mar 2014
(03-07-2014, 04:28 AM)jeremyyoung Wrote: Daily Express
I've seen the poison letters of the horrible hacks
About the yellow peril and the reds and the blacks
And the TUC and its treacherous acts
Kremlin money - All right Jack
I've seen how democracy is under duress
But I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
I've seen the suede jack boot the verbal cosh
Whitehouse Whitelaw whitewash
Blood uptown where the vandals rule
Classroom mafia scandal school
They accuse - I confess
I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
Angry columns scream in pain
Love in vain domestic strain
Divorce disease it eats away
The family structure day by day
In the grim pursuit of happiness
I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
This paper's boring mindless mean
Full of pornography the kind that's clean
Where William Hickey meets Michael Caine
Again and again and again and again
I've seen millionaires on the DHSS
But I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express
John Cooper Clark
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
e.e.cummings
Ooh...I like that cummings poem. Nice choice. What a delicate beauty of a poem. Thanks for bringing to my attention.
You can't hate me more than I hate myself. I win.
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."
errr do we have to post them?
and death shall have no dominion -thomas
the road not taken -frost
the raven -poe
jabberwocky -dodgson/carrol
charge of the light brigade -tennyson
that's my top five and probably in that order...cummings would be next and after that hard to say.
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Threads: 1
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Traveling through the Dark
By William E. Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
Posts: 439
Threads: 285
Joined: Nov 2011
a poem by michael mcneilly:
the you the water remembers
-----------------------------------
we took the bumper jack with us into the lake
to anchor our swimsuits
and swam skin to skin
until the day reddened past noon
and when I pretended I couldn't find
our underwater locker
you stood and walked right up onto the beach
less red than I
the water closed behind you like
the fog that rolls in over Alcatraz
and my pride cost me
a bumper jack and some swimsuits that day
but I walked out too
tried to shrug off the water and the sun
with an assurance akin to your own
and we dressed in the sand
it's the one thing I remember best about you
20 years since
and I haven't a single picture except
this one to recall
the you the sun bathed in splendor
the you the water
remembers
i used to know a lotta stuff, but i still have eight cats
Posts: 1,323
Threads: 82
Joined: Sep 2013
Two great ones. Thanks for posting them, JG and ray, I think they'll both stick with me.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
Posts: 845
Threads: 57
Joined: Aug 2013
Nice gesture and wonderful poem that you posted from your friend who passed away recently ray. My sympathies are with you and I am grateful for the post.
My new watercolor: 'Nightmare After Christmas'/Chris
Posts: 17
Threads: 6
Joined: Mar 2014
My Sister Laura
My sister Laura's bigger than me
And lifts me up quite easily.
I can't lift her, I've tried and tried;
She must have something heavy inside.
Spike Milligan
Posts: 1,280
Threads: 187
Joined: Dec 2016
Hart Seely created a ready-made from U. S. secretary of defense Donald Rumsfield's news briefing 02/12/2002
As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know.
Another ready-made taken from the NY times crossword puzzle assembled by Peter Valentine
vacation
[across]
there is a car
and in that car there is
[down]
a person and a person and a person
and
far in the distance
the
[answers]
timeshare
Posts: 378
Threads: 8
Joined: Mar 2013
Quote:As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know.
So typical. One giant abstraction 
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