Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Anna Akhmatova, “Everything Is Plundered…” – Rethink.

"Everything Is Plundered..."
Anna Akhmatova (tr. Kunitz & Hayward)

Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?

By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.

And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses--
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.

Source: Anna Akhmatova, “Everything Is Plundered…” – Rethink.

The Old Cottagers by John Clare | First Known When Lost

The Old Cottagers

The little cottage stood alone, the pride
Of solitude surrounded every side.
Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall;
A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all
The space between.  —  Green light did pass
Through one small window, where a looking-glass
Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed
A spacious landscape and a blooming field.
The pasture cows that herded on the moor
Printed their footsteps to the very door,
Where little summer flowers with seasons blow
And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow.
The cuckoo that one listens far away
Sung in the orchard trees for half the day;
And where the robin lives, the village guest,
In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest
Of the coy nightingale was yearly found,
Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground;
And little chats that in bean stalks will lie
A nest with cobwebs there will build, and fly
Upon the kidney bean that twines and towers
Up little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.

There a lone couple lived, secluded there
From all the world considers joy or care,
Lived to themselves, a long lone journey trod,
And through their Bible talked aloud to God;
While one small close and cow their wants maintained,
But little needing, and but little gained.
Their neighbour’s name was peace, with her they went,
With tottering age, and dignified content,
Through a rich length of years and quiet days,
And filled the neighbouring village with their praise.

John Clare, in Edmund Blunden and Alan Porter (editors), John Clare: Poems Chiefly from Manuscript (Cobden-Sanderson 1920).

Source: First Known When Lost

America Today, in Vision and Verse – The New York Times

What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use

ADA LIMÓN

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,

black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.

They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.

You say they look like arks after the sea’s

dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,

and I think of that walk in the valley where

J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,

No. I believe in this connection we all have

to nature, to each other, to the universe.

And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,

low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,

and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,

woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.

So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,

its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name

though we knew they were really just clouds—

disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

 

 

“Horizon Over the Sea, Horizon Over the Land” by Koichiro Yamauchi | Versoteque

Horizon Over the Sea, Horizon Over the Land

 

1

 

Hey, poet.  You, mankind.

In this disaster, what did you see?

 

Did you see the man who lost his family, lost his home, lost his hometown, lost Japan—did you see his fist wiping away his tears?

 

Did you see the terrifying face of radiation?  The profile?

 

Did you see the man, his hometown lost, Japan lost, nestling his cheek upon the cow he’s raised, crying.

Shrinking from the once-familiar breeze and earth,

did you stare into the sandbox where no one is playing?

Did you see the walnut tree, which was cut down

because people feared an aftershock would topple it?

Can your poems recover the lost families, homes, hometowns, Japan? Can they comfort the man wiping his tears, his fist wiping them away, his hometown lost to him, Japan lost to him, the man crying and nestling his cheek on his cherished cow? Can they restore the once-familiar breeze and earth? Can they bring back the children to the sandbox?

 

(continued ) at Versoteque

 

A Longhouse Birdhouse: EARNED HERMITAGE ~

Letter To The Next Landowner

 

You won’t keep it up like we did

Not to worry — we did it for a half century

 

The stone hut, the sturdiest looking, will go first

I built it for our son — earth to earth

 

The house we re-built from ground to ridge

All the time it made the most perfect sense

 

A minister and his wife owned the house before we did

He not only sold us the house, he married us

 

The land was cut & mowed & planted & moved & loved

Every day of our lives, but don’t believe it

 

The land will tell you —

We are buried here

 

Our bones are the stones to be found

Wait for the wind

Bob Arnold

BEAUTIFUL   DAYS
Longhouse

Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: EARNED HERMITAGE ~

“The Poet with His Face in His Hands” by Mary Oliver | 3quarksdaily

The Poet with His Face in His Hands

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need anymore of that sound.

So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

by Mary Oliver
from The New Yorker

Source: 3quarksdaily: Sunday Poem

Have we been taught poetry all wrong? | PBS NewsHour

I Wake Up Before the Machine
By Matthew Zapruder

I wake up before the machine
made of all the choices
we are together not making
lights up this part of Oakland
it’s dark so I can imagine
another grid humming in the east
already people are deciding
I lie in the western
pre-decision darkness and almost
hear that silent voice
saying go down there
the coffee needs you
to place it in the device
its next form will help you remember
daylight is coming
but dreams do not go away
they just move off and change
your mind is a tree
on a little hill
surrounded by grasses
that look up and say
father wind
loves moving through you

 

Poet Matthew Zapruder say that we are too often asked to find the “hidden meanings” in poems, as if a poem is a riddle.

Source: Have we been taught poetry all wrong? | PBS NewsHour