Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Words for Departure by Louise Bogan – Poems | Academy of American Poets

Words for Departure

Louise Bogan – 1897-1970


Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.

Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.

Hand clasped hand,
Forehead still bowed to forehead—
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed,
There was no gift nor denial.

I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.

You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.

You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.

You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.

Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.

But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd—strike the thing short off;
Be mad—only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.

And go away without fire or lantern.
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.

Source: Words for Departure by Louise Bogan – Poems | Academy of American Poets

Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón – Poems |

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón – 1976-

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

Source: Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón – Poems |

First Known When Lost: A Thought In Passing

The Mayo Tao

I have abandoned the dream kitchens for a low fire
and a prescriptive
literature of the spirit.
A storm snores on the desolate sea.

The nearest shop is four miles away.
When I walk there
through the shambles of the morning
for tea and firelighters,
the mountain paces me
in a snow-lit silence.

My days are spent in conversation
with stags and blackbirds;
at night fox and badger
gather at my door.

I have stood for hours watching
a salmon doze
in the tea-gold dark,
for weeks watching a spider weave
in a pale light, for months
listening to the sob-story
of a stone on the road —
the best, most monotonous
sob-story I have ever heard.

I am an expert on frost crystals
and the silence of crickets,
a confidant of the stinking shore,
the stars in the mud.

(There is an immanence in these things
which drives me, despite
my scepticism, almost
to the point of speech —
like sunlight cleaving
the lake mist at morning
or when tepid water runs cold at last from the tap.)

I have been working for years
on a four-line poem
about the life of a leaf.
I think it may come out right this winter.

Derek Mahon, Poems 1962-1978 (Oxford University Press 1979).

Source: First Known When Lost: A Thought In Passing

A Longhouse Birdhouse: FEBRUARY ~


A chimney, breathing a little smoke.
The sun, I can’t see
making a bit of pink
I can’t quite see in the blue.
The pink of five tulips
at five p.m. on the day before March first.
The green of the tulip stems and leaves
like something I can’t remember,
finding a jack-in-the-pulpit
a long time ago and far away.
Why it was December then
and the sun was on the sea
by the temples we’d gone to see.
One green wave moved in the violet sea
like the UN Building on big evenings,
green and wet
while the sky turns violet.
A few almond trees
had a few flowers, like a few snowflakes
out of the blue looking pink in the light.
A gray hush
in which the boxy trucks roll up Second Avenue
into the sky. They’re just
going over the hill.
The green leaves of the tulips on my desk
like grass light on flesh,
and a green-copper steeple
and streaks of cloud beginning to glow.
I can’t get over
how it all works in together
like a woman who just came to her window
and stands there filling it
jogging her baby in her arms.
She’s so far off. Is it the light
that makes the baby pink?
I can see the little fists
and the rocking-horse motion of her breasts.
It’s getting grayer and gold and chilly.
Two dog-size lions face each other
at the corners of a roof.
It’s the yellow dust inside the tulips.
It’s the shape of a tulip.
It’s the water in the drinking glass the tulips are in.
It’s a day like any other.
James Schuyler
Collected Poems
Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: FEBRUARY ~

‘B’ Movie (Intro, Poem, Song) – YouTube

Francesco Balsamo e Luc Ferrari – vengodalmare

devo starmene come una piega del foglio
così è la testa al mattino

ancora rivolta
al muro di ieri

aiutare il cielo a sillabbare l’azzurro
e il bianco

con una parola che sta
tra il berretto e la testa

con un fazzoletto
dobbiamo fare una risposta

devo starmene come un nodo a una parola


il cielo
su una candela
adesso ha
l’età di una candela
e la candela ha
un suo odore di diluvio


così ci siamo acquattati
in un angolo

senza intenzione di fare discorsi
solo la comprensione dell’abbraccio


abbiamo il mare appena fuori casa
e tutto è lontano e vicino
e siamo e non siamo sicuri,

ma pensa a tutto il mare,
basta trattenere il respiro –

sempre oggi, oggi sempre
terra terra del mai –
qui tutti insieme facciamo una brezza

da Tre bei modi di sfruttare l’aria –
Francesco Balsamo


Source: Francesco Balsamo e Luc Ferrari – vengodalmare

Seven Songs Sung at Reservoir No. 4, by Christien Gholson at The American Journal of Poetry


Slight ripples cut the pines into cubes, needles

bob in place: a fly’s breath, a faint word spoken


from below? Five dead, six dead, no point of

origin; waves born before before. It’s always


the same deadened faces, for the last one hundred

years, the last two hundred – wearing mourning-


masks, pious, excreting feeble thoughts and

prayers. Someone’s making money somewhere.


Fuck your Prayers is my third song sung, to

drown-out the dead who feed on the dead. . .


Christien Gholson
from Seven Songs Sung at Reservoir No. 4, After Du Fu


Source: The American Journal of Poetry