A Few Moments
–Tomas Tranströmer (translated by Robert Bly)
Posted in moment, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer on 07/18/2007| Leave a Comment »
Posted in hull, lynda, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer, writing on 07/17/2007| Leave a Comment »
Posted in joy, poem, poem of the day, poetry, power, Symborska, Write, Writer, writing on 07/16/2007| Leave a Comment »
The Joy Of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence – this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
-Symborska
Posted in jil, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, print, Write, Writer on 07/13/2007| Leave a Comment »
PRINT
i.
bloodred plate
ii
woodblock cut and inked
brazen with thick color
pressed to a blanket of paper
so the fine calligraphy of scars
marks a textured
sheet
iii
swapped left to right
not the line but the line the line leaves
otherhanded
iv
i leaned close over the page
tracing light as dark shape
to transfer to the block
how would it look
without its shadings?
v
twenty interesting failures kept
in a folder by the bench
and this one?
vi
inked bloodshadows and empty space
vii
i drink coffee at the bench
inks and wet rollers pushed
back a stack of proofs pulled
a progression the woodcut
carved corrected in stages
tested black on white until
i’m moved to color and
richer paper
viii
brightflash stamps a redburn
afterimage on the eye that slowly
fades yes paper lays
atop the woodblock
her back to you while you
burnish her back thoroughly
press her to the ink slowly peel
a corner back
ix
spread to dry
x
of many one
astonishes how the
toolmarks printed how
the farcorner too lightly
inked looks overexposed
i stare for hours
xi
proof
Posted in here, paley, poem, poem of the day, poet, Write, Writer on 07/12/2007| Leave a Comment »
HERE
Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
how did this happen
well that’s who I wanted to be
at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sitting
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration
that’s my old man across the yard
he’s talking to the meter reader
he’s telling him the world’s sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips
-Grace Paley
Posted in donne, love, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer on 07/11/2007| Leave a Comment »
The Baite
Come live with mee, and bee my love,
And wee will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and christall brookes,
With silken lines, and silver hookes.
There will the river whispering runne
Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the Sunne.
And there the’inamor’d fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swimme in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channell hath,
Will amorously to thee swimme,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seene, beest loath,
By Sunne, or Moone, thou darknest both,
And if my selfe have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legges, with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poore fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowie net:
Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleavesilke flies
Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.
For thee, thou needst no such deceit,
For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait;
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas, is wiser farre than I.
-John Donne
Posted in breton, long, Nina Alvarez, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer on 07/10/2007| Leave a Comment »
The Long Line, Breton
We write because
We write because
It is expected of us
(as is love)
Listen, you conspirators
Armed with sheets
I’ve taken it all too literally
Wrapped in dummy blanket
Goethe never had a request
Like yours
He told himself what was enough
We write because
We write because
The sound within us so deep
Anchors and moors a big moon to it.
Gorgeous quest
That can never be completed
Take your stockings off
Let love be your animal.
-Nina Alvarez
Posted in by Susan Howe, howe, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, silence, susan, Write, Writer on 07/09/2007| Leave a Comment »
Pythagorean Silence (an excerpt)
1.
age of earth and us all chattering
a sentence or character
suddenly
steps out to seek for truth fails
falls
into a stream of ink Sequence
trails off
must go on
waving fables and faces War
doings of the war
manoeuvering between points
between
any two points which is
what we want (issues at stake)
bearings and so
holes in a cloud are minutes passing
which is
which
view odds of images swept rag-tag
silver and grey
epitomes
seconds forgeries engender
(are blue) or blacker
flocks of words flying together tense
as an order
cast off to crows
-Susan Howe
Posted in if, kipling, man, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, rudyard, Write, Writer on 07/07/2007| 1 Comment »
If—
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream–and not make dreams your master;
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run–
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!
-Rudyard Kipling
Posted in auden, love, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, star, Write, Writer on 07/06/2007| Leave a Comment »
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
-W. H. Auden