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Archive for the ‘Write’ Category

Top 10 Poems of 2011

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 12/29/2011| Leave a Comment »

1. Ithaca

2. I Walked a Mile with Pleasure

3. The Lost Son

4. Ithaca (video)

5. The Serpent

6. After a While

7. Love Me Like You Never Loved Before

8. Deathless Aphrodite of the Spangled Mind

9. Giving Up

10. The Unicorn

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Poem of the Day: In My Hollow Bones

Posted in Nina Alvarez, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 12/27/2011| Leave a Comment »

In my hollow bones
I heard her
Like a bone woman
A lisp

Her eyes were green
And I see now
How I thought I was beautiful
Compared to him
But she was beautiful
Compared to me

And he would chose her

In my head
And in the hall of my roots
Where the dead grow and the old
Plays are memorialized on tapestry

The mold is only slight, there is a
Magic that keeps this terrible truth alive

In all I wanted, in all these years, I thought
I found something to aspire to, that is a line
From a book, I suspect, some bland platitude
But it piques my interest because

I am the tom cat
In the celebrity showcase

I am the one cartooned

She is the plaster goddess, the thing on the wall
She is the face that said no
And now smiles and so
Who could say no to her?

She is the power play, I am merely the one who
Stood next to him

I am the one who has offered
She has asked to be given

And no matter what I do
it is always me
who must be cast out
To the far corners

Me as always
In every one of these stories
In the deep dank room of roots
Untried, unloved, unwon, uncarried
The woman in the background

Fading away already, always light of hair, light of skin

A ghost

-Nina Alvarez

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Poem of the Day: Poem 3

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 12/08/2011| 1 Comment »

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think…and think… while you are alive.
If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive,
do you think
ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic
just because the body is rotten —
that is all fantasy.
What is found now is found then.
If you find nothing now,
you will simply end up with an apartment in the City

of Death.
If you make love with the divine now, in the next life
you will have the face of satisfied desire.
So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is,

Believe in the Great Sound!
Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for,

it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest that
does all the work.
Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.

-Kabir

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Poem of the Day: Untitled [I talk to my inner lover]

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 11/24/2011| Leave a Comment »

I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such
rush?
We sense that there is some sort of spirit that loves
birds and animals and the ants–
perhaps the same one who gave a radiance to you in
your mother’s womb.
Is it logical you would be walking around entirely
orphaned now?
The truth is you turned away yourself,
and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others, and have forgotten
what you once knew,
and that’s why everything you do has some weird
failure in it.

-Kabir

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Poem of the Day: Affirmation

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 11/05/2011| Leave a Comment »

Once in a while I will come across an unpublished poem – or one will be sent to me – by a talented but unpromoted writer. It is my honor to showcase them to you, especially this poem by Mary Harker.

Affirmation

“If anyone here
knows a reason why
these two should not be wed
let him speak now.”
Of course, at this wedding
these words weren’t spoken.

At this wedding
on our porch above the beach
the words told of a chance meeting,
attraction, loyalty, and love.
They spoke of difficulty
and of gratitude.

I watched the slight caress of fingers
the quick meetings of eyes
the soft interplay of smiles.
Beyond, waves crested, rolled in
to spill themselves across the sand.
Sun parted the clouds.

A man on the beach,
his camera pointed our way
dashed here and there to get pictures.
He had a smile on his face
delighted, I think, by these two
in their matching white jackets.

-Mary Harker

About Mary
I began writing poetry at age 43, received a Master’s Degree in English with an emphasis on poetry from San Diego State at age 53, and now teach a Poetry Workshop for adults 50 and above through OASIS. I was married for 27 years, have 3 children and 8 grandchildren.

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Poem of the Day: How Many Miles to Babylon?

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 10/31/2011| Leave a Comment »

How many miles to Babylon?
Three-score and ten.
Can I get there by candle-light?
Yes, there and back again.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You will get there by candle-light.

-Old English Nursery Rhyme

 

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Poem of the Day: Metaphors of a Magnifico

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Wallace Stevens, words, Write, Writer, writing on 10/25/2011| 2 Comments »

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages,
Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.

This is old song
That will not declare itself . . .

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are
Twenty men crossing a bridge
Into a village.

That will not declare itself
Yet is certain as meaning . . .

The boots of the men clump
On the boards of the bridge.
The first white wall of the village
Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking?
So the meaning escapes.

The first white wall of the village . . .
The fruit-trees . . .

 

-Wallace Stevens

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Poem of the Day: There Was a Child Went Forth

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Whitman, Write, Writer, writing on 09/28/2011| Leave a Comment »

THERE was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him.

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d—and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls—and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.

His own parents,
He that had father’d him, and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb, and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part of him.

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture—the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d—the sense of what is real—the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves—the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide—the little boat slack-tow’d astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itself—the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.

-Walt Whitman

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Poem of the Day: Work Without Hope

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 09/09/2011| Leave a Comment »

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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Poem of the Day: Because I’ll Die

Posted in Nina Alvarez, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 09/05/2011| 1 Comment »

Because I’ll die

I’ll die and someday this will all be gone
This spot
My clients
This class
Rachel Ephraim
Josh’s apartment
Scott, Scott’s cat
All of Rochester
Mike and his house in the suburbs
All those feelings I thought were so real

I could just keep caring
Caring about everything
About every word
Said or imagined
About every thoughts or feeling
Weighed against me
About every idea here or there that cannot be understood
I can make it matter so much
And yet

I will die

And even Nick will be gone
And these young handsome men
With tattoos on their backs
Who are walking by
And the people who take themselves seriously
Or don’t
And the beauty
In so many faces
The beauty they don’t know

The need to be right
Or recriminate
The need to feel my family
Should have been there
Or the universe should have provided
A safer net
Or that I was wrong
Or right
At any turn
To just feel like the silence isn’t enough

To feel wrong
Or right
Is just
Nothing

Because is it over
Already
Already it
Never happened
Already
There is no person to be mad at
There is no person to receive
The anger

There is no recrimination
There is no wrong or right
In what I did or did not do
In what they did or did not do

It was all just form
Taking its turn
Around the dance floor

And I’ll die
So it’s okay

And I’ll die, Josh,
So it’s okay you didn’t love me

And I’ll die, Rachel
So it’s okay you will go away

And I’ll die, Amber
So it’s okay that you don’t like me

And I’ll die, Betsy
So it’s okay

And I’ll die, Victor
So it’s already okay

And I’ll die, Mom,
So thank you for giving me life

And I’ll die, Dad,
So thank you for supporting this child’s body

And I’ll die, Rochester,
Hometown, with all your welcome and unwelcome
Your kindness and tiredness

And I’ll die, and so will you, and it will one day be as
If neither had been here at all

None of these grilled cheese sandwiches
None of these gray-haired women who love their food so much

And the youth and beauty of the Latin women and their text books
And the sun of the June day in this double-numbered year
And if people think I am crazy
And if people think I am lazy
And if people will not respect me
And if the person that is Nina Alvarez will not respect herself
And if the money continues to dwindle
And if it goes out like a candle
And if the nerves in her cheeks were sallow

And if the look in her eyes was haunted
And if she hadn’t the tools to fix their griefs
And if she hadn’t the tools to save a heart
And if she hadn’t the tools to make the world move

And if she felt or was small
And if she had little or was poor
and if she showed up in this strange world with all sorts of weird feelings
that made her tingle but had little resonance
if she did not reconcile while she was here
the things in her head to the things of the earth
if she did not reconcile
the things in her head to the things of the earth
and even if she did
reconcile
the things of her heart to some things

even if she did

it is okay

 

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