Recommend a Poem

[GuiltyPleasure]

Speaking of.... how do you pronounce this one - Balliol College?

And that Devon place - whoa, how do you get from the original to that?

oddly enough - much as it looks - bail-ee-oll.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Speaking of.... how do you pronounce this one - Balliol College?

And that Devon place - whoa, how do you get from the original to that?

Balliol I think is Bayleeoll

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Balliol I think is Bayleeoll

jinx

 

[legerdemer]

Listen

Listen
-by Charles Simic
from That Little Something, 2008

Everything about you,
My life, is both
Make-believe and real.
We are a couple
Working the night shift
In a bomb factory.

"Come quietly," one says
To the other
As he takes her by the hand
And leads her
To a rooftop
Overlooking the city.

At this hour, if one listens
Long and hard,
One can hear a fire engine
In the distance,
But not the cries for help,

Just the silence
Growing deeper
At the sight of a small child
Leaping out of a window
With its nightclothes on fire.

 

[RunningJib]

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

I love the first stanza

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.​

I found the above here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43187

Loreena McKennitt has created a wonderful song of the above: "The Highwayman"

 

[legerdemer]

I love Loreena's rendition of the song - a favorite of mine. A very sad and beautiful song.

I love the first stanza

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.​

I found the above here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43187

Loreena McKennitt has created a wonderful song of the above: "The Highwayman"

 

[RunningJib]

Richard Brautigan

I discovered Richard Brautigan in high school via "Trout Fishing In America" and then fell in love with his poetry

Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:

Playing with Gentle Glass Things
A

Computer Magic
A

Writing Letters to Those You Love
A

Finding out about Fish
A

Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty
A+!​

 

[RunningJib]

Like A Door

Hinged To Forgetfulness Like A Door - Poem by Richard Brautigan

Hinged to forgetfulness
like a door,
she slowly closed out of
sight,
and she was the woman I loved,
but too many times she slept like
a mechanical deer in my caresses,
and I ached in the metal silence
of her dreams.

 

[Tzara]

I'm currently reading a book by Ada Limón and was looking up biographical material about her online when I came across this poem (one not in the book I'm reading):

Safe From Trains
Ada Limón

She thinks her body is a white hallway
through which people walk on their way
to something finer, apartment 8A
or, god forbid, 12B that smells always of
cabbage and European tobacco.

Her husband, before he left, said he
liked to fuck her as if she was tied
to railroad tracks and this train, bigger
than the local strip mall, was roaring
around the corner.

She asked once, Is it the Union Pacific?
But he said it didn’t have a name.
Do you untie me in the end? She asked.
I never thought that far ahead, he said.

She told him, But every woman tied
on the tracks needs a hero, right?
Look, He said, It’s not like that,
it’s not a love story, it’s not so complicated.


Source: Blackbird, Fall 2005​

One of the things I like about this poem is how it uses the word "fuck" to characterize the relationship between the narrator and her (then) husband. The brutishness of the verb leads perfectly into the description of their conversation. So many of the poems here use "fuck" or other, similar words as if simply the use of the word itself is erotic (my own included, of course). It's nice to see a poet use the word in a more meaningful fashion, one that contributes to the overall impact of the poem.

 

[todski28]

I'm currently reading a book by Ada Limón and was looking up biographical material about her online when I came across this poem (one not in the book I'm reading):

Safe From Trains
Ada Limón

She thinks her body is a white hallway
through which people walk on their way
to something finer, apartment 8A
or, god forbid, 12B that smells always of
cabbage and European tobacco.

Her husband, before he left, said he
liked to fuck her as if she was tied
to railroad tracks and this train, bigger
than the local strip mall, was roaring
around the corner.

She asked once, Is it the Union Pacific?
But he said it didn’t have a name.
Do you untie me in the end? She asked.
I never thought that far ahead, he said.

She told him, But every woman tied
on the tracks needs a hero, right?
Look, He said, It’s not like that,
it’s not a love story, it’s not so complicated.


Source: Blackbird, Fall 2005​

One of the things I like about this poem is how it uses the word "fuck" to characterize the relationship between the narrator and her (then) husband. The brutishness of the verb leads perfectly into the description of their conversation. So many of the poems here use "fuck" or other, similar words as if simply the use of the word itself is erotic (my own included, of course). It's nice to see a poet use the word in a more meaningful fashion, one that contributes to the overall impact of the poem.

In my opinion a very, very good poem,
The word fuck and subsequent conversation as you say is perfectly balanced, using the set up of the metaphor to then fully explain what she means in the dialogue is good craft. Thanks for putting this one up.

The problem with the word "fuck" these days its lost its shock value unless you balance it out. I've had conversations with people that use the word evevy fourth or fith utterance of a syllable, like the word um....

So with the potency having lost some of its effect it is almost as everyday as any other word. But this gives a great example of using it to jarring effect on the reader. It isn't the word but the context and connotation around it.

Just my two cents anyway

 

[greenmountaineer]

"Fuck" is an interesting word. A female colleague of mine who was Austrian, an accomplished artist, although on a part-time basis, and very much a Bohemian, once lamented the word more often than not was expressed as anger, rather than love.

 

[legerdemer]

"Fuck" is an interesting word. A female colleague of mine who was Austrian, an accomplished artist, although on a part-time basis, and very much a Bohemian, once lamented the word more often than not was expressed as anger, rather than love.

I agree with her. Even when used to denote sex, it often conveys sex as punishment, or one sided pleasure.

 

[oggbashan]

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Read by himself:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mRec3VbH3w

By Anthony Hopkins:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jIfK809B0Qs

By Richard Burton:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DLqN1RvfUc

A few years ago I performed this poem on the stage on our local university's theatre.

 

[Tzara]

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Read by himself:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mRec3VbH3w

By Anthony Hopkins:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jIfK809B0Qs

By Richard Burton:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DLqN1RvfUc

A few years ago I performed this poem on the stage on our local university's theatre.

You left off the last stanza, Ogg:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

[KatieJones]

You left off the last stanza, Ogg:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I can't hear the word rage without the words of this poem swarming my mind.

 

[oggbashan]

You left off the last stanza, Ogg:

Thank you. The website I copied it from had left it off too - and I didn't notice.

I'm ashamed of myself. I KNOW that poem.

 

[Piscator]

Source: Blackbird, Fall 2005[/indent]One of the things I like about this poem is how it uses the word "fuck" to characterize the relationship between the narrator and her (then) husband. The brutishness of the verb leads perfectly into the description of their conversation. So many of the poems here use "fuck" or other, similar words as if simply the use of the word itself is erotic (my own included, of course). It's nice to see a poet use the word in a more meaningful fashion, one that contributes to the overall impact of the poem.

In my opinion a very, very good poem,
The word fuck and subsequent conversation as you say is perfectly balanced, using the set up of the metaphor to then fully explain what she means in the dialogue is good craft. Thanks for putting this one up.

The problem with the word "fuck" these days its lost its shock value unless you balance it out. I've had conversations with people that use the word evevy fourth or fith utterance of a syllable, like the word um....

So with the potency having lost some of its effect it is almost as everyday as any other word. But this gives a great example of using it to jarring effect on the reader. It isn't the word but the context and connotation around it.

Just my two cents anyway

A sign of the times, in the Shaw Festival's production ot Pygmalion last year the line "walk not bloody likely" which shocked the London theater in1914 is now "walk not fucking likely."

 

[Piscator]

sometimes BOING is better than fuck

Love at Roblin Lake

Al Purdy

My ambition as I remember and
I always remember was always
to make love vulgarly and immensely
as the vulgar elephant doth
& immense reptiles did
in the open air, openly
sweating and grunting together
and going
“BOING BOING BOING”
making
every lunge a hole in the great dark
for summer cottagers to fall into at a later date
and hear inside faintly (like in a football
stadium when the home team looses)
ourselves still softly
going
“boing boing boing”
as the vulgar elephant doth
& immense reptiles did
in the star-filled places of earth
that I remember we left behind long ago
and forgotten everything after
on our journey into the dark

A line from Wikipedia on Al - Bukowski once said: "I don't know of any good living poets. But there's this tough son of a bitch up in Canada that walks the line."

 

[DanielMark]

Love at Roblin Lake

Al Purdy

My ambition as I remember and
I always remember was always
to make love vulgarly and immensely
as the vulgar elephant doth
& immense reptiles did
in the open air, openly
sweating and grunting together
and going
“BOING BOING BOING”
making
every lunge a hole in the great dark
for summer cottagers to fall into at a later date
and hear inside faintly (like in a football
stadium when the home team looses)
ourselves still softly
going
“boing boing boing”
as the vulgar elephant doth
& immense reptiles did
in the star-filled places of earth
that I remember we left behind long ago
and forgotten everything after
on our journey into the dark

A line from Wikipedia on Al - Bukowski once said: "I don't know of any good living poets. But there's this tough son of a bitch up in Canada that walks the line."

Oh, such a wonderful poem!

 

[oggbashan]

Marlowe and Raleigh

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
By Christopher Marlowe


Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.


The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd
By Sir Walter Raleigh

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

 

[Tzara]

These recent poems are quite excellent, but I would like to remind posters of the OP's statement establishing this thread:

Say why you chose to recommend the poem you picked. What do you like or not like about it? Is there something interesting in the poem--format, punctuation, language, imagery, etc.--that you want to mention? If you pick a poem that we've all probably seen many times over ("Plums" by William Carlos Williams or "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer Day" by Shakespeare, for example), show us something new or different about that poem!

Make sure you give full credit to the author. Their name and your source for it (book, website, etc.), should appear with the poem.

It's great you've posted a poem. Tell us why that poem means something special to you, please. It could be, with Ogg's post of "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" that he performed it. But tell me how that felt to you.

What is it, particularly, about these poems that snagged your interest?

 

[greenmountaineer]

Meditation on a Grapefruit
BY CRAIG ARNOLD

To wake when all is possible
before the agitations of the day
have gripped you
To come to the kitchen
and peel a little basketball
for breakfast
To tear the husk
like cotton padding a cloud of oil
misting out of its pinprick pores
clean and sharp as pepper
To ease
each pale pink section out of its case
so carefully without breaking
a single pearly cell
To slide each piece
into a cold blue china bowl
the juice pooling until the whole
fruit is divided from its skin
and only then to eat
so sweet
a discipline
precisely pointless a devout
involvement of the hands and senses
a pause a little emptiness

each year harder to live within
each year harder to live without


In our hurried up existence, we seldom take the time "to be in the moment." In fact, many deride such an idea, if not in words, by their actions. This poem, one of my favorites, reminds me to spend at least a little time each day to "be," rather than "become."

 

[Piscator]

Meditation on a Grapefruit
BY CRAIG ARNOLD

To wake when all is possible
before the agitations of the day
have gripped you
To come to the kitchen
and peel a little basketball
for breakfast
To tear the husk
like cotton padding a cloud of oil
misting out of its pinprick pores
clean and sharp as pepper
To ease
each pale pink section out of its case
so carefully without breaking
a single pearly cell
To slide each piece
into a cold blue china bowl
the juice pooling until the whole
fruit is divided from its skin
and only then to eat
so sweet
a discipline
precisely pointless a devout
involvement of the hands and senses
a pause a little emptiness

each year harder to live within
each year harder to live without


In our hurried up existence, we seldom take the time "to be in the moment." In fact, many deride such an idea, if not in words, by their actions. This poem, one of my favorites, reminds me to spend at least a little time each day to "be," rather than "become."

Thanks GM, I had not come across this before and it will probably come to mind when I next have a grapefruit.

It reminded me of a certain American Sentence you posted a while ago.

Bodhisattva

Nothing's the Noun I hear without sound when the verb is am where I sit.

 

[Piscator]

Love at Roblin Lake

Al Purdy

My ambition as I remember and
I always remember was always
to make love vulgarly and immensely
as the vulgar elephant doth
& immense reptiles did
in the open air, openly
sweating and grunting together
and going
“BOING BOING BOING”
making
every lunge a hole in the great dark
for summer cottagers to fall into at a later date
and hear inside faintly (like in a football
stadium when the home team looses)
ourselves still softly
going
“boing boing boing”
as the vulgar elephant doth
& immense reptiles did
in the star-filled places of earth
that I remember we left behind long ago
and forgotten everything after
on our journey into the dark

A line from Wikipedia on Al - Bukowski once said: "I don't know of any good living poets. But there's this tough son of a bitch up in Canada that walks the line."

Following up on Tzara's comments, this poem is from an anthology "Lords of Winter and Love 1983 edited by Barry Callaghan. I am unable to find a link to it online.

I inserted the poem in this conversation as I felt it fit well with the discussion of "fuck" and showed how there are alternatives.

I came across Al Purdy in my late teens - early twenties, probably first from his poem "Winter Walking" which includes the lines

in a pile of old snow
under a high wall
a patch of brilliant
yellow dog piss
glows and joins
things in the mind.

He was one of the first poets I came across who was Canadian and was way outside what I'd been exposed to English 101 (the last English course I ever took). I never saw him in person but did hear his friend Milton Acorn at the Bullring while at the University of Guelph.

 

[oggbashan]

These recent poems are quite excellent, but I would like to remind posters of the OP's statement establishing this thread:It's great you've posted a poem. Tell us why that poem means something special to you, please. It could be, with Ogg's post of "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" that he performed it. But tell me how that felt to you.

What is it, particularly, about these poems that snagged your interest?

"Do Not Go Gentle..."? Yes, I went on a course to present poetry live on stage. The other poems didn't make a real impression on me. However we tried they didn't have the impact of Dylan Thomas. Do Not Go Gentle was the easiest to present and get an audience reaction. The others? They worked better read by yourself not to an audience.

Marlowe and Raleigh?

I like the contrast between two poets' view. One of my first personal books of poetry was William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience and that gave me an appreciation of opposing viewpoints of the same event.

Both Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh had very eventful lives. Marlowe's poem was harking back to Arcadian fantasies; Raleigh was pointing out the reality. Both knew that a Shepherd's life was far from ideal. Both knew that poetic convention was that a shepherd's life was idyllic and that was nonsense.

Marlowe was possibly writing in the Arcadian vein and there are hints that he didn't believe it. Raleigh parodied Marlowe's poem.

I think the two poems should always go together as examples of the sort of interaction that took place between poets during the reign of the first Queen Elizabeth. Taken together they are almost like a madrigal with voices competing.