Alan Dugan Telling Me I Have A Problem With Time
He reads my latest attempt at a poem
and is silent for a long time, until it feels
like that night we waited for Apollo,
my mother wandering in and out of her bedroom, asking,
Haven't they landed yet? At last
Dugan throws it on the table and says,
This reads like a cheap detective novel
and I've got nothing to say about it. It sits,
naked and white, with everyone's eyes
running over it. The week before
he'd said I had a problem with time,
that in my poems everything
kept happening at once. In 1969,
the voice of Mission Control
told a man named Buzz
that there was a bunch of guys turning blue
down here on Earth, and now I can understand
it was with anticipation, not sickness. Next,
Dugan says, Let's move on. The attempted poem
was about butterflies and my recurring desire
to return to a place I've never been.
It was inspired by reading this
in a National Geographic: monarchs
stream northward from winter roosts in Mexico,
laying their eggs atop milkweed
to foster new generations along the way.
With the old monarchs gone (I took this line as the title)
and all ties to the past ostensibly cut
the unimaginable happens--butterflies
that have never been to that plateau in Mexico
roost there the next winter. . . .I saw this
as a metaphor for a childhood I never had,
until Dugan pointed out
that metaphor has been dead for a hundred years.
A woman, new to the workshop, leans
behind his back and whispers, I like it,
but the silence is seamless, as deep
as outer space. That night in 1969
I could turn my head from the television and see
the moon
filling the one pane over the bed completely
as we waited for Neil Armstrong
to leave his footprints all over it.
poem by Nick Flynn
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Related quotes
Neil Armstrong-The Astronaut
Wright brothers first started the race,
Then was launched the Sputnik in space.
Twelve years later in the year 1969,
Man set foot on the distant moon—so fine.
Astronaut Neil Armstrong in space craft
Apollo-11 with co-pilot Edwin E.Aldrin were aloft
In space, and victoriously landed on the moon,
Steering their lunar landing craft ‘Eagle', soon.
On the moon near the ‘Sea of Tranquility'
They printed their foot-steps for eternity.
The first person was Neil Armstrong,
To step on moon, and his words, us throng—
"That's one small step for(a) man—
One giant leap for mankind."
His simple sentence was a corrasion,
Above the Earth's national divisions and dissensions
For more than two hours was the moon-walk mirth,
Where the gravity is one sixth that of the Earth.
This Apollo—11 mission successfully made,
Capped a disarrayed and consequential decade.
Back home, Neil Armstrong was in his business,
And in his academia he found good success.
He was remarkable in his vocation,
And who with lot of proud served the nation.
We are now very heart-broken to hear,
That at eighty two he is no more here.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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English teacher
every seat in room 340 was taken
when mr. dugan entered
first day of teaching full-time
in a newly opened high school
the kids eyed skinny dugan
fresh out of teacher training
teach this guy a thing or two
they thought
won't know what hit him
poor chump teach
mr dugan had a trick or two
of his own
the word for him was not
part of their vocabulary
in school or out
a lycanthrope he was
transition from man to wolf
was easy for him
a few shudders
and the sight of prey
transformed dugan
into a ravening beast
of prey from teacher
at the front of the room
to hairy animal
out for fresh blood
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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The Poem Is A Metaphor
THE POEM IS A METAPHOR
The Poem is a Metaphor
It means ‘the world’
It means ‘all that there is’
It means ‘the soul’
It means ‘our deepest feeling’.
The Poem is a Metaphor
It is more than what it just appears to be
It takes on a life of its own
It says more than it can define itself as
The Poem is a Metaphor
And it itself does not understand
Where it began and how it will end
And whether or not
It should always be rewritten.
The Poem is a Metaphor
And we too are metaphors
That will vanish one day
When all the real Poems
Pretend to still be here.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Was A Poem I Waited To Be Inspired By
THERE WAS A POEM I WAITED TO BE INSPIRED BY
There was a poem I waited to be inspired by -
I heard it once and then again and again
And each time it reminded me
That elsewhere there were others who knew how to believe in life-
And so I told myself
I would try to write down one day
A poem of my own
Which would give others hope also.
Now writing this I think of myself as a kind of fiction-
But what great poems of hope and faith there have been
And what great voices mankind has known-
It almost makes one believe
That such a voice can come again
Even if it is not necessarily my own-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Fabrication Of Ancestors
For old Billy Dugan, shot in the ass in the Civil War, my father said.
The old wound in my ass
has opened up again, but I
am past the prodigies
of youth’s campaigns, and weep
where I used to laugh
in war’s red humors, half
in love with silly-assed pains
and half not feeling them.
I have to sit up with
an indoor unsittable itch
before I go down late
and weeping to the storm-
cellar on a dirty night
and go to bed with the worms.
So pull the dirt up over me
and make a family joke
for Old Billy Blue Balls,
the oldest private in the world
with two ass-holes and no
place more to go to for a laugh
except the last one. Say:
The North won the Civil War
without much help from me
although I wear a proof
of the war’s obscenity.
poem by Alan Dugan
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Prison Song
The skin ripples over my body like moon-wooed water,
rearing to escape me. Where could it find another
animal as naked as the one it hates to cover?
Once it told me what was happening outside,
who was attacking, who caressing, and what the air
was doing to feed or freeze me. Now I wake up
dark at night, in a textureless ocean of ignorance,
or fruit bites back and water bruises like a stone.
It’s jealousy, because I look for other tools to know
with, and other armor, better girded to my wish.
So let it lie, turn off the clues or try to leave:
sewn on me seamless like those painful shirts
the body-hating saints wore, the sheath of hell
is pierced to my darkness nonetheless: what traitors
labor in my face, what hints they smuggle through
its arching guard! But even in the night it jails,
with nothing but its lies and silences to feed upon,
the jail itself can make a scenery, sing prison songs,
and set off fireworks to praise a homemade day.
poem by Alan Dugan
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The Prisoner Of War
he waited from night to night
he waited till the son started peeling over the horizon
he waited till he heard the morning birds chirp
he waited for a long time
he waited for his father
his father lost at war
his father he knew since he was born
but as time grew
the boy felt so weary
the boy waited and waited and waited
his mother giving him the same face
the same face when his father left
and the same face when he didn't comeback
but the boy did not notice this
the boy never knew his dad has been lost
but until
until he strayed up one night
a night he would never forget
he saw his father walking about in the streets
his uniform on but he noticed something else
his father had many medals
but he knew nothing of them
all that he cared about was his father was home
the boy waited 10 years
his mother fell asleep in tears
for all those years
but then he finally came home
this poem is dedicated to all POW
poem by Montana Hohensee
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Making Of A Poem
What's a poem?
It's a metaphor, it's a metaphor,
What's a metaphor?
'It is a device for seeing something in terms of something else.
It brings out the thisness of that, or a thatness of this.'
How do I write a metaphor?
Think of rain as the cry of the heavens,
Think of love as a rose,
Think of burning candle as the agony of a lonely heart.
How do I piece together metaphors?
On a moonlit night, I see my love reflected in the moon's silvery light,
Holding her tight, I smell the fragrance of jasmine tonight,
Adoring her smile, I see the beauty of monarch butterflies,
Staring in her eyes, I see the oasis of love in my high desert lonely life.
How do I write a poem?
I love her but have not a spoken a word.
You have the inspiration, put in some romantic words.
On a beautiful moon lit night, I wonder who is prettier,
When I look at you, I forget about the moon.
Knit together love, loneliness, fear and tears of heart,
Into a beautiful tapestry of emotions and feelings that mask your heart,
Stitch some metaphors, make it a heartwarming comforter.
poem by Jay P Narain
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In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Kaleidoscope and Harpsichord
As I've told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.
Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then,
my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I'm simply trying to hear
what I'm saying and don't care
if I understand it.
The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I'd improve.
'After all, ' she said,
'you've been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
Point well taken,
point well said.
But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem
only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
'looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
What should he do-quit?
'Not a chance, '
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.
'He should write even more,
all day and all night, if need be.
After all, ' she said, 'my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It's all meat, no gristle, no fat.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Last Man On The Moon
I just can't seem to concentrate today
It seems my mind is wandering away
And all the things swimming through my head
Fade away as I go back to bed.
And I close my eyes
And see how fast time flies
'Cause sunrise comes too soon.
I'm never out of bed before noon
Waking up too late seems too soon
And I could never be Neil Armstrong
I'd be the last man on the moon
I used to live in a world of black and white
Until my dreams turned day into night
And now I'm never out of bed before noon
Waking up too late seems too soon
I close my eyes
And wait for the surprise
In a place I know I belong
In my head I can do no wrong
I could never be Neil Armstrong
I'd be the last man on the moon
song performed by by Sr-71 from Now You See Inside
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Night She Reads My Poems
one night she reads some of my poems
those that speak about leaving
images of sunset and dusk
a bird flying away from the cage
a stone thrown to space like one tennis ball
at night
something that is gone away
for good
she feels each line and well
every metaphor she understands
and she asks me if i have something to tell her
i smile and like Robert i play nice and then i utter the most
philosophical word in the entire history of humanity:
'nothing'
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Winter Poem Is A Cold Poem
THE WINTER POEM IS A COLD POEM
The winter poem is a cold poem
It is a poem seeking warmth
It wants to feel a comfort
In being at home
But the cold is deep
And so dark
And the pain so rigid in its breaking
That no light can heat it
And no sun can thaw it
And nothing not even the bright blue skies of another time
Can make one forget it.
The winter poem is a hard poem and a cold poem
And the soul of that poem is as loveless as death.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Waited So Long
I waited so long 9 months in fact, the birth it felt like an attack
I waited so long to turn my back, on childhood and 12 years intact
I waited so long to turn 16, get a car exploit the dream
I waited so long to find a girl, the one I'd love and begin a world
I waited so long to graduate, leave behind an untold fate
I waited so long to be married, no longer a child to be carried
I waited so long to learn a craft, then came along our nations draft
I waited so long to turn 21, end adolescence, adult life begun
I waited so long to be a Dad, raise a child, my heart feel glad
I waited so long to have a son, feel proud inside new line begun
I waited so long to be a grandparent, love a child and not be errant
I waited so long to get this far to find myself, with many a scar
Life's a challenge, and that's a fact, but time is short, so compact
Life goes on the wrinkles I hate, the pounds put on, just won't wait
No longer to wait, from now on I happen,
Others can wait, It's energy I'm sappin'
poem by Daniel Lloyd Kennedy
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Mexico
Way down here you need a reason to move
Feel a fool running your stateside games
Lose your load, leave your mind behind, baby james
Oh, mexico
It sounds so simple I just got to go
The suns so hot I forgot to go home
Guess Ill have to go now
Americano got the sleepy eye
But his bodys still shaking like a live wire
Sleepy seorita with the eyes on fire
Oh, mexico
It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low
Moons so bright like to light up the night
Make everything all right
Babys hungry and the moneys all gone
The folks back home dont want to talk on the phone
She gets a long letter, sends back a postcard; times are hard
Oh, down in mexico
I never really been so I dont really know
Oh, mexico
I guess Ill have to go
Oh, mexico
I never really been but Id sure like to go
Oh, mexico
I guess Ill have to go now
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Really Impatient Poem
Some poems are impatient things!
Yes, they pace up and down!
And while they're waiting in the wings
They're prone to wear a frown...
One poem woke me up one night
And dragged me out of bed!
I trembled on the floor with fright,
Enraged and seeing red...
The poem stood there, pen in hand,
With paper I could use,
Determined I should understand
That I must not refuse...
'I've waited long enough! ' he said,
'Get started straight away! '
I started crawling back to bed,
But he forced me to stay!
He held my feet and wouldn't quit!
'O.K.! ' I told him straight,
He spoke the title bit by bit...
I said, 'That's great... just great! '
He babbled on and line by line,
I wrote it word for word,
Of course I know it wasn't mine,
For that would be absurd...
'Thank God, it's done! ' the poem smiled,
'At last it's time to rest...'
He dropped my feet, no longer wild,
As if he had been blessed...
'One day the world will read this verse!
My thoughts in every home! '
Forgive me if I'm feeling terse,
He was one nutty poem!
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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We Didn't! : : Humour
They've been to the moon and back six times, no less
Got dropped off and picked up, I was impressed
For many years, I never questioned this outstanding feat
Didn't even know others thought there had been a deceit
But recently I started reading what the sceptics had to say
I pondered, I wondered, had we really been betrayed
The flag fluttering in the breeze, footprints etched in dry dust
Shadows at all angles, could it be explained without fuss
“Mythblusterers” attempted to convince us on TV
Except on television, again, there may be tricks you can't see
Prove it on television, come on, it’s got to be done live
With investigators checking and watching that nothing’s been contrived
It was claimed the fluttering flag was under centripetal force
And they even proved it (on television) , I laughed myself hoarse
The footprint: that was explained using magical dust
How this powder was made, well, we were just asked to trust
Will Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin go to their grave
With the truth still locked inside, or could they be so brave
To become honest men and let everyone hear
That they never landed on our neighbouring sphere
(Sydney, Australia - 2009)
poem by Alessandra Liverani
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Butterflies For Breakfast? (Life Poem)
Butterflies before you sit the final exam,
Butterflies before you go for a job interview,
Butterflies before you ask her out on a date,
Butterflies before you kiss her for the first time,
Butterflies before you propose two will be one,
Butterflies before you meet her family,
Butterflies before you see her all in white,
Butterflies before you make that big speech,
Butterflies before you see that your baby is OK,
Butterflies before you get news from the doctor,
Butterflies before you lose your job again,
Butterflies before you face any little crisis,
But -
No butterflies for breakfast.
poem by Ian Beckett
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Walnut Tree
Once there was a great storm
Pushed my head beneath the waves, I was gone
Underneath the walnut tree
Where you said you'd wait for me
And I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
Why, why do I come here?
Seeking out the memories I handed
Cause you put your spell on me
Made me live a memory
And I'm frozen in just the wrong time
I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
I waited a long, long time
song performed by by Keane
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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