At The Bar-Code Ranch
A stellar job in the bullpen
C.B.S. Baseball
I lie in a converted garage, sun coming up
and the chuck-chuck of unfamiliar birds
from Lake Mizell.
The lamp grows ineffectual
under a skylight; the great world
washes in, humid, composed of small numbered parts.
Sometime after nine, the classical music station stops
for the landing of a space shuttle
a sonic boom
shakes the bungalow
and Vladomir Horowitz
is abruptly terminated.
Yesterday, at New Smyrna, north of Canaveral:
knotted shoreline
looking out from a timbered interior
on the Atlantic;
driving inland on Local 40,
a two-lane, the Beach Boys on air,
to Winter Park, inches above the water table.
Today, flying north, from Florida’s eighty degrees
to Washington’s forty-something
a river far below
in South Carolina.
Salt-pork and black-eyed beans
“soul food” – and cheap – in D.C’s low
where U.S. presidents
fall like leaves . . .
Consume and Die!
Wednesday
under the pines
looking out over the waters of Potomac
a torn Bush-Quayle poster in the grass
the morning after the election,
and down on Canal St
a bag of crushed Busch beer cans
reminds me that poetry exists.
Up at 3040 R St N.W.
where the leaf vacuum cleaners roam,
three cards from New York!
The sun descends
through Mt Pinatubo clouds,
its weird rays on Georgetown,
glass to the south,
Arlington’s tower blocks
Confederate and Republican (still).
Meanwhile there is art to look at (Hirschorn Museum):
the hand, thrust forward,
of Ernst Barlach’s
streamlined (and sentimental)
“Begging Woman”
in which someone has placed a dime
– all it takes
to stitch up expressionism.
I liked better
the pieces by Balla
‘Boccioni’s Fist’
and the nice little things
by Henri Laurens
their mild
three-dimensional cubism.
A postcard from Sarah
features a moose, lettered CANADA,
though it’s from Australia
and the New York letters
(a room to stay in in Brooklyn!
drinks with some people.
The world, its streets, places, people
(a title
from Edwin Denby?
No, that was
‘Dancers, Buildings, and People in the Street’.
Maybe it was Larry Eigner?
I’ve no way of checking.
The Dewars and Gordon’s Gin bottles
sitting on a shelf in this basement
are huge, flagons almost, so very American:
The World and its Drinks
(the comment August made
in England, up in the Peak District,
confronted with folk rituals:
“Where’s
the bar?”
a ritual enough.
Auden’s clock ticked towards martini time.
My friends in their various places
bear with me
stretched out in a bedroom
which a door, cunningly concealed, separates
from the condo laundromat.
Our yuppie neighbours upstairs
dropp dumbells – I think – on the floorboards.
In this suburb, they say,
the Clinton/Gore voters are basement dwellers
like us,
light off to the south
through the claret ash
brighter as we tilt
away from the sun and the leaves fall
– that line about the world and its streets,
was it William Bronk?
the catalogue of American poets
not yet on autoshred
though who’ll be laureate
in the new administration?
(Ed Dorn once suggested
Robert Bly for Hubert Humphrey
as if poetry
were a parody of presidential style
(and now
somebody has put together an anthology
of “poems for men” . . .
(in Australia
we did that long ago: it was called
‘Poems of Spirit and Action’
– John Forbes
had it at school, still prefers it
to the ones with close-ups of flower stamens
opposite poems by William Carlos Williams.
It was raining in the capital
and radio heartbreak was on,
Respighi
“laugh or cry music”
as Terry McGrath
would have it.
I have ruined our landlord’s floor with oven cleaner
(photo: close-up: a container of oven cleaner)
Tonight I eat with the lawyers
on Capitol Hill
while the President packs his clothes.
Actually, the Respighi
is developing more into laughter mode,
its overblown pictorialism.
What’s this bit?
A conga chain of
ex-presidents in bathrobes
enter a steaming sauna
flanked by unsmiling CIA types.
Cut to close-up of incumbent
(played by Frankie Howerd).
T-shirted in this basement
(photo: T-shirt)
I feel no need to go out. It’s 46 degrees.
But I do (go out)
across mean streets to the Law Center
and thence, a restaurant,
where a loud tool of the employers
down one end of the table
seems suddenly like a kid
arguing over a football.
Autumn so vivid
the stars and stripes washed out
against the yellow.
I cross Dumbarton Bridge
toward Dupont Circle,
Rock Creek Parkway below
only weeks from icing up,
black branches over the creek.
At Dupont, leave exposed film,
walk down Massachusetts and K
to the Greyhound terminal
and further, to Union Station
taking in the character some guy said
this city lacks.
K St past Thomas Circle grows funky,
urban wreckage round the bus terminal.
Subway to Farragut North, and on
up Connecticut to pick up photos
(photo: photos)
In the afternoon, sweep leaves
off the back porch (a screen door
slams!).
The sky darkens,
branches, parts of buildings
picked out by light.
The photographs, taken months back
seem ancient:
Manchester late summer,
Dentdale, Durham,
faces of
Jonathan, Tom, Roy,
Joyce, Tony and Ric
(Hadrian’s Wall, its hill forts built to
prefabricated plans,
gates opening onto nowhere;
moss on the rocks at Godrevy;
outcrops on the gritstone edge, Winster . . .
One summer displaced since
by the tail of another.
When things go wrong
the Ginsberg line (in Philip Whalen)
about “severance pay”
i.e. “there wasn’t much
severance pay in that”
seems to apply
in instalments, to life here
in this capital
where everything has its hidden cost
(Rosemary’s clothes
dry-cleaned and dismembered;
upstairs
a pre-adolescent party:
10 year olds
with their own fax machines
and probably more than a notion of litigation.
At 4 a.m. there is peace to read
about the Wobbly strikes in Paterson N.J.
but later the yuppies stomp above our heads again
so that I feel like shouting
“stop drinking coffee”
Hal Roach is dead
– the man who put
Laurel and Hardy together, incredibly still alive
till just now.
He lived to see movies become boring.
And my father
dressed for Shakespeare, circa 1920,
on the cover of my first book;
the backdrop: dry grass,
weathered grey trunks up the hill;
an impossible country I try to picture segments of
in detail
lose them soon enough.
There is no plot
unlike Coronation Street
“better than real life and only
ninety minutes a week” (Jonathan Williams)
The morning cold and clear
after rumoured flurries.
I remember some 19th century painting
of Washington under snow (by Eastman Johnson?)
sentimental in ‘de ole plantation’ mode
– cold air that makes the head to hurt
though the sky is bright over Oak Hill Cemetery,
the beggars more assertive on the lips of escalators.
Fifty-one auto license plates spell out
the preamble to the constitution of the United States
at the Smithsonian,
and Frank O’Hara looks out
from a Larry Rivers painting, very present
here amid the art he loved
a memorial to him
by Grace Hartigan
“Grace to be born
and live as variously as possible . . .”
– words which could be attributed
to (the Rev.) Howard Finster
his fountains issuing from faucets,
a river of blood just that
though the source
may be a cut finger
and plenty more “just folks”
whom circumstance and vision worked through
so that they figured how art could be done
(as I write now on Rosemary’s sleeping shoulder
arranging a table to jot in haste though not to disturb)
– something happens
that you walk away from
as you walk away from your own history
my father: the cover of a book
my mother: a gold ring
enigmatic, unsequenced
for plot or rhetoric,
more interesting
when decontextualized than as ‘psychology’
(the t.v. character last night
who went to analysis because
her mother and father hadn’t given her a hard time).
Anything can be fixed here (even poetry)
though nobody wants to do it anymore
(fix things that is, not write poetry,
everybody wants to do that).
We work our way (walk away) through breakfast cereals
(freedom of choice!)
and I like the ad
where a guy in surgical outfit
on an emergency ward set, says
“I’m not really a doctor, but . . .”
(days after the election
the new president appears in a soap opera
as a plot device.
I pour myself a gin,
listen to Earl Bostic – Coltrane’s mentor –
thinking I have patched the drafty cracks
so that Washington’s night will be kept out of this condo
and wondering how to duplicate
the American ‘r’ and ‘a’
so that cab drivers will get our address right
and my name will be spelled correctly
by petty officials.
Earl Bostic and Bill Doggett:
sounds that would ‘invoke’ (if I were Robert Duncan)
instead ‘remind’ me of Ken Bolton,
now probably waking up in Adelaide,
even this moment cleaning his teeth,
a thought balloon above his head
(‘thot balloon’ Duncan would say,
the figure of Ken rising through the poem
like the Corn God . . .
As in ‘One Night in Washington’,
the record where Charlie Parker
played the wrong tune over an unaccustomed backup
and they had to figure out what he was doing
– the pianist slightly haywire, feeling for tempo and key
as Parker doubles up, oblivious,
knowing where he’s going
so ‘The Poem’
leaves behind
any notion of what its Arnoldian simile
is about
– just one manner of
jumpin in the Capital
(better than jogging in the capital
though less characteristic I guess –
and waves to its friends on another shore,
dancers, buildings and drinks in the street.
Down on Rock Creek’s tributary
a maze of branches, leaves, undergrowth;
advanced puzzle in which I make out
the figure of a young woman sketching,
and further, a man, stripped to the waist,
washing shirts in the rivulet.
Halfway up the slope to Safeways
a concrete divan, shaped for Mme Recamier;
the human figures, characters escaped from paintings
like the ones in the background of ‘Dejuner sur l’herbe’
which seem to occupy a different dimension
– even these rustic details of L’Enfant’s city
suggest French analogues
though up the hill
Washington Cathedral – twentieth century gothic
with elevators and climate control
suggests a big nothing
at least that
only a nation of fundamentalists and show-biz types
could put a gothic cathedral on a hill top.
I move about through these environs
grasping colour and light
as the capital slides into winter,
warm air chilling after three,
darkness by five
ham hocks over gas
simmering
a gold ring
the cover of a book
It’s time for drinks and music
(no photos)
‘Autumn in New York’ or
‘Moonlight in Vermont’?
‘Dumbarton Oaks’!
– where Igor Stravinsky stayed,
only a block away,
gardens laid out
for pleasure, all seasons.
Veterans’ Day:
Glover Park
a leaf impasto underfoot for miles;
the grey tree trunks producing an effect of haze.
From The Palisades an old railroad bridge, boarded up,
cuts over Canal Street to the towpath,
pairs of mallards on the waterway.
A man (veteran?)
with bedroll and sixpack
asks if I’m a local.
Sorry, you’re 12,000 miles off.
Return from the drizzle to a call from Vermont
for Rosemary.
Take a message
or try to
– our landlord
collects pens that don’t work
and places them all in jars near the telephone.
(according to John Tranter it was Martin Johnston who said
‘If you want to communicate, use the telephone’,
but Martin probably got the line from John Forbes
– and he was quoting Frank O’Hara at the time.
I’m a spook on the bus through Shaw,
wreckage still from 1968,
gentility bordering the ghetto
with window boxes and fresh paint
up on Le Droit Park.
In Howard University’s
African collection, a small gold chameleon
illustrates the limits of personal power,
‘changing its colour to suit what it sees,
not what is hidden in the box’;
an Akan ceremonial vessel
shows Picasso even stole his doves from Ghana.
But Africa has come back
I think, to reclaim its own images
as Romaire Bearden, his art
at the American Museum.
Africa! Lorca
and Vachel Lindsay loved you
but you go further,
a chameleon
in the box,
not my personification of a continent.
I walk back on Columbia, a break in the drizzle,
to the border at 14th St
where signs become Spanish.
Turbulences cross the map,
snow falls in the panhandle of Texas.
This morning Classical 104FM
advertises a book (illustrated)
of poems by Robert Frost
that
“makes profound truths
really accessible
in a language
everybody can understand”
Out on the street
Latinos with air compressors on their backs
blow the dead leaves away.
Poet's Note: Washington D.C. November 1992
poem by Laurence James Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
My Washington Woman
The wages of an unskilled working man never paid enough
From time to time a nickel on a race keeps him from giving up
A blue collared man in Seattle never lives on white collared street
But there was food on the table for my Washington woman and me
The work slowed down and the one day
The foreman laid me off
That night in a tavern down on my last dime
I met a girl from Arkensal
Her daddy was a banker in Little Rock
She had a mansion on white collared street
The next morning my Washington woman woke up without me
From city to city, and state to state, I get her in shame
My Washington woman had six months left
Before out child would bring her pain
That Arkensal woman hurt me
As we crossed the Arkensal line
But the arms of Seattle
Are the arms that kept huggin' mine
For year I have basked in expensive wines
Taste champagne every day
I gave up all the things I loved
For all these things I hate
I locked up all of her forgiveness, the day I set myself free
And the heart of my Washington woman stopped beating for me
My Washington woman sends me a letter every once in a while
Inside a folded wordless page is a picture of my child
All but words, the room grows cold with a feeling of jealousy
And there's a silence between
My Arkensal woman and me
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New York Minute
Harry got up
Dressed all in black
Went down to the station
And he never came back
They found his clothing
Scattered somewhere down the track
And he wont be down on wall street
In the morning
He had a home
The love of a girl
But men get lost sometimes
As years unfold
One day he crossed some line
And he was too much in this world
But I guess it doesnt matter anymore
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
Things can get pretty strange
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
Lying here in the darkness
I hear the sirens wail
Somebody going to emergency
Somebodys going to jail
If you find somebody to love in this world
You better hand on tooth and nail
The wolf is always at the door
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
Things can get a little strange
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fools advice
And tak care of your own
One day theyre here;
Next day theyre gone
I pulled my coat around my shoulders
And took a walk down through the park
The leaves were falling around me
The groaning city in the gathering dark
On some solitary rock
A desperate lover left his mark,
baby, Ive changed. please come back.
What the head makes cloudy
The heart makes very clear
The days were so much brighter
In the time when she was here
But I know theres somebody somewhere
Make these dark clouds disappear
Until that day, I have to believe
I believe, I believe
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
You can get out of the rain
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
song performed by by Eagles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New York Minute
Harry got up
Dressed all in black
Went down to the station
And he never came back
They found his clothing
Scattered somewhere down the track
And he wont be down on wall street
In the morning
He had a home
The love of a girl
But men get lost sometimes
As years unfurl
One day he crossed some line
And he was too much in this world
But I guess it doesnt matter anymore
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
Things can get pretty strange
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
Lying here in the darkness
I hear the sirens wail
Somebody going to emergency
Somebodys going to jail
If you find somebody to love in this world
You better hang on tooth and nail
The wolf is always at the door
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
Things can get a little strange
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fools advice
And take care of your own
One day theyre here;
Next day theyre gone
I pulled my coat around my shoulders
And took a walk down through the park
The leaves were falling around me
The groaning city in the gathering dark
On some solitary rock
A desperate lover left his mark,
Baby, Ive changed. please come back.
What the head makes cloudy
The heart makes very clear
The days were so much brighter
In the time when she was here
But I know theres somebody somewhere
Make these dark clouds disappear
Until that day, I have to believe
I believe, I believe
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
You can get out of the rain
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
song performed by by Don Henley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New York
Harry got up
Dressed all in black
Went down to the station
And he never came back
They found his clothing
Scattered somewhere down the track
And he won't be down on Wall Street
in the morning
He had a home
The love of a girl
But men get lost sometimes
As years unfurl
One day he crossed some line
And he was too much in this world
But I guess it doesn't matter anymore
In a New York minute
Everything can change
In a New York minute
Things can get pretty strange
In a New York minute
Everything can change
In a New York minute
Lying here in the darkness
I hear the sirens wail
Somebody going to emergency
Somebody's going to jail
If you find somebody to love in this world
You better hang on tooth and nail
The wolf is always at the door
In a New York minute
Everything can change
In a New York minute
Things can get a little strange
In a New York minute
Everything can change
In a New York minute
And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fool's advice
And take care of your own
One day they're here;
Next day they're gone
I pulled my coat around my shoulders
And took a walk down through the park
The leaves were falling around me
The groaning city in the gathering dark
On some solitary rock
A desperate lover left his mark
song performed by by Eagles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Part 1 of Trout Fishing in America
THE COVER FOR
TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA
The cover for Trout Fishing in America is a photograph taken
late in the afternoon, a photograph of the Benjamin Franklin
statue in San Francisco's Washington Square.
Born 1706--Died 1790, Benjamin Franklin stands on a
pedestal that looks like a house containing stone furniture.
He holds some papers in one hand and his hat in the other.
Then the statue speaks, saying in marble:
PRESENTED BY
H. D. COGSWELL
TO OUR
BOYS AND GIRLS
WHO WILL SOON
TAKE OUR PLACES
AND PASS ON.
Around the base of the statue are four words facing the
directions of this world, to the east WELCOME, to the west
WELCOME, to the north WELCOME, to the south WELCOME.
Just behind the statue are three poplar trees, almost leafless
except for the top branches. The statue stands in front
of the middle tree. All around the grass is wet from the
rains of early February.
In the background is a tall cypress tree, almost dark like
a room. Adlai Stevenson spoke under the tree in 1956, before
a crowd of 40, 000 people.
There is a tall church across the street from the statue
with crosses, steeples, bells and a vast door that looks like
a huge mousehole, perhaps from a Tom and Jerry cartoon,
and written above the door is 'Per L'Universo.'
Around five o'clock in the afternoon of my cover for
Trout Fishing in America, people gather in the park across
the street from the church and they are hungry.
It's sandwich time for the poor.
But they cannot cross the street until the signal is given.
Then they all run across the street to the church and get
their sandwiches that are wrapped in newspaper. They go
back to the park and unwrap the newspaper and see what their
sandwiches are all about.
A friend of mine unwrapped his sandwich one afternoon
and looked inside to find just a leaf of spinach. That was all.
Was it Kafka who learned about America by reading the
autobiography of Benjamin Franklin..............
Kafka who said, 'I like the Americans because they are healthy
and optimistic.'
poem by Richard Brautigan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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America
Freedoms gravity dressed for the oppressed,
Long sailed to liberty’s harbour,
This land drinks the stream of new lifers,
So many souls on the path of opportune.
Since the constitution, amendments,
Washington, Lincoln’n’Kennedy
Forged hope to turn to reality the
Magnet that bonds a cosmopolitan nation.
.
Doughnuts’n’flapjacks coffee in the morn’,
The Irish policeman paces the square of time,
As the street of walls mints out money
To build route sixty-six to way out west.
The shining star of Hollywood and vine is
Far out shone by Capital hill,
As the plague of apartheid forever sealed
In darkened cage by a humanitarian bill.
Thankyou Mr Bell for the telephone,
Mr Ford to ring for expertise on
The production line to use for many things,
Now jalopies roll by the million for the working man.
Thankyou Mr Singer for sewing up our clothes,
Powered by Mr Edison, Wright Bros are waiting
To fly the world around itself, if only they could see
The stars and stripes waving from the moon.
Gates are open for helping lots in need,
In this twenty first century keep up your wonder boom,
This land drinks the stream of new lifers,
So many soles on the path of opportune.
Thankyou our Lord for sending Mr Obama
Who's sowing seeds of peace and wisdom,
Across the U-S of A and faraway lands
If every soul listens would'nt that be GRAND
poem by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Once Upon A Time In America
It was a cold January morning,
all around looked a bit boring.
In Washington’s subway
was the beginning of the ordinary day.
Everyone was in a hurry,
they didn’t want to worry
and didn’t pay attention
to the man I would like here to mention.
The passer-bys didn’t clap
to the man wearing jeans and baseball cap.
They all looked at the clock,
so that to get in time for their work.
It was not a tradition
to listen to a street musician.
That man played his violin.
He didn’t try to win.
He was in his own skin.
Would you like to know?
It was certainly not a show.
But…he played
the most beautiful works of art,
the best musical compositions.
Those sounds could touch anyone’s heart
if they were played in another condition.
Now, I would like to tell.
That man was Joshua Bell,
the famous American violinist.
He didn’t persist on subway’s stage,
He was not in a rage for earning 32 dollars,
playing only 45 minutes.
For a street player it’s a good salary,
considering the USA country.
But…you know what?
There is something I forgot.
Two days before
His salary was insanely more.
For the concert in Boston it was a million
because he was really brilliant.
But…in Washington’s subway
Everyone went away
without hearing his play.
Here is my comment.
It was an experiment
suggested by Washington Post.
I don’t know it’s cost
but I know quite well
we do not hear even the church bell.
We are blind and deaf
And it’s the biggest grief.
One man from that subway’s crowd had said:
He played too loud.
©Larisa Rzhepiahevska
The 5th of March,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Last Days of Summer
Whatever the way the summer days end,
In the type of summer is how it has been,
Whether a good one or bad one,
The last days of summer,
Can be sad or happy endings,
As each season ends,
With another one beginning,
The summer could have been,
Miserable yet,
Sun scorching us everyday,
And sunlight shining on all our faces,
It is how it is,
Out there where all is seen,
In,
Summer days of fun,
Summer days of love,
Summer days of seeing,
Summer days of been,
Out and about where summer is,
And when summer came and went?
With a mundane feeling that it left?
Was the last days of summer,
And the begining of another,
Autumn as we know it,
Fall in other places,
Where the ending of one season shows,
By the decaying of it,
When Autumn Fall shows,
Where we will wrap up and snuggle,
With warm cuppas drinks,
With a book,
Or,
Catch up on watching films,
Yet,
Still,
Musing over the summer days,
Of sunshine memories,
Now,
Warm hats and gloves,
With rustle leaves,
That rustle beneath,
Our feet as we walk,
Through the park,
And see,
The summer leaves turn,
To autumn shades,
Taking in,
The last days of summer,
Reflecting,
And remember,
The falls of Autumn's,
Is the signs of summer,
That has ended,
And minglings with,
All that falls,
From the summer ending,
To autumn beginnings,
Is the,
Decaying,
Of summer,
To regrow itself,
For next season's of summer,
When it begins again,
Yet,
In between,
There's,
Autumn,
Winter,
Spring,
Till,
Again,
Last days of summer,
And all in bloom again.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Circus
I remember when I wrote The Circus
I was living in Paris, or rather we were living in Paris
Janice, Frank was alive, the Whitney Museum
Was still on 8th Street, or was it still something else?
Fernand Léger lived in our building
Well it wasn’t really our building it was the building we lived in
Next to a Grand Guignol troupe who made a lot of noise
So that one day I yelled through a hole in the wall
Of our apartment I don’t know why there was a hole there
Shut up! And the voice came back to me saying something
I don’t know what. Once I saw Léger walk out of the building
I think. Stanley Kunitz came to dinner. I wrote The Circus
In two tries, the first getting most of the first stanza;
That fall I also wrote an opera libretto called Louisa or Matilda.
Jean-Claude came to dinner. He said (about “cocktail sauce”)
It should be good on something but not on these (oysters).
By that time I think I had already written The Circus
When I came back, having been annoyed to have to go
I forget what I went there about
You were back in the apartment what a dump actually we liked it
I think with your hair and your writing and the pans
Moving strummingly about the kitchen and I wrote The Circus
It was a summer night no it was an autumn one summer when
I remember it but actually no autumn that black dusk toward the post office
And I wrote many other poems then but The Circus was the best
Maybe not by far the best Geography was also wonderful
And the Airplane Betty poems (inspired by you) but The Circus was the best.
Sometimes I feel I actually am the person
Who did this, who wrote that, including that poem The Circus
But sometimes on the other hand I don’t.
There are so many factors engaging our attention!
At every moment the happiness of others, the health of those we know and our own!
And the millions upon millions of people we don’t know and their well-being to think about
So it seems strange I found time to write The Circus
And even spent two evenings on it, and that I have also the time
To remember that I did it, and remember you and me then, and write this poem about it
At the beginning of The Circus
The Circus girls are rushing through the night
In the circus wagons and tulips and other flowers will be picked
A long time from now this poem wants to get off on its own
Someplace like a painting not held to a depiction of composing The Circus.
Noel Lee was in Paris then but usually out of it
In Germany or Denmark giving a concert
As part of an endless activity
Which was either his career or his happiness or a combination of both
Or neither I remember his dark eyes looking he was nervous
With me perhaps because of our days at Harvard.
It is understandable enough to be nervous with anybody!
How softly and easily one feels when alone
Love of one’s friends when one is commanding the time and space syndrome
If that’s the right word which I doubt but together how come one is so nervous?
One is not always but what was I then and what am I now attempting to create
If create is the right word
Out of this combination of experience and aloneness
And who are you telling me it is or is not a poem (not you?) Go back with me though
To those nights I was writing The Circus.
Do you like that poem? have you read it? It is in my book Thank You
Which Grove just reprinted. I wonder how long I am going to live
And what the rest will be like I mean the rest of my life.
John Cage said to me the other night How old are you? and I told him forty-six
(Since then I’ve become forty-seven) he said
Oh that’s a great age I remember.
John Cage once told me he didn’t charge much for his mushroom identification course (at the New School)
Because he didn’t want to make a profit from nature
He was ahead of his time I was behind my time we were both in time
Brilliant go to the head of the class and “time is a river”
It doesn’t seem like a river to me it seems like an unformed plan
Days go by and still nothing is decided about
What to do until you know it never will be and then you say “time”
But you really don’t care much about it any more
Time means something when you have the major part of yours ahead of you
As I did in Aix-en-Provence that was three years before I wrote The Circus
That year I wrote Bricks and The Great Atlantic Rainway
I felt time surround me like a blanket endless and soft
I could go to sleep endlessly and wake up and still be in it
But I treasured secretly the part of me that was individually changing
Like Noel Lee I was interested in my career
And still am but now it is like a town I don’t want to leave
Not a tower I am climbing opposed by ferocious enemies
I never mentioned my friends in my poems at the time I wrote The Circus
Although they meant almost more than anything to me
Of this now for some time I’ve felt an attenuation
So I’m mentioning them maybe this will bring them back to me
Not them perhaps but what I felt about them
John Ashbery Jane Freilicher Larry Rivers Frank O’Hara
Their names alone bring tears to my eyes
As seeing Polly did last night
It is beautiful at any time but the paradox is leaving it
In order to feel it when you’ve come back the sun has declined
And the people are merrier or else they’ve gone home altogether
And you are left alone well you put up with that your sureness is like the sun
While you have it but when you don’t its lack’s a black and icy night. I came home
And wrote The Circus that night, Janice. I didn’t come and speak to you
And put my arm around you and ask you if you’d like to take a walk
Or go to the Cirque Medrano though that’s what I wrote poems about
And am writing about that now, and now I’m alone
And this is not as good a poem as The Circus
And I wonder if any good will come of either of them all the same.
“The Circus” from The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 2006 by Kenneth Koch.
poem by Kenneth Koch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At the zoo
There are street hawkers
selling their wares
next to a wall build
of rocks and stone
on all sides of the entrance.
Carved wooden walking sticks
african faces in black wood,
grass brooms, pottery,
hats and t-shirts
and African drums
and paintings line the sidewalk.
Light pink flamingos
parade next to their dark brown pool
and walk among long palm trees
while they call to each other.
Some white swans
drift on a lake in the park
and catch something to eat
with dipping heads
from the dark water.
a Couple of elephant throw
red-brown sand
over themselves
and their pleated skin
looks like rough sandpaper
and at the back
there’s an old white farmstead
with a green roof
and some hay
for them to eat.
Some spotted Hyenas
swim in a stream
and their dark brown
dots stand out
against their light coats.
There’s some long walkways
going through gardens
that stretch into the distance..
Just the head and back
of a lonely Hippopotamus
rises from a dark brown pool
and it drifts with its nose
under the water
in the direction
of some other Hippopotamuses.
Some bridges run
over the small stream
of the Apies river
which splash over rocks.
a Blue crane
combs its blue-grey coat
next to a striped Kudu cow
that grazes on the green grass
with the Kudu bull watching
the visitors.
a Big brown bear
walks up a rock slope
and splashes in cold pool.
Some Impalas are gathering
on a rocky slope
and a narrow path
stretches up the wooded hill.
A Tiger lies sleeping
under a tree
and two black-backed jackals
stand grinning next to each other.
There are yellow-gold lions
that hides in the long green grass
and a slim female
with two cubs
steps out and watches
and the big male
comes out with a twisting tail
and roars menacing at the crowd
while one of the keepers
are giving them meat.
There’s a great view of the buildings
of Pretoria from the top
of the hill
and some high rises
and towers jump up
into the sky.
I take a cable car
for the long way down
and see the Union buildings
far in the distance
and miniature animals
flash by on the bottom.
A Leopard growls
when I leave the cable car
and I hear the calls
of some black Chacma Baboons.
Some African Buffalo
stand grazing like cattle
and a Rhino
lies stretched out
on the grass.
Some of the gamekeepers
are feeding a giraffe
and it stretches its neck
over a high wall
and time catches me
and something of the animals
stays with me
when I walk back to the car.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A November Night
There! See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street --
Why can't you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat? I'd twist it round
And you could play with it. You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . . And see,
The people on the street look up at us
All envious. We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
How still you are! Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night? It is so long
Since I have seen you -- four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade. The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay -- and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them. . . . There's the Plaza now,
A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you. See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds. . . . Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park. It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, "Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!" . . . Look at the lake --
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think. But now
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little. How I long to take
One from the cold black water -- new-made gold
To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl -- if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .
There was a new frail yellow moon to-night --
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .
How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem -- but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone --
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone. We two alone!
poem by Sara Teasdale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Long Way To The Light
Im sitting in my bedroom
Overlooking findhorn bay
Cluny hill ion the distance
Summer on the way
Blue skies and sailing boats
Like a picture in a book
I cant believe I got here
Or how long it took
Living one step at a time
Putting one foot in front of the other
It sure feels right
Healing on my mind
Been a long way
Been a long way to the light
Id made it to manhattan
Built myself a nest
I meant to get right back to doing
Exactly what I do best:
Pluggin in an electric guitar,
Leading a band
Well, if you want to give God a laugh
- tell him your plans!
Summer in the city
Wilting in the heat
Buzzing up and down to bearsville
And back to hudson street
I learned meditation
And how to visualise -
Just breathing, being still
Never felt more alive!
Living one step at a time...
I spent the fall in transit
Circling the moon
Like a cat on a hot tin roof
Like a fiddle without a tune
I found what I was searching for
In mrs caddys book
I had to go there straightaway
Have myself a look
I flew back to scotland
Anticipation in my bones
The old country welcoming me
Like a prodigal coming home
I knelt and kissed the tarmac
In the wild atlantic rain
Felt the fiery gaelic blood
Rising in my veins
Living one step at a time...
I spent the night in glasgow
Flew to inverness
I found the place and at the first
I was not impressed
Nobody said hello
The faces left me cold
Back then how was I to know
All that would unfold?
I entered thje sanctuary
- heard the vioce of a girl
Sending out a circle of light
Clear across the world
I shuddered in the power
Like a seedling in a storm
Ive been travelling to this place
Since the moment I was born
Flew back to new york city
Singing the big city blues
The sand of findhorn bay
Still clingin to my shoes
I tried to re-start my life
But the life I knew was gone
I had to let go everything
But thats another song!
Living one step at a time...
So Im sitting in my bedroom
Overlooking findhorn bay
Cluny hill in the distance
Summer on the way
Im watching sailing boats
Bobbing to and fro
- time to hit the road
The only way I know...
Living one step at a time...
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Year's Autumn Leaves
Darling, do you remember that year’s autumn leaves?
Perhaps it was your aura, but they were the prettiest and keenest I’ve ever seen
Strolling through the park, hand in hand, the foliage crunched lightly under our feet
Such a simple, yet transcendent, treat
That year’s autumn leaves were red and gold
Thinking of them now strikes a pleasant, if somewhat melancholic, chord
The days you walked with me like the Lord
And you were
That year’s autumn leaves and you
Contentedness shared by us two
Harmonic Convergence bestowed on the lucky few
Peace of mind that I knew
Nat King Cole said it best: “Since you went away the days grow long…”
This is evidenced by many of my poems and songs
Many people, sometimes myself, think I should stop, that it’s wrong
The creative outlet, however, is too strong
That year’s autumn leaves were actually summer daze
I just love the original song, and now this unique turn of phrase
Both recall an almost alien phase
Mr. Mercer, I give you all the praise
That year’s autumn leaves were you
They may not have existed, but it’s a metaphor any romantic would die for
I would
Would you?
That year’s autumn leaves were the best autumn has ever produced
At least until we walk in the park in the fall again…or whenever you choose
poem by Yoni Assis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Memory Of Japan - The Four Seasons
first winter
i walk to to work
feet exposed in the melted snow
life is a winter storm
first winter and my lips crack
two red dried rivers of pain
that the lip balm tries to soothe
first winter
the snow like cotton
dances to my bewilderment
our laughters burst the
sanctified silence of cold air
first spring
the buds too rage to join
in the warmth of time
as our heart takes on
another rhythm
in the excitement of all
the good things that the season signifies
first summer
so hot the sun bites and all
i want to do is to lie
and wait for it to set
so that cool wind would take
over the air again
i can walk around like an
animal fresh from hibernation
autumn
the persimmons give
the fruit market a fresh glow
they are everywhere
Y100 for a whole basket of 10
the only things that make me
feel Japan is cheap
and the shopping places
too like a chameleon
is changing in shine and shades
with new designs to suit the season
where the mood is to be more
colourful than the leaves that are
twirling away in cheers
and yes, christmas is in the offing
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Yonge Street
See the people walkin up and down
See the people movin all around
On the streets of my hometown on yonge street
Longest street in the world they say
Summertime soon slips away
I hope Ill see you one fine day on yonge street
Everywhere you go in a city by the lake
Back there in the flow you may give a hand a shake
Everyone you pass seems to wanna say hello
Even late at night on the freshly fallen snow
See the children jumpin all around
See the parents looking up and down
Upon the streets of my hometown on yonge street
Its a mean street if you choose
Its a lean street when you lose
An in-between street when you cruise on yonge street
Everywhere you go in a city by the lake
Youll be sure and find its a case of give and take
Everyone you pass seems to want to say hello
Even late at night when the streets are all aglow
Its the longest street in the world
With the most feet in the world
Another street where boy meets girl on yonge street
See the people walkin up and down
See the people movin all around
Those are the streets of my hometown on yonge street
Everywhere you walk people almost say hello
Even late at night when the streets are all aglow
On yonge street
On yonge street
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Autumn-8 Paces
Autumn-8 Paces
Original free verse - autumn-8 paces
(First)
Twenty years lived near San Francisco
The new wind and dream two other fried
Retirement wondering to enter a poem land
Poems of potatoes poetry hate not yet learned
Use my pan I tried to write a good poem
Yao Wang darkness eyes open days
Montreal little gold powder
Chapter pondering poetry alone sobbing
(Second)
Government-City sunset ramps
Look vaguely Chinese Dipper Stars
Sudden sense of the Friends of left
August-crossing virtual life
Watching sons success more thoughts
Piedmont night no one will
Who do the dark on the east
I haven’t seen my home in the bauhinia flower
(Third)
Millions Hong Kong and China compete honor
I drive on the Bay Area
Hoping to pray for sons’ success
Early autumn Building Members present-Chelsea
Inability to help with fame and right is thin
The aspiration of breaching their predecessors -
Members of youth are high
Singly ride in S.F.my horse manure
(Fourth)
Beijing welcomed Olympia more gold medals
100 years joyous event unknowingly sad
The President's busy repair laws
Building the economic downturn
Chuang-century and the new trend
To west and east research U.S. economy
Weak horses wait in the Autumn moon cold
I feel night mare sleepily tired because of my Father dead.
(Fifth)
Hall of the Mountain Gangue
Cold Dew flower paths in the universe
Orient look fixed-tail Celebration Party
Winds shifting Wong to-Western
Olympia fixed-tail Celebration Party
Late days visit us recognize the public-hero
This missed Hong Kong late seems an age
The next Olympic Games four years back
(Sixth)
SF City North U.S. the watch House
Miles changes to the Mid-Autumn Festival
Night to the small building solved 1000 worry
Flower Terrace single city reaches Four Seas
Chu-hai since left one another 30 years
In the non-regular clothing without time back
Looking back at that song and dance pool
Friends from all of the non-see
Seventh
Mother country and HK are same in my heart.
Country or communism I didn’t separate
I have wasted a lot of time for my family
Lonely in quiet night I recall old friends
Chilly wind blows me think of my lover
Sit on home’s porch look at autumn moon.
Not easy walk through gates to gate in my age
There is nothing troublesome in my life
Eighth
Retired often return Hong Kong to see my parents
Often take much worry about my own country.
Ne’er forget my original way as daily eat my rice.
Suddenly wake up my mind to search my sister
I ask about the old friends whom I haven’t seen
Where is my beloved partner who left away
The sparkling colors have faded gradually
I am reciting as I sob with my grey head bow
poem by Albert Wong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Notes From the Village
Bleecker Street
just before
October dawn,
Winking
corner stoplight
flashing only red
to vacant Sunday
streets,
Old newspaper
Blowing,
unread,
down empty sidewalk
of hangover morning,
Gusts of New York
Puffing down sad alleys
Of broken amber glass,
Poor kitty,
Mad with fright,
Poor kitty,
Hidden from sight.
Hands in my pockets,
Coat collar high,
i bow into the
Callous autumn wind,
Past the frigid lights
And locked doors
Of last night’s
Cafes,
Yesterday’s
bookstalls,
Smells of impending
Rain waft through
Red brick
And hang like
Moldy rags
Above the lamp posts.
Facing the creaking
Branches of
Washington Square,
I see old friends’
Faces in
The yellow-orange
Leaves of fall,
Unseen,
Unknown,
I glide,
Wispy and ghost-like,
Sailing past an Atlantic
Sunrise,
& the rest of my
Brittle life.
poem by Terry L. Young
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Commenting (Please Read)
This poem is dedicated to a very dear friend in Canada.
Melvina Germain.
The first person who left a heart prints on my work almost a year and a half ago. Mel, a million thanks from me.
Love and Hugs.
David xxxx
Some people read your work
and then pass on their way,
never leaving a comment
whether they liked it or not.
For any writer good or bad,
unless someone makes a comment on your work,
you feel left out in the cold.
For those who think that comments do not help,
let me tell you what comments have done for me.
For six or seven years I had given up writing,
I swore I would never lift my pen again.
Then in January 2007,
I posted a few old poems on a poetry site.
I was confused and lost at the time.
Never though for one moment
anyone would want to read my humble work.
I was wrong.
Through the comments I received,
I started writing again.
Since the 19th January 2007 to today the 14th June 2008
I have written 1132 poems, a 80,000 word novel,
collaborated on over 20 poems
with two young ladies half a world away from me
and published my first book of poetry.
For under a year and a half
that is not a bad record
and it happened through the encouragement in comments.
So the next time you read someone work
and there is a space for a comment,
leave one please.
Those little heart prints can change someone’s life
and encourage them on to do better things.
Your comment does not have to be lengthy,
just a word or two will do.
Remember it is good to help someone
and by leaving a comment,
that is just what you will do.
I always leave a comment on everything I read
knowing how others comments have helped me.
14 June 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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