Poem With a Pirate Patch

Postcard to I. Kaminsky from a Dream at the Edge of the Sea  


I was leaving a country of rain for a country of apples. I hadn't much time. I told my beloved to wear his bathrobe, his cowboy boots, a black patch like a pirate might wear over his sharpest eye. My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift. Houses had fallen, face first, into the mud at the edge of the sea. Hurry, I thought, and my hands were like birds. They could hold nothing. A feathery breeze. Then a white tree blossomed over the bed, all white blossoms, a painted tree. "Oh," I said, or my love said to me. We want to be human, always, again, so we knelt like children at prayer while our lost mothers hushed us. A halo of bees. I was dreaming as hard as I could dream. It was fast—how the apples fattened and fell. The country that rose up to meet me was steep as a mirror; the gold hook gleamed.

 by Cecilia Woloch
courtesy poets.org

Who Wouldn't, I Must Ask the Reader!

Retriever

My father, in middle age, falls in love with a dog.
He who kicked dogs in anger when I was a child,
who liked his comb always on the same shelf,
who drank martinis to make his mind quiet.

He who worked and worked—his shirts
wrapped in plastic, his heart ironed
like a collar. He who—like so many men—
loved his children but thought the money

he made for them was more important
than the rough tweed of his presence.
The love of my father's later years is
a Golden Retriever—more red

than yellow—a nervous dog who knows
his work clothes from his casual ones,
can read his creased face, who waits for
him at the front door—her paws crossed

like a child's arms. She doesn't berate him
for being late, doesn't need new shoes
or college. There is no pressure to raise her
right, which is why she chews the furniture,

pees on rugs, barks at strangers who
cross the lawn. She is his responsible soul
broken free. She is the children he couldn't
come home to made young again.

She is like my mother but never angry,
always devoted. He cooks for his dog—
my father who raised us in restaurants—
and takes her on business trips like

a wife. Sometimes, sitting beside her
in the hair-filled fan he drives to make
her more comfortable, my father's dog
turns her head to one side as if

thinking and, in this pose, more than
one of us has mistaken her for a person.
We would be jealous if she didn't make
him so happy—he who never took

more than one trip on his expensive
sailboat, whose Mercedes was wrecked
by a valet. My mother saw him behind
the counter of a now-fallen fast food

restaurant when she was nineteen.
They kissed beside a river where fish
no longer swim. My father who was
always serious has fallen in love with

a dog. What can I do but be happy for him?

by Faith Shearin

 from The Owl Question. © Utah State University Press, 2002. 

courtesy The Writer's Almanac  

Vampire Poem? Cool!

Christabel [Beneath the lamp]   
                     

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom, and half her side—
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly as one defied
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side!—
And in her arms the maid she took,
   Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
   These words did say:
'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

courtesy poets.org

Poetic, Literary and a Few Plain Ol' Fun Epigrams

What is an Epigram? A dwarfish whole;

Its body brevity, and wit its soul. 

 Sir, I admit your general rule,

That every poet is a fool,  

But you yourself may serve to show it,

That every fool is not a poet.

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Little strokes

Fell great oaks.

—   Benjamin Franklin

   

Men seldom make passes 

At girls who wear glasses. —Dorothy Parker  

Here lies my wife: here let her lie!

Now she's at rest — and so am I.

— John Dryden

I am His Highness' dog at Kew;

Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

— Alexander Pope

I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme.

But Money gives me pleasure all the time.

— Hilaire Belloc

I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.

— Nikos Kazantzakis

To define the beautiful is to misunderstand it.

— Charles Robert Anon (Fernando Pessoa)

To be safe on the Fourth,

Don't buy a fifth on the third.

— James H Muehlbauer

This Humanist whom no belief constrained

Grew so broad-minded he was scatter-brained.

— J.V. Cunningham

Candy Is dandy,

But liquor Is quicker. — Ogden Nash  

If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning.—Catherine the Great    

Questions are never indiscreet, answers sometimes are. —Oscar Wilde    

I'm not offended by dumb blonde jokes because I'm not dumb, and also I'm not blonde.—Dolly Parton     

Thanks to Wikipedia, The HyperTexts and the Academy of American Poets for some great gems!

For Bobby and Lisa on Their Wedding Day

When a Woman Loves a Man

When she says Margarita she means Daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
    is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one-ten in the morning,
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water ruching over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era."
"That's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the Martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
    another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
    airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
    she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

The Library in Poetry

It is no secret, my love of books.  I hope also it is no secret I hold an equally deep love for libraries, especially public ones.  The first tax-supported public library opened on this day in 1833, in Peterborough, N.H., and it stands today with more than 9,000 other public libraries that feed our need for information and resources.  

You may not be able to get a subscription to the Post or pay for Internet connection, but you know you can get that at the library — as well as books in many languages, DVDs, recorded books and reference material and magazines from all over the world.

We talk about all of the things we can live without in economic hard times.  Some jurisdictions seem to think libraries are one of those things that can come and go when "times get tough."  You and I know better.  Call your mayor, call your chairman, call your parish president or county leader and make sure they know that, too.

 While we're at it, let's have a shout-out to all of the librarians out there who know where, when and how to find out anything we need to know (whether we knew it or not).  Between them and the Dewey Decimal System, we're saved!

 

HEAR IT AGAIN

'For out of olde feldes, as men seyth, Cometh al this newe corne yer by yere, And out of olde bokes, in good feyth, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.' Chaucer: The Parlement of Foules Fourteen centuries have learned, From charred remains, that what took place When Alexandria's library burned Brain-damaged the human race. Whatever escaped Was hidden by bookish monks in their damp cells Hunted by Alfred dug for by Charlemagne Got through the Dark Ages little enough but enough For Dante and Chaucer sitting up all night looking for light. A Serbian Prof's insanity, Commanding guns, to split the heart, His and his people's, tore apart The Sarajevo library. Tyrants know where to aim As Hitler poured his petrol and tossed matches Stalin collected the bards... In other words the mobile and only libraries... of all those enslaved peoples from the Black to the Bering Sea And made a bonfire Of the mainsprings of national identities to melt the folk into one puddle And the three seconds of the present moment By massacring those wordy fellows whose memories were bigger than armies. Where any nation starts awake Books are the memory. And it's plain Decay of libraries is like Alzheimer's in the nation's brain. And in my own day in my own land I have heard the fiery whisper: 'We are here To destroy the Book To destroy the rooted stock of the Book and The Book's perennial vintage, destroy it Not with a hammer or a sickle And not exactly according to Mao who also Drained the skull of adult and adolescent To build a shining new society With the empties...' For this one's dreams and that one's acts For all who've failed or aged beyond The reach of teachers, here are found The inspiration and the facts. As we all know and have heard all our lives Just as we've heard that here. Even the most misfitting child Who's chanced upon the library's worth, Sits with the genius of the Earth And turns the key to the whole world. Hear it again.

by Ted Hughes
courtesy New Library: The People's Network

Repeatedly Poetic

I know Mr. Milburn was featured recently on this blog, but I can't help but share yet another of his works.  Achingly lovely and tragic.  I can't look away.  I don't want to look away.  I bet you feel the same way.

On the Phone

That whooshing, watery,
radio-being-tuned sound
tells me he's outdoors
on his way somewhere
and I'd better talk fast.
I can't remember
the last time I phoned him
without dreading that countdown
to when he says, "I'm going
into the subway, Dad, got to go."
Lately, he even calls me from the street—
a convenient way to keep
his keeping in touch short. He's right—
I'd talk to him for an hour,
marching through my pent-up questions.
It tires me, wanting him so much,
the resistance with which he responds.
I bet there's a girl out there
he'd duck into a lobby
to keep speaking to
as long as she desired. Instead,
he tells me that I'm breaking up,
and there's a sound
as if he's dropped the phone
into a rushing river, which then
pulls him in too, his life.

by Michael Milburn

from Drive By Heart. © Word Press, 2009. 

courtesy The Writer's Almanac