poems

A friend pointed me to this today and it is one of those poems that spoke to me right away. No need to try and figure it out. I love every line, wished that I had written them all. This poet is new to me and I can see that I am going to have to look for more of her work.

The Kama Sutra of Kindness: Position Number 3
by Mary Mackey

It’s easy to love
through a cold spring
when the poles
of the willows
turn green
pollen falls like
a yellow curtain
and the scent of
Paper Whites
clots
the air

but to love for a lifetime
takes talent
This is one of my favorite

but to love for a lifetime
takes talent

you have to mix yourself
with the strange
beauty of someone
else
wake each morning
for 72,000
mornings in
a row so
breathed and
bound and
tangled
that you can hardly
sort out
your arms
and
legs

Click here to read the rest of the poem.

I had been thinking about Poetry Friday all week, trying to decide what to share but nothing spoke to me until this morning, when I came across this poem by Louise Bogan that made me catch my breath.
 
Zone
by Louise Bogan
 
We have struck the regions wherein we are keel or reef.
The wind breaks over us,
And against high sharp angles almost splits into words,
And these are of fear or grief.
 
Like a ship, we have struck expected latitudes
Of the universe, in March.
Through one short segment’s arch
Of the zodiac’s round
 
We pass,
Thinking: Now we hear
What we heard last year,
And bear the wind’s rude touch
And its ugly sound
Equally with so much
We have learned how to bear.

“Zone” by Louise Bogan, from Poems and New Poems. Copyright © 1941, 1969, 2005 by Louise Bogan Charitable Trust.

has this week’s Poetry Friday round-up!

It’s Poetry Friday! I love this “good worm” poem! I can just picture this hungry caterpillar munching his way thorough the yard to build his “leaf-green mausoleum”

The Caterpillar
by Robert Graves

Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.

Down beneath grow dandelions,
Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses;
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.

Here come raindrops helter-skelter;
I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.

When I’m old, tired, melancholy,
I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.

Some say worms win resurrection,
With white wings beating flitter-flutter,
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?
Either way I’ll miss my share.

Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A hungry, hairy caterpillar,
I crawl on my high and swinging seat,
And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.

Toby Speed has the Poetry Friday Round-up today.

It has been a while since I participated in Poetry Friday but it seems the right way to get myself back into the blogosphere. I went looking for something to share and, as I often to, I started poking around the Poetry Foundation dropping in keywords and names and waiting for something to grab me. Then I glanced at the sidebar and the title of the poem came up and it seemed to fit my mood for the day (week? month?) Some of you who know me well will see some of me within the lines. I do not know this poet but after finding this poem, I’ll looking to read more of her work.

DO NOT MAKE THINGS TOO EASY

Do not make things too easy.
There are rocks and abysses in the mind
As well as meadows.
There are things knotty and hard: intractable.
Do not talk to me of love and understanding.
I am sick of blandishments.
I want the rock to be met by a rock.
If I am vile, and behave hideously,
Do not tell me it was just a misunderstanding.

by Martha Baird

Here are the links so far for this week’s Poetry Friday:

shares a poem from  exquisite book, Borrowed Names here. Also check out
this week’s 15 Words or Less poems.

MsMac has “Learning in the First Grade”  by Jane Kenyon.

Amy at the Poem Farm says, “I have #15 in my series of poems about poems, “Her Voice”. Also, I invite teachers and students to share poetry or their favorite poetry ideas at The Poem Farm.”

Alison says, “I have walls on my mind today, with Frost’s Mending Wallover at Wistful Wanderings.

When you need to take a break and destress, pop over and check out the poetic cartoon Tanita shared. You’ll be snorting and laughing.

Tabatha Yeatts gets things moving with an educational rap.

Mary Lee has a perfect poem for Labor Day over at A Reading Year.

Ruth shares an original poem.

Random Noodling looks at haiku by famous writers.

Kurious Kitty features Shakespeare’s 27th sonnet. The quote at Kurious K’s Kwotes is by Jean Cocteau.

The Write Sisters has “The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus.

Karen Edmisten shares Morning Song by Marcia F. Brown

Heidi Mordhorst perks things up with The Hello Song from PBS “Dragon Tales”

For Labor Day Shelly has some poems about some hard-working people

Jeannine Atkins says, “I wrote a post called Ways to Listen to the World about poetic inspiration.”

Over at on the Stenhouse Blog they have a great poem from Stenhouse author Charles Fuhrken.

At Wild Rose Reader Elaine Magliaro shares an original poem titled “Toasting Marshmallows.” and at Blue Rose Girls Elaine posts have a poem by Kalli Dakos titled “A Teacher’s Lament.”

Cassy says, “I’m on a campaign to create wonder over at my blog, and so I posted a poem called “Halleluiah” by Mary Oliver.

PaperTigers is in with a post about the poetry of Jorge Argueta.

Jeni Bell, aka,   shared an excerpt from the Tori Amos song “Winter” and offers thoughts on how it relates to Maggie Stiefvater’s new book LINGER (“Winter” was part of the playlist for the book).

Semicolon’s contribution to Poetry Friday is Young Lochinvar by Sir Walter Scott .

“Rivers” is the topic for Ben’s Poetry Mix tape this week.

Janet Squires shares Young Cornrows Callin Out the Moon: Poem, written by Ruth Forman with illustrations by Cbabi Bayoc.

At Bildungsroman today you can check out the lyrics and video for Shadowfeet by Brooke Fraser.

Carol Wilcox at Carol’s Corner shares some football poems to get us in the mood for the season.

Please add your links to Poetry Friday in the comments and I’ll round them up throughout the day! Thanks for participating!

Recently Santa Clara county appointed its first ever Poet Laureate, Nils Peterson. Peterson hopes to help make poetry more accessible to people who otherwise might not "get" poetry. Isn’t that what Poetry Friday is all about?

From a recent article in the San Jose Mercury News about Peterson:

"When you write poetry, you see the world differently, you see it more sharply," muses Peterson, who refers to himself as a coffee shop poet. "If you look at things hard enough, they start to look back at you."

The poet hopes that language can help us catch our breath in the world as change comes fast and hard all around us.

"Poetry takes a snapshot of where we are so we can look back," says Peterson. "We are all moving so quickly that we forget, we begin to live in a perpetual present. Poetry helps us remember."

You can read more about Peterson at the Poetry Center San Jose.

Where Here Is

How will we know where here is
until it tells us, until this oak speaks
its story and these grasses whisper
what their mothers said to them
when they were seedlings? The crow
overhead is not just a carrier of
crowness. It speaks with the caw
of its own life. The air about us
is this air carrying smell messages
from the majesty of this place.
Knowing where here is — is paying
back the world with our attention,
not planting a heavy foot on the shore
of the earth like a conquistador.

— Nils Peterson

The round-up of all the Poetry Friday posts in the blogosphere can be found with Kelly Polark.

Eileen Tse, aka hulabunny , posted this last month but I didn’t think it got the attention it should have so I am, with her permission, reposted it for Poetry Friday. For your reading pleasure I present a parody of T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”  (click here if you want to read the original first.)

The Love Song of Wolfgang Puck
(with apologies to T.S. Eliot)

by Eileen Tse

Mettez une tasse de farine dans la sucre.  Ajoutez
une petite cuillere de vanille et deux oeufs, frappe.
Melangez bien.  Enfin, ajoutez une demie tasse de
chocolat amer.  Frappez avec un CuisinArt. (1)

Let us go then, you and I,
When the neon stretches out across the sky
Like a turkey laid upon a carving board;
Let us go, through certain over-crowded dining halls,
The shopping malls
Full of rundown Dairy Queens and Taco Bells
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Aromas that smell of a hearty bouillabaisse
Waft down alleyways
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Do not ask, “That scent!  Oh, what is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

The women dine on macaroni
Talking of Caffe Borrone.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellowtail that lies atop a bed of rice,
Garnished with pickled ginger on the side;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a luncheon to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to cook and bake,
And time for all the types and sorts of gadgets
That frost and decorate your cake;
Time for fish and time for veal,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of the mid-day meal.

The women dine on jumbalaya
Talking of La Pastaia.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Tuna ahi?” and “Quiche Lorraine?”
Time to take the pasta out to drain,
With the sauce just a little bit too plain –
[They will say: “My, but her recipe is faulty!”]
My salad dish, croutons seasoned but not too salty,
My chowder rich and creamy, accented with a hint of poultry –
[They will say: “But how her food is paltry!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the cheese souffle?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which in a minute can go either way.

For I have known these meals already, known them well:
Have known the dinners, breakfasts, lunches,
I have measured out my life by weekend brunches;
I know the scallops steaming in the half-shell
Beneath the herbs and spices from the Indies West.

I should have baked the king crab’s claws
Scuttling across the floors of Lucky’s.

No!  I am not Julia Child, nor was meant to be;
I am an amateur chef, one that will do
To grill a lamb chop, toss a salad or two….

I grow full… I grow full…
I shall unzip my trousers to let my belly roll.

Shall I indulge in dessert?  Do I dare eat a peach?
I shall try the white chocolate mousse, then work it off at Reach.
I have heard the waitresses singing, “Tip us!  Tip us each!”

We have lingered in the chambers of the feast
By bus-boys clad in aprons red and brown
Till indigestion shakes us, and we drown.

(1) This recipe is from Better Homes and Gardens, which features various dessert recipes.  This is taken from the recipe for Nuages au Chocolat, a fluffy chocolate dessert not unlike a chocolate souffle.   “Put one cup of flour in the sugar.  Add a teaspoon of vanilla and two eggs, beaten.  Then, add a half cup of bittersweet chocolate.  Beat in a CuisinArt.”

Eileen’s original post on the poem can be found here.

The roundup today is at The Holly and the Ivy

I came across this poem today while looking for poems to use at juvenile hall next week. I was searching for several "identity" types of poems to cut up and let the students rebuild. So often the hardest thing to do is to just stay still, be quiet, be who you are so the world can find you.

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

David Wagoner

Learn more about this poet here.

This week’s round-up of all the Poetry Friday posts can be found here, with thanks to Anastaia Suen

I am still seeking poetry of the air, the clouds, the freedom of flight. I found this one when searching on “clouds” and while it may not be about the freedom of flight, any poem which mentions the poppy is all good in my book. 🙂

Wistaria

Clouds dream and disappear;
Waters dream in a rainbow and are gone;
Fire-dreams change with the sun
Or when a poppy closes;
But now is the time of year
For the dark earth, one by one,
To show her slower dreams. And nothing she has 
                       ever done
Has given more ease
To her perplexities
Than the dreaming of dreams like these:
Not irises,
Not any spear
Of lilies or cup of roses,
But these pale, purple images,
As if, from willows or from pepper trees,
Shadows were glimmering on Buddha’s knees. 

~~~ Witter Bynner

Read more about this poet at Wikipediia.
 
The round-up for this week’s Poetry Friday is at Check It Out.

I don’t know much about this poet but I loved the image this poem brought to my mind. 

Sheep
Huddled, rain-drenched, forlorn they stood,
Their fleeces blown one way;
The wet wind cried in solitude
About the failing day.

Leaves whirled below, aloft; the sky
Sagged like a sodden shroud;
No stir of life, no pleading cry,
Came from the draggled crowd.

Sudden the western portals wide
Opened on that gaunt fold;
Then lo, a flock beautified
With fleeces dripping gold!

C. Kennett Burrow  

I discovered e.e. cummings at a very young age, much younger than I was probably ready to understand or appreciate him. It was a rebel time in the 70s and his unconventional formatting appealed to me. So much so that I appropriated the style for my own poems for a while. (Probably longer than I should have.)

nobody loses all the time

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like

Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything

and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)

e. e. cummings