Post your favourite poem here

Anonymous

This poem was handed to a grade 12 English teacher in Regina, Saskatchewan. Although it is not know if the student actually wrote it himself, it is known that he committed suicide two weeks later.

He always wanted to say things. But no one understood.
He always wanted to explain things. But no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything. He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.
he would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky and it would be only him and the sky and the things that needed saying.
And it was after that. that he drew the picture. It was a beautiful picture. he kept it under the pillow and would let no one see it.
And he would look at it every night and think about it. And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.
And it was all of him. And he loved it.
When he started school he brought it with him. Not to show anyone, but just to have it with him like a friend.
It was funny about school.
He sat in a square, brown desk like all the other square, brown desks and he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square, brown room. Like all the other rooms. And it was tight and close. And stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and the chalk, with his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor, stiff, with the teacher watching and watching.
And then he had to write numbers. And they weren’t anything. They were worse than the letters that could be something if you put them together.
And the numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.
The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys. He said he didn’t like them and she said it didn’t matter.
After that they drew. And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about the morning. And it was beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him. “What’s this?” she said. “Why don’t you draw something like ken’s drawing?
Isn’t that beautiful?”
It was all questions.
After that his mother bought him a tie and he always drew planes and rocket ships like everyone else.
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay out alone looking at the sky, it was big and beautiful and all of everything, but he wasn’t anymore.
He was square inside and brown, and his hands were stiff, and he was like anyone else. And the thing inside that needed saying didn’t need saying anymore.
It had stopped pushing. It was crushed. Stiff.
Like everything else.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town --
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week for half-a-crown
For twenty years,

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears,

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

Leaving the house,
the house will be
left completely,
from cellar to
attic my absence
entire.

Do I enter the world
the same,
my presence felt
from cloud
to ditch?

Only in departure whole.
Arrival
is always partial.

I

Slim Greer went to heaven;
St. Peter said,
"Slim, You been a right good boy."
An' he winked at him.

"You been travelin' rascal
In yo'day.
You kin roam once mo';
Den you come to stay.

"Put dese wings on yo' shoulders,
An' save yo' feet."
Slim grin, and he speak up,
"Thankye, Pete."

Den Peter say,
"Go To Hell an' see,
All dat is doing, and
Report to me.

"Be sure to remember
How everything go." Slim say,
"I be seein' yuh
On de late watch, b
o."

Slim got to cavortin'
Swell as you choose,
Like Lindy in de Spirit
Of St. Louis Blues.

He flew an' he flew,
Till at last he hit
A hangar wid de sign readin'
DIS IS IT.

Den he parked his wings,
An' strolled aroun',
Gittin' used to his feet
On de solid ground.

II
Big bloodhound came aroarin'
Like Niagry Falls,
Sicked on by white devils
In overhalls.

Now Slim warn't scared
Cross my heart, it's a fac',
An de dog went on a bayin'
Some po' devil's track.

Den Slim saw a mansion
An' walked right in;
De Devil looked up
Wid a sickly grin.

"Suttingly didn't look
Fo' you, Mr. Greer,
How it happens you comes
To visit here?"

Slim say---
"Oh, jes' thought I'd drop by a spell."
"Feel at home, seh, an' here's
De keys to hell."

Den he took Slim around
An' showed him people
Rasin' hell as high as
De first Church Steeple.

Lots of folks fightin'
At de roulette wheel,
Like old Rampart Street,
Or leastwise Beale.

Showed him bawdy houses
An' cabarets,
Slim thought of New Orleans
An' Memphis days.

Each devil was busy
Wid a devlish broad,
An' Slim cried,
"Lawdy, Lawd, Lawd, Lawd."

Took him in a room
Where Slim see
De preacher wid a brownskin
On each knee.

Showed him giant stills,
Going everywhere,
Wid a passel of devils
Stretched dead drunk there.

Den he took him to de furnace
Dat some devils was firing,
Hot as Hell, an' Slim start
A mean presspirin'.

White devils with pitchforks
Threw black devils on,
Slim thought he'd better
Be gittin' along.

An' he says---
"Dis makes Me think of home---
Vicksburg, Little Rock, Jackson,
Waco and Rome."

Den de devil gave Slim
De big Ha-Ha;
An' turned into a cracker,
Wid a sheriff's star.

Slim ran fo' his wings,
Lit out from de groun'
Hauled it back to St. Peter,
Safety boun'.

III
St. Peter said,
"Well, You got back quick.
How's de devil?
An' what's His latest trick?"

An' Slim Say,
"Peter, I really cain't tell,
The place was Dixie
That I took for hell."

Then Peter say, "you must
Be crazy, I vow,
Where'n hell dja think
Hell was, Anyhow?

"Git on back to de yearth,
Cause I got de fear,
You'se a leetle too dumb,
Fo' to stay up here. . ."

Sonnet (Shakespeare)
(Sorry, not quite sure which one)

Not marble, nor the guilded monuments of princes
Shall outlive this powerful rhyme.
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
and broils root out the work of masonry,
No Mars his sword, nor wars quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all oblibious emnity
Shall you pace forth; Your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom
So, till the judgememtn that yourslef arise,
You live in this, adn dwell in lovers' eyes.

DEATH IS A BEAUTIFUL CAR PARKED ONLY

Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.

You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.

You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.

You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

Naming of Parts

by Henry Reed

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

(pause)

*shouts*

YOU'RE LYING TO YOURSELVES!

Don Paterson, "Nil Nil"

Just as any truly accurate representation of a particular geography can only exist on a scale of I:I (imagine the vast, rustling map of Burgundy, say, settling over it like a freshly-starched sheet!) so it is with all our abandoned histories, those ignoble lines of succession that end in neither triumph nor disaster, but merely plunge on into deeper and deeper obscurity; only in the infinite ghost- libraries of the imagination---their only possible analo- gue---can their ends be pursued, the dull and terrible facts finally authenticated.

François Aussemain, Pensées

1            From the top, then, the zenith, the silent footage:
2            McGrandle, majestic in ankle-length shorts,
3            his golden hair shorn to an open book, sprinting
4            the length of the park for the long hoick forward,
5            his balletic toe-poke nearly bursting the roof
6            of the net; a shaky pan to the Erskine St End
7            where a plague of grey bonnets falls out of the clouds.
8            But ours is a game of two halves, and this game
9            the semi they went on to lose; from here
10          it's all down, from the First to the foot of the Second,
11          McGrandle, Visocchi and Spankie detaching
12          like bubbles to speed the descent into pitch-sharing,
13          pay-cuts, pawned silver, the Highland Division,
14          the absolute sitters ballooned over open goals,
15          the dismal nutmegs, the scores so obscene
16          no respectable journal will print them; though one day
17          Farquhar's spectacular bicycle-kick
18          will earn him a name-check in Monday's obituaries.
19          Besides the one setback---the spell of giant-killing
20          in the Cup (Lochee Violet, then Aberdeen Bon Accord,

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21          the deadlock with Lochee Harp finally broken
22          by Farquhar's own-goal in the replay)
23          nothing inhibits the fifty-year slide
24          into Sunday League, big tartan flasks,
25          open hatchbacks parked squint behind goal-nets,
26          the half-time satsuma, the dog on the pitch,
27          then the Boy's Club, sponsored by Skelly Assurance,
28          then Skelly Dry Cleaners, then nobody;
29          stud-harrowed pitches with one-in-five inclines,
30          grim fathers and perverts with Old English Sheepdogs
31          lining the touch, moaning softly.
32          Now the unrefereed thirty-a-sides,
33          terrified fat boys with callipers minding
34          four jackets on infinite, notional fields;
35          ten years of dwindling, half-hearted kickabouts
36          leaves two little boys---Alastair Watt,
37          who answers to 'Forty', and wee Horace Madden,
38          so smelly the air seems to quiver above him---
39          playing desperate two-touch with a bald tennis ball
40          in the hour before lighting-up time.
41          Alastair cheats, and goes off with the ball
42          leaving wee Horace to hack up a stone
43          and dribble it home in the rain;
44          past the stopped swings, the dead shanty-town
45          of allotments, the black shell of Skelly Dry Cleaners
46          and into his cul-de-sac, where, accidentally,
47          he neatly back-heels it straight into the gutter
48          then tries to swank off like he meant it.

49          Unknown to him, it is all that remains
50          of a lone fighter-pilot, who, returning at dawn
51          to find Leuchars was not where he'd left it,
52          took time out to watch the Sidlaws unsheathed
53          from their great black tarpaulin, the haar burn off Tayport
54          and Venus melt into Carnoustie, igniting
55          the shoreline; no wind, not a cloud in the sky

[Page 53]

56          and no one around to admire the discretion
57          of his unscheduled exit: the engine plopped out
58          and would not re-engage, sending him silently
59          twirling away like an ash-key,
60          his attempt to bail out only partly successful,
61          yesterday having been April the 1st---
62          the ripcord unleashing a flurry of socks
63          like a sackful of doves rendered up to the heavens
64          in private irenicon. He caught up with the plane
65          on the ground, just at the instant the tank blew
66          and made nothing of him, save for his fillings,
67          his tackets, his lucky half-crown and his gallstone,
68          now anchored between the steel bars of a stank
69          that looks to be biting the bullet on this one.

70          In short, this is where you get off, reader;
71          I'll continue alone, on foot, in the failing light,
72          following the trail as it steadily fades
73          into road-repairs, birdsong, the weather, nirvana,
74          the plot thinning down to a point so refined
75          not even the angels could dance on it. Goodbye.

CHRISTIAN, n. One who believes that the New Testament is a divinely inspired book admirably suited to the spiritual needs of his neighbor. One who follows the teachings of Christ in so far as they are not inconsistent with a life of sin.

I dreamed I stood upon a hill, and, lo!
The godly multitudes walked to and fro
Beneath, in Sabbath garments fitly clad,
With pious mien, appropriately sad,
While all the church bells made a solemn din --
A fire-alarm to those who lived in sin.
Then saw I gazing thoughtfully below,
With tranquil face, upon that holy show
A tall, spare figure in a robe of white,
Whose eyes diffused a melancholy light.
"God keep you, stranger," I exclaimed. "You are
No doubt (your habit shows it) from afar;
And yet I entertain the hope that you,
Like these good people, are a Christian too."
He raised his eyes and with a look so stern
It made me with a thousand blushes burn
Replied -- his manner with disdain was spiced:
"What! I a Christian? No, indeed! I'm Christ."

We stopped at perfect days
and got out of the car.
The wind glanced at her hair.
It was as simple as that.
I turned to say something--

-- Ed. Fitzgerald translating Omar Khayam --

Nurses Song by William Blake (Experience version)

When the voices of children are heard on the green
And whisperings are in the dale
The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind
My face turns green and pale

Then come home, my children, for the sun has gone down
And the dews of night arise
Your spring and your day are wasted in play
And your winter and night in disguise.

I stay cool, and dig all jive,
That's the way I stay alive.
My motto, as I live and learn, is
Dig and be dug, in return.

In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house;
And in the dark, dark house there was a dark, dark room;
And in the dark, dark room there was a dark, dark cupboard;
And in the dark, dark cupboard there was a dark, dark shelf;
And on the dark, dark shelf there was a dark, dark box; And in the dark, dark box there was a....ghost!

In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house;
And in the dark, dark house there was a dark, dark room;
And in the dark, dark room there was a dark, dark cupboard;
And in the dark, dark cupboard there was a dark, dark shelf;
And on the dark, dark shelf there was a dark, dark box; And in the dark, dark box there was a....mouse!

In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house;
And in the dark, dark house there was a dark, dark room;
And in the dark, dark room there was a dark, dark cupboard;
And in the dark, dark cupboard there was a dark, dark shelf;
And on the dark, dark shelf there was a dark, dark box; And in the dark, dark box there was a....elephant!

In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house;
And in the dark, dark house there was a dark, dark room;
And in the dark, dark room there was a dark, dark cupboard;
And in the dark, dark cupboard there was a dark, dark shelf;
And on the dark, dark shelf there was a dark, dark box; And in the dark, dark box there was a....skeleton!

In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house;
And in the dark, dark house there was a dark, dark room;
And in the dark, dark room there was a dark, dark cupboard;
And in the dark, dark cupboard there was a dark, dark shelf;
And on the dark, dark shelf there was a dark, dark box; And in the dark, dark box there was a....nothing!

There were ten in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were nine in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were eight in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were seven in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were six in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were five in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were four in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were three in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There were two in a bed
And the little one said
"Roll over, roll over"
So they all rolled over
And one fell out

There was one in a bed
And the little one said
"Good night!"

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.
I dunno why she swallowed that fly,
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider,
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a bird;
How absurd, to swallow a bird!
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll die

There was an old lady who swallowed a cat.
Imagine that, she swallowed a cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die

There was an old lady who swallowed a dog.
What a hog! To swallow a dog!
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a goat.
Just opened her throat and swallowed a goat!
She swallowed the goat to catch the dog ...
The swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a horse -
She's dead, of course.

This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played two,
He played knick-knack on my shoe.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played three,
He played knick-knack on my knee.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played four,
He played knick-knack on my door.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played five,
He played knick-knack on my hive.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played six,
He played knick-knack on my sticks.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played seven,
He played knick-knack up in heaven.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played eight,
He played knick-knack on my gate.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played nine.
He played knick-knack on my spine.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone.
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played ten.
He played knick-knack once again.
With a knick-knack, paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone.
This old man came rolling home.

Ten green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Ten green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be nine green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Nine green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Nine green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be eight green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Eight green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Eight green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be seven green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Seven green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Seven green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be six green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Six green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Six green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be five green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Five green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Five green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be four green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Four green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Four green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be three green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Three green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Three green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be two green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Two green bottles
Hanging on the wall
Two green bottles
Hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be one green bottles
Hanging on the wall

One green bottle
Hanging on the wall
One green bottle
Hanging on the wall
If that one green bottle
Should accidentally fall
There'll be no green bottles
Hanging on the wall

Stretch the chorus of the Sex Pistols' "No Future", and what you get is the soundtrack to Jean Renoir's 1937 film, "La Grande Illusion".

Does this ring bells for anyone?

Muhammed Ali

I saw a jolly hunter
With a jolly gun
Walking in the country
In the jolly sun.

In the jolly meadow
Sat a jolly hare.
Saw the jolly hunter.
Took jolly care.

Hunter jolly eager-
Sight of jolly prey.
Forgot gun pointing
Wrong jolly way.

Jolly hunter jolly head
Over heels gone.
Jolly old safety catch
Not jolly on.

Bang went the jolly gun.
Hunter jolly dead.
Jolly hare got clean away.
Jolly good, I said.

wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts

wir trinken und trinken

wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng

Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt

der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete

er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei

er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde

er befiehlt uns spielt nun zum Tanz

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts

wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends

wir trinken und trinken

Ein Mann wohnt im Haus und spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt

der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete

Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng

Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr anderen singet und spielt

er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau

stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts

wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends

wir trinken und trinken

ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete

dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen

Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft

dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts

wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken

der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau

er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau

ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete

er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft

er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margarete

dein aschenes Haar Sulamith

Paul Celan, "Todesfugue"

Write, for example, `The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night, whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Pablo Neruda
(translated by W. S. Merwin)

fav poems?
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Genral Poetry Thread
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Contemporary Poetry: Search and Destroy
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Ogden Nash?
Poetry

God Help the Wolf after Whom the Dogs Do Not Bark

by Ted Hughes (written for Sylvia Plath)

There you met it -- the mystery of hatred.
After your billions of years in anonymous matter
That was where you were found -- and promptly hated.
You tried your utmost to reach and touch those people
With gifts of yourself --
Just like your first words as a toddler
When you rushed at every visitor to the house
Clasping their legs and crying: 'I love you! I love you!'
Just as you had danced for your father
In the home of anger -- gifts of your life
To sweeten his slow death and mix yourself in it
Where he lay propped on the couch,
To sugar the bitterness of his raging death.

You searched for yourself to go on giving it
As if after the nightfall of his going
You danced on in the dark house,
Eight years old, in your tinsel.

Searching for yourself, in the dark, as you danced,
Floundering a little, crying softly,
Like somebody searching for somebody drowning
In dark water,
Listening for them -- in panic at losing
Those listening seconds from your searching --
Then dancing wilder in the silence.

The Colleges lifted their heads. It did seem
You disturbed something just perfected
That they were holding carefully, all of a piece,
Till the glue dried. And as if
Reporting some felony to the police
They let you know that you were not John Donne.
You no longer care. Did you save their names?
But then they let you know, day by day,
Their contempt for everything you attempted,
Took pains to inject their bile, as for your health,
Into your morning coffee. Even signed
Their homeopathic letters,
Envelopes full of carefully broken glass
To lodge behind your eyes so you would see

Nobody wanted your dance,
Nobody wanted your strange glitter -- your floundering
Drowning life and your effort to save yourself,
Treading water, dancing the dark turmoil,
Looking for something to give --
Whatever you found
They bombarded with splinters,
Derision, mud -- the mystery of that hatred.

Hey kid
you.

•

Flesh filled
to bursting.

(I think this is the sexiest poem ever written.)

"Pieces"

I didn't
want
to hurt you.
Don't

stop
to think. It
hurts
to live

like this,
meat
sliced
walking.

"Love Comes Quietly"

Love comes quietly,
finally, drops
about me, on me,
in the old ways.

What did I know
thinking myself
able to go
alone all the way.

brilliant!

"The Prodigal" (Elizabeth Bishop)

The brown enormous odor he lived by
was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,
for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty
was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.
Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts,
the pigs’ eyes followed him, a cheerful stare—
even to the sow that always ate her young—
till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.
but sometimes mornings after drinking bouts
(he hid the pints behind a two-by-four),
the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red;
the burning puddles seemed to reassure.
And then he thought he almost might endure
his exile yet another year or more.

But evenings the first star came to warn.
The farmer whom he worked for came at dark
to shut the cows and horses in the barn
beneath their overhanging clouds of hay,
with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light,
safe and companionable as in the Ark.
The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.
The lantern—like the sun, going away—
laid on the mud a pacing aureole.
Carrying the bucket along a slimy board,
he felt the bats’ uncertain staggering flight,
his shuddering insights, beyond his control,
touching him. But it took him a long time
finally to make his mind up to go home.

"Oh Mabel"

Oh Mabel, we
will never walk
again the streets

we walked in
1884, my love,
my love.

a fish hook
an open eye
atwood

WILD nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds 5
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea! 10
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

TO make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,—
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.

Dickinson

may i feel said he
may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she)

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)