flahute » heart

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 12:02:30 +0000

ALL THE WHISKEY IN HEAVEN

Not for all the whiskey in heaven
Not for all the flies in Vermont
Not for all the tears in the basement
Not for a million trips to Mars

Not if you paid me in diamonds
Not if you paid me in pearls
Not if you gave me your pinky ring
Not if you gave me your curls

Not for all the fire in hell
Not for all the blue in the sky
Not for an empire of my own
Not even for peace of mind

No, never, I’ll never stop loving you
Not till my heart beats its last
And even then in my words and my songs
I will love you all over again

— Charles Bernstein (b. 1950)

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 27 May 2011 13:10:25 +0000

I DO NOT LOVE THEE

I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,
Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:
   And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)
   Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,
With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,
   Between me and the midnight heaven arise,
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,
Because they see me gazing where thou art.

— Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (1808 – 1877)

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 11:45:36 +0000

so you want to be a writer?

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

— Charles Bukowski (1920 – 1994)

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 12:55:11 +0000

BLUE

Blue, but you are Rose, too,
and buttermilk, but with blood
dots showing through.
A little salty your white
nape boy-wide. Glinting hairs
shoot back of your ears’ Rose
that tongues like to feel
the maze of, slip into the funnel,
tell a thunder-whisper to.
When I kiss, your eyes’ straight
lashes down crisp go like doll’s
blond straws. Glazed iris Roses,
your lids unclose to Blue-ringed
targets, their dark sheen-spokes
almost green. I sink in Blue-
black Rose-heart holes until you
blink. Pink lips, the serrate
folds taste smooth, and Rosehip-
round, the center bud I suck.
I milknip your two Blue-skeined
blown Rose beauties, too, to sniff
their berries’ blood, up stiff
pink tips. You’re white in
patches, only mostly Rose,
buckskin and saltly, speckled
like a sky. I love your spots,
your white neck, Rose, your hair’s
wild straw splash, silk spools
for your ears. But where white
spouts out, spills on your brow
to clear eyepools, wheel shafts
of light, Rose, you are Blue.

— May Swenson (1913 – 1989), Utah poet

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 13:38:54 +0000

THE ARMY OF TRUTH

Words? Those sounds the world despises.
Words in poems?
Even more to be disdained!
Ah, how feeble are your powers
to defend
all the truth that man denies!

Thunder crack and lightning flash
      at its presence!
Hosts of angels should come swooping
down from heaven to the rescue
      far and wide
spread the knowledge of its glory.

Oh, why can it not come winging
      from on high?
Truth, that with a starry birth
wears a helmet brightly gleaming
      wielding swords
fiercely sharp instead of feathers.

Oh, why then does it not pitch camp
      tent on tent
white on every mountainside?
Oh, why then are not its heroes
      strongly ranged
to keep mastery over life?

The fort of darkness is well guarded.
      Superstition
rests secure on stony columns.
Numerous as Egypt’s serpents
      round truth’s temple
range the black-clad guards of error.

Forward, though, you feeble lines!
      Words are armies!
On this earth your victory
was promised by the Lord, Light’s father,
      when you serve
Truth itself, his child, alone.

Onward, words, you sons of truth!
      En avant!
In the end the hearts of men
will be your victorious home.
      Then your light
will with courage bear them on.

Forward, with your boldest faces
      Words of truth!
For the greatest power on Earth
has been granted you by God:
      Because never
Could you die in Truth’s pure mouth!

Courage take then, all you small ones!
Truth’s great cause
Only triumphs in defeat.
Storm the bitter heights of lies!
Raze them to the ground with Truth!

— Henrik Wergeland (1808 – 1845)

A contribution …

flahute — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 23:11:59 +0000

… for National Poetry Day (Thursday, October 7, 2010):

AS YET UNTITLED (a work in progress)

Composing words of romance, verses as yet unformed.

Visions of hair, long, dark and curled,
Of laughing Van Morrison eyes.

Freckled skin, kissed by the sun,
Slender curves, longing to be caressed.

A heart, offered freely, given totally,
Not accepted.

Fleeting moments of joy,
Once grasped, but slipping through fingers, still,
Cherished a lifetime.

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 11:37:13 +0000

IN SUMMER

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies’ soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air’s soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer’s boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another’s ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o’erfull heart, without aim or art;
‘T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

— Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872 – 1906)

Poetry Wednesday?

flahute — Wed, 26 May 2010 19:17:49 +0000

Got this in my email from Poets.org today … and it’s pretty evocative of today’s mood, so I thought I’d share. Enjoy. Or don’t.

FOOTPRINT ON YOUR HEART

Someone will walk into your life,
Leave a footprint on your heart,
Turn it into a mudroom cluttered
With encrusted boots, children’s mittens,
Scratchy scarves—
Where you linger to unwrap
Or ready yourself for rough exits
Into howling gales or onto
Frozen car seats, expulsions
Into the great outdoors where touch
Is muffled, noses glisten,
And breaths stab,
So that when you meet someone
Who is leaving your life
You will be able to wave stiff
Icy mitts and look forward
To an evening in spring
When you can fold winter away
Until your next encounter with
A chill so numbing you strew
The heart’s antechamber
With layers of rural garble.

Video Poetry (Kept Edition)

flahute — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 01:16:25 +0000

TANYA DONELLY – KEEPING YOU

I’m keeping you i’m keeping you
I’m keeping you so realize your fate
I’m keeping you i’m keeping you
I’m keeping you so settle down now

You landed here from inner space
You landed with that screwed-up look on your face
I wanted you from way back when
I wanted you for years, then years again

I’m keeping you i’m keeping you
I’m keeping you so settle in now

My return to wildlife by satellite
By beautiful moon-shining girl
Whether by hard ground or splashdown
We’re safely back in the world

My heart’s not new
I’m not like you
I’ve loved and been loved well and badly too
My body’s been through everything
I’ve used and been used
I got over it
There’s something that you learn on a tightrope
Just outside the spotlight there’s a big net waiting for…

My return to wildlife by satellite
By beautiful moon-shining girl
Whether by hard ground or splashdown
We’re safely back in the world

I’m keeping you

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 08:23:28 +0000

I AM NOT YOURS

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

— Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933), American Poet.

BE NEAR ME

Be near me now,
My tormenter, my love, be near me—
At this hour when night comes down,
When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes
With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets,
When it comes with cries of lamentation,
                                             with laughter with songs;
Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step.
At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places,
Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil
For hands still enfolded in sleeves;
When wine being poured makes the sound
                                             of inconsolable children
                       who, though you try with all your heart,
                                             cannot be soothed.
When whatever you want to do cannot be done,
When nothing is of any use;
—At this hour when night comes down,
When night comes, dragging its long face,
                                             dressed in mourning,
Be with me,
My tormenter, my love, be near me.

— Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911 – 1984), Indian/Pakistani poet. Translated by Naomi Lazard

OPAL

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

— Amy Lowell (1874 – 1925), American Poet.