Poetry - Recently Updated Pages

Henry Newbolt

risenphoenix — Fri, 30 May 2008 03:14:32 CDT

Clifton Chapel

This is the Chapel: here, my son,
Your father thought the thoughts of youth,
And heard the words that one by one
The touch of Life has turn'd to truth.
Here in a day that is not far,
You too may speak with noble ghosts
Of manhood and the vows of war
You made before the Lord of Hosts.

To set the cause above renown,
To love the game beyond the prize,
To honour, while you strike him down,
The foe that comes with fearless eyes;
To count the life of battle good,
And dear the land that gave you birth,
And dearer yet the brotherhood
That binds the brave of all the earth.--

My son, the oath is yours: the end
Is His, Who built the world of strife,
Who gave His children Pain for friend,
And Death for surest hope of life.
To-day and here the fight's begun,
Of the great fellowship you're free;
Henceforth the School and you are one,
And what You are, the race shall be.

God send you fortune: yet be sure,
Among the lights that gleam and pass,
You'll live to follow none more pure
Than that which glows on yonder brass:
'Qui procul hinc,' the legend's writ,--
The frontier-grave is far away--
'Qui ante diem periit:
Sed miles, sed pro patria.'

Cheshire Grin

risenphoenix — Fri, 30 May 2008 03:01:15 CDT

We've been here before Alice tells the Queen
on her jogging route.

And the foliage folds like cards
into the teapot stream.

We have been here before
Alice tells the Queen.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
are on summer recess.
Neither of them can remember
his history lesson.

And Humpty Dumpty is in peices
because his girlfriend dumpted him.
And even Rehabilitation cannot put him
back together again.

And the Walrus and the Carpenter
discuss the existential meaning
of who eats who in the Animal Kingdom

We have been here before
Alice tells the Queen

And the white rabbit
is always late for his hearing.

And Alice tips off the Queen
that this is a fairy tale.

And I am the Mad Hatter
I have been here before
with my Cheshire grin.

by Marjorie Sadin

Nightrider

risenphoenix — Fri, 30 May 2008 01:00:52 CDT

In a distance
A rainbow is forever visible,
Somehow
Finding its pathway
About the sun
Past daybreak
Or as misty as
After a summer’s storm it could be,
Most often
That thunder would clamor,
Or lightening would strike
And hail would fall, though
I have never heard rain falling within the dead of the night.

Neither have I dreamed of a
Rainbow circling about the sun,
Or heard the pitter-pattering of raindrops
Spitting upon my window pane
For daytime has always been a mystery to me,
And daytime has not been seen as a time for dreaming;

I am the nightrider, who
Mounts my proud white stallion
Every night, as that rainbow disappears, my spirit is screaming,
Stolen and whisked away-
Carried away by the speed of light by a larcenist who
Loiters in the twilight zone.

I do not believe
It has never rained in my lifetime before dawn or past dusk-
Although, if it
Had not rained, I could not have seen the colors
Of my dream world, those shades
Of fluorescent greens, magentas and oranges, and
The stars would not scintillate, for
Lacking in luster they would be.

I hold in vague memory of
Hearing rain spitting upon my window pane
Or being blinded by the sunlight at the time
The sun was rising
Today I walk beneath the pouring rain, in search of
My gallant white stallion, which was stolen and whisked away,

Today as I dance in the rain, I shall
Perhaps even daydream a little although,
Somehow I shall find my way back into the night,
As I ride my horse across the Milky Way-
The nightrider I shall always be-
Stolen and whisked away, by the thieves who rule in the darkness-
In search of that rainbow that disappeared after an evening storm
-Perhaps its meaning is of freedom from fear?

schizoclaud

Dark

risenphoenix — Fri, 30 May 2008 00:59:53 CDT

To Luna.

SISTER of the first-born light,

Type of sorrowing gentleness!

Quivering mists in silv'ry dress
Float around thy features bright;
When thy gentle foot is heard,

From the day-closed caverns then

Wake the mournful ghosts of men,
I, too, wake, and each night-bird.

O'er a field of boundless span

Looks thy gaze both far and wide.

Raise me upwards to thy side!
Grant this to a raving man!
And to heights of rapture raised,

Let the knight so crafty peep

At his maiden while asleep,
Through her lattice-window glazed.

Soon the bliss of this sweet view,

Pangs by distance caused allays;

And I gather all thy rays,
And my look I sharpen too.
Round her unveil'd limbs I see

Brighter still become the glow,

And she draws me down below,
As Endymion once drew thee.

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Spanish

risenphoenix — Thu, 29 May 2008 23:36:56 CDT

Tengo Hambre by Pablo Neruda

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra.

Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,
la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro,
quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas

y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.

I am hungry

I am hungry for your mouth, your voice, your skin
I wander in streets without food, quiet
Bread does not sustain me, dawn disquiets me
All day I search for the liquid sounds of your feet

I am hungry for your silken laughter,
For your hands the color of savage harvest,
Hungry for the pail stones of your fingernails.
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond

I want to eat the sun rays burnt by your beauty
The royal nose of your proud face
The fleeting shadows of your lashes

And I come hungry sniffing the twilight
Searching for you, your hot heart
Like a puma in the solitude of Quitratue.

translated by Ravi Kopra

_________________________________________________________________________________

Soneto XXVII by Pablo Neruda

Desnuda eres tan simple como una de tus manos,
lisa, terrestre, mínima, redonda, transparente,
tienes líneas de luna, caminos de manzana,
desnuda eres delgada como el trigo desnudo.

Desnuda eres azul como la noche en Cuba,
tienes enredaderas y estrellas en el pelo,
desnuda eres enorme y amarilla
como el verano en una iglesia de oro.

Desnuda eres pequeña como una de tus uñas,
curva, sutil, rosada hasta que nace el día
y te metes en el subterráneo del mundo

como en un largo túnel de trajes y trabajos:
tu claridad se apaga, se viste, se deshoja
y otra vez vuelve a ser una mano desnuda.

Sonnet 27

Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.
You've moon-lines, apple pathways
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You've vines and stars in your hair.
Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.

Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world.

As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.

French

risenphoenix — Thu, 29 May 2008 23:26:39 CDT

La Chevelure by Charles Baudelaire

Ô toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure!
Ô boucles! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir!
Extase! Pour peupler ce soir l'alcôve obscure
Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure,
Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir!
La langoureuse Asie et la brûlante Afrique,
Tout un monde lointain, absent, presque défunt,
Vit dans tes profondeurs, forêt aromatique!
Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique,
Le mien, ô mon amour! nage sur ton parfum.
J'irai l&agrave-bas où l'arbre et l'homme, pleins de sève,
Se pâment longuement sous l'ardeur des climats;
Fortes tresses, soyez la houle qui m'enlève!
Tu contiens, mer d'ébène, un éblouissant rêve
De voiles, de rameurs, de flammes et de mâts:
Un port retentissant où mon âme peut boire
À grands flots le parfum, le son et la couleur
Où les vaisseaux, glissant dans l'or et dans la moire
Ouvrent leurs vastes bras pour embrasser la gloire
D'un ciel pur où frémit l'éternelle chaleur.
Je plongerai ma tête amoureuse d'ivresse
Dans ce noir océan où l'autre est enfermé;
Et mon esprit subtil que le roulis caresse
Saura vous retrouver, ô féconde paresse,
Infinis bercements du loisir embaumé!
Cheveux bleus, pavillon de ténèbres tendues
Vous me rendez l'azur du ciel immense et rond;
Sur les bords duvetés de vos mèches tordues
Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs confondues
De l'huile de coco, du musc et du goudron.
Longtemps! toujours! ma main dans ta crinière lourde
Sèmera le rubis, la perle et le saphir,
Afin qu'à mon désir tu ne sois jamais sourde!
N'es-tu pas l'oasis où je rêve, et la gourde
Où je hume à longs traits le vin du souvenir?
— Charles Baudelaire

Head of Hair

O fleecy hair, falling in curls to the shoulders!
O black locks! O perfume laden with nonchalance!
Ecstasy! To people the dark alcove tonight
With memories sleeping in that thick head of hair.
I would like to shake it in the air like a scarf!
Sweltering Africa and languorous Asia,
A whole far-away world, absent, almost defunct,
Dwells in your depths, aromatic forest!
While other spirits glide on the wings of music,
Mine, O my love! floats upon your perfume.
I shall go there, where trees and men, full of vigor,
Are plunged in a deep swoon by the heat of the land;
Heady tresses be the billows that carry me away!
Ebony sea, you hold a dazzling dream
Of rigging, of rowers, of pennons and of masts:
A clamorous harbor where my spirit can drink
In great draughts the perfume, the sound and the color;
Where the vessels gliding through the gold and the moire
Open wide their vast arms to embrace the glory
Of a clear sky shimmering with everlasting heat.
I shall bury my head enamored with rapture
In this black sea where the other is imprisoned;
And my subtle spirit caressed by the rolling
Will find you once again, O fruitful indolence,
Endless lulling of sweet-scented leisure!
Blue-black hair, pavilion hung with shadows,
You give back to me the blue of the vast round sky;
In the downy edges of your curling tresses
I ardently get drunk with the mingled odors
Of oil of coconut, of musk and tar.
A long time! Forever! my hand in your thick mane
Will scatter sapphires, rubies and pearls,
So that you will never be deaf to my desire!
Aren't you the oasis of which I dream, the gourd
From which I drink deeply, the wine of memory?
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

Her Hair

O fleece that down her nape rolls, plume on plume!
O curls! O scent of nonchalance and ease!
What ecstasy! To populate this room
With memories it harbours in its gloom,
I'd shake it like a banner on the breeze.
Hot Africa and languid Asia play
(An absent world, defunct, and far away)
Within that scented forest, dark and dim.
As other souls on waves of music swim,
Mine on its perfume sails, as on the spray.
I'll journey there, where man and sap-filled tree
Swoon in hot light for hours. Be you my sea,
Strong tresses! Be the breakers and gales
That waft me. Your black river holds, for me,
A dream of masts and rowers, flames and sails.
A port, resounding there, my soul delivers
With long deep draughts of perfumes, scent, and clamour,
Where ships, that glide through gold and purple rivers,
Fling wide their vast arms to embrace the glamour
Of skies wherein the heat forever quivers.
I'll plunge my head in it, half drunk with pleasure —
In this black ocean that engulfs her form.
My soul, caressed with wavelets there may measure
Infinite rocking& in embalmed leisure,
Creative idleness that fears no storm!
Blue tresses, like a shadow-stretching tent,
You shed the blue of heavens round and far.
Along its downy fringes as I went
I reeled half-drunken to confuse the scent
Of oil of coconuts, with musk and tar.
My hand forever in your mane so dense,
Rubies and pearls and sapphires there will sow,
That you to my desire be never slow —
Oasis of my dreams, and gourd from whence
Deep-draughted wines of memory will flow.
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

The Fleece

O shadowy fleece that falls and curls upon those bare
Lithe shoulders! O rich perfume of forgetfulness!
O ecstasy! To loose upon the midnight air
The memories asleep in this tumultuous hair,
I long to rake it in my fingers, tress by tress!
Asia the languorous, the burning solitude
Of Africa — a whole world, distant, all but dead —
Survives in thy profundities, O odorous wood!
My soul, as other souls put forth on the deep flood
Of music, sails away upon thy scent instead.
There where the sap of life mounts hot in man and tree,
And lush desire untamed swoons in the torrid zone,
Undulant tresses, wild strong waves, oh, carry me!
Dream, like a dazzling sun, from out this ebony sea
Rises; and sails and banks of rowers propel me on.
All the confusion, all the mingled colors, cries,
Smells of a busy port, upon my senses beat;
Where smoothly on the golden streakèd ripples flies
The barque, its arms outspread to gather in the skies,
Against whose glory trembles the unabating heat.
In this black ocean where the primal ocean roars,
Drunken, in love with drunkenness, I plunge and drown;
Over my dubious spirit the rolling tide outpours
Its peace — oh, fruitful indolence, upon thy shores,
Cradled in languor, let me drift and lay me down!
Blue hair, darkness made palpable, like the big tent
Of desert sky all glittering with many a star
Thou coverest me — oh, I am drugged as with the blent
Effluvia of a sleeping caravan, the scent
Of coco oil impregnated with musk and tar.
Fear not! Upon this savage mane for ever thy lord
Will sow pearls, sapphires, rubies, every stone that gleams,
To keep thee faithful! Art not thou the sycamored
Oasis whither my thoughts journey, and the dark gourd
Whereof I drink in long slow draughts the wine of dreams?
— George Dillon & Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

Of Her Hair

O fleece, billowing on her neck! O ecstasy!
O curls, O perfume rich with nonchalance, O rare!.
Tonight to fill the alcove's warm obscurity,
To make that hair evoke each dormant memory,
I long to wave it like a kerchief in the air.
Africa smoldering and Asia languorous,
A whole far distant world, absent and almost spent,
Dwells in your forest depths, mystic and odorous!
As others lose themselves in the harmonious,
So, love, my heart floats lost upon your haunting scent.
I shall go where both man and tree, albeit strong,
Swoon deep beneath the rays of sunlight's blazing fires.
Thick tresses, be the waves to bear my dreams along!
Ebony sea, your dazzling dream contains a throng
Of sails, of wafts, of oarsmen, and of masts like spires.
A noisy harbor where my thirsty soul may drain
Hues, sounds and fragrances, in draughts heavy and sweet,
Where vessels gliding down a moiré-and-gold sea lane
Open their vast arms wide to clutch at the domain
Of a pure sky ashimmer with eternal beat.
Deep shall I plunge my head, avid of drunkenness,
In this black sea wherein the other sea lies captured,
And my soul buoyant at its undulant caress
Shall find you once again, O fruitful idleness,
O long lullings of ease, soft, honeyed and enraptured.
O blue-black hair, pennon with sheen and shadow fraught,
You give me back the vast blue skies of dawn and dusk,
As on the downy edges of your tresses, caught
In your soft curls, I grow drunken and hot, distraught
By mingled scents of cocoanut and tar and musk.
Sapphires, rubies, pearls — my hand shall never tire
Of strewing these through your thick mane — how lavishly! —
Lest Life should ever turn you deaf to my desire!
You are the last oasis where I dream, afire,
The gourd whence deep I quaff the wine of memory.
— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)

The Head of Hair

O Fleece, foaming to the neck!
O curls! O scent of laziness!
Ecstasy! This evening, to people the dark comers
Of memories that are sleeping in these locks,
I would wave them in the air like a handkerchief!
Languorous Asia and burning Africa,
A whole world, distant, absent, almost extinct,
Lives in the depths of your perfumed jungle;
As other souls sail along on music,
So mine, O my love, swims on your scent.
I shall go over there where trees and men, full of sap,
Faint away slowly in the passionate climate;
O strong locks, be the sea-swell that transports me!
You keep, O sea of ebony, a dazzling dream
Of sails and sailormen, flames and masts:
A resounding haven where in great waves
My soul can drink the scent, the sound and color;
Where ships, sliding in gold and watered silk,
Part their vast arms to embrace the glory
Of the pure sky shuddering with eternal heat
I shall plunge my head, adoring drunkenness,
Into this black ocean where the other is imprisoned;
And my subtle spirit caressed by the sway
Will know how to find you, O pregnant idleness!
In an infinite cradle of scented leisure!
Blue hair, house of taut darkness,
You make the blue of the sky seem huge and round for me;
On the downy edges of your twisted locks
I hungrily get drunk on the muddled fragrances
Of coconut oil, of musk and tar
For a long time! For ever! Amongst your heavy mane
My hand will strew the ruby, pearl and sapphire
To make you never deaf to my desire!
For are you not the oasis where I dream, the gourd
Where in great draughts I gulp the wine of memory?
— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)

Home

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 05:36:23 CDT

Welcome to "Poetry".. Here you can add your own favourite poems for everyone to read.
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Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher

To force the pace and never to be still
Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But patient love relaxing on a hill
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is loved
No longer waits but risks surrendering -
In this the poet finds his moral proved
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.

The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.
To watch the rarer birds, you have to go
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow
In silence near the source, or by a shore
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of light
With darkness at the core, and sense is found
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.

-- Nissim Ezekiel

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Translations

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 04:21:21 CDT

French

Paranoia

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 03:41:21 CDT

Schizophrenia

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 03:37:55 CDT

Schizophrenia

The day began at night,
Within a buff-colored room.
A decapitated man,
Stocky in build,
Cast his shadow upon the wall.
A large feline broke down the wooden door,
And emptied a box of slithering, fire breathing snakes
Upon the carpeted floor.
The watchful eye is always present.
Voices scream and call my name,
Ringing like crashing cymbals,
Clarion, in the middle of the night.
Only I can hear them…
The day began at night,
Many, many years ago.
When it began, it was a childhood mystery.
Voices sometimes, soft and consoling, and at other times,
Blood curdling and frightening.
The watchful eye penetrates like a dagger,
Twisting horrifically into my gut.
The day began at night;
Days and nights were reversed,
Hours in discordance
With time and place,
Nights and days indistinguishable.
The day recurred last night
When blood poured from the ceiling
And from other places it should not be falling,
Dripping and dripping
Into a cesspool of disarray.
I make no contact with the watchful eye;
Ordered by my thoughts,
I have often induced self-harm.
A knife is falling down upon me from a magenta sky,
As black whirlwinds are approaching.
I fear I am at death’s door,
Terrified of the chamber it leads to.
Blood drips from the sky.
I hear God calling me to save the souls of the desperate.
My mission began one night on a day thirty years ago.
A day began at night when I met face to face
With a monstrous being
Its hair as green as slime,
Its face, crimson red.
Its bulging eyes penetrated mine,
And stole my thoughts away.
My days begin at night.
At every day and every night,
I pray to God
To save my own desperate soul.,
And to abate this terrible illness-
From the day that begins at night, at every day,
And every night.

Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)

Arson

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 03:35:56 CDT

Arson

Touch is fire striking, though…
Not as sky lightening,
Orange-yellow, rufescent, gilded, glimmering,
Woven into a pattern,
Stardust scattered,
Hanging as a curtain,
Camouflaging.
Filaments as jet black as the densest matter beyond this universe,
Deep, dark…

Somewhere,
Eyes become daggers,
Penetrating, assassinating.

The eye of a storm ogles.
A volcano erupts-
A plethora of wrath is pent up inside.

Ashen completion of those who are moribund,
Lie scattered haphazardly about forest terrain, demolished.

A touch is fire, almost deadening,
Bright as sky lightening,
Though somehow unique,
Woven into a pattern of disarray.

Stardust is settling, dissolving into nothingness, then rekindling, smoldering,
As flames rise rufescent, gold plated-

The ill fated are the criminal insane,

Padlocked inside of a vault,

Some state penitentiary,
Character assassinating,
Chortling from within, morbid laughter,
Of the downtrodden and the oppressed…

Filament as black as an arrowhead,
Of an Indian warhead,
That has cursed this night…

A torch is carried,
Smoldering, shimmering,
A touch by a death weapon
WHO COMMITTED ARSON?!
The touch of fire and the screaming of the dead.

schizoclaud

Open Seclusion

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 03:35:13 CDT

Open Seclusion

Rattling within this shoe box ,
I count the stars as they tumble
From the ceiling.
Blood drips downward,
A deluge from Hell.
I am drowning within an abyss,
Awaiting a ship to carry me home.

Pain smolders within my gut;
Knives twist within every chamber of my heart.
I have not found the light.

The door is unlocked,
Slightly ajar.
I rattle and scream.
My demons control me.
Fearing death,
I am caged within the dungeon of my thoughts.

I can see my pain reflected
Within the stars
As they fall.

Last night, I refused Ativan.
A monitor is wired above the door:
I am being watched.

I hear a needle drop upon the floor,
And the sound of falling stars.

I believe my ship awaits me,
But I have yet to find the light.

schizoclaud

When I Die

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 03:33:29 CDT

When I Die

When I die
All of my trials,
The pain of this malaise, and
The ghosts and demons of my past and present
Shall perish as I exit this world-
I speak not of reality,
Which I have hardly ever known,
Only the phantasmal land
Where the devils of my past are dwelling,
I shall not speak of unreality or
The trials of my future,
As I foresee no future
Only trials and very few tribulations-
Perhaps the future shall hold for me
If only my dreams would come true,
As many angels,
As the old saying goes
That can dance upon the head of a pin
Which of course can only be of a very few,
Above the clouds,
Fluffy and white
Against a sky of cerulean blue,
When I die
I would only hope
That there is where I would find myself-
In that place that Christians have coined as “heaven”,
I cannot say I do not believe, as
No one, myself included
Has ever conversed with the dead.
They have also spoken of a place called “hell”
A place that I have seen so much of on this very planet,
Where fire has been set to my very soul,
Whereby fate was the arsonist. and
I know that from the day I was born
It was with a spirit that has been damned, and
When I die,
I wish to leave behind
All of my trials and pain
The demons of my past and present,
Only hoping that the future holds for me-
That I may find myself basking beneath the heat of the sun
Resting upon a fluffy white cloud
Sailing across the sea of sky -
Shades of cerulean blue,
My dream would be to be
Amongst the few angels
Chosen to dance upon the head of a pin
A ballerina with wings,
With legs stepping gracefully,
As those of a fawn, though a bit shaky-
Oh, what does the future hold for me?
I will only find out after I am dead and gone,
There could not possibly be any more agony
Than past memories,
Or present experiences, only and only if
I die soon shall I find relief,
It is written in my book of prayers
Inscribed across that sky of cerulean blue
When I speak of what reality has meant to me-
Nothing but a life of being afraid
Of just about everyone and everything-
The future couldn’t possibly hold any more battles
I shall exit this war zone and
Enter nirvana, and if the future holds no hope for me
When I die
I hope that death is, as many do believe
Will be none but a final sleep for me
And I shall just close my eyes tightly shut,
Maybe I shall never dance upon the head of a pin,
Or bask beneath the sun as I rest upon a cloud.
Perhaps just falling asleep
To never awaken again in any world
Even if it were to be heaven,
For heaven could turn out to be a repeat of hell on earth-
Nobody could ever know for certain, as
Death as is life-
Is just another mystery?

Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)

Schizoclaud

risenphoenix — Tue, 27 May 2008 03:29:11 CDT

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Emerson

risenphoenix — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 23:05:03 CST

The Rhodora: On Being Asked, Whence Is the Flower?

Picture Courtesy: Curtis' Botanical Images

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Brahma

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near,
Shadow and sunlight are the same,
The vanished gods to me appear,
And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

by

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Image Courtesy: Zauberbilder

A.K. Ramanujan

risenphoenix — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 23:00:13 CST

A River

In Madurai,
city of temples and poets,
who sang of cities and temples,
every summer
a river dries to a trickle
in the sand,
baring the sand ribs,
straw and women's hair
clogging the watergates
at the rusty bars
under the bridges with patches
of repair all over them
the wet stones glistening like sleepy
crocodiles, the dry ones
shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun
The poets only sang of the floods.

He was there for a day
when they had the floods.
People everywhere talked
of the inches rising,
of the precise number of cobbled steps
run over by the water, rising
on the bathing places,
and the way it carried off three village houses,
one pregnant woman
and a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda as usual.

The new poets still quoted
the old poets, but no one spoke
in verse
of the pregnant woman
drowned, with perhaps twins in her,
kicking at blank walls
even before birth.

He said:
the river has water enough
to be poetic
about only once a year
and then
it carries away
in the first half-hour
three village houses,
a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda
and one pregnant woman
expecting identical twins
with no moles on their bodies,
with different coloured diapers
to tell them apart.
- A. K. Ramanujan

Nobel Winners

risenphoenix — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 03:02:23 CST

This page contains links to sub pages that contain poems by Nobel-winning poets and pdf documents of poems by Nobel-winning poets.

Joseph Brodsky
Octavio Paz

Inspired by the Sea

risenphoenix — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 02:57:21 CST

Picture Courtesy: Valorie Preston

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No!I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

--- T. S. Eliot

Painting by: Chavannes

The Idea of Order at Key West

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made. Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night. Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

--- Wallace Stevens

The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens

British Literature

risenphoenix — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 02:55:04 CST

Picture Courtesy: Conduit

Poetry of Departures

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detest my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.

- Philip Larkin

Joseph Brodsky

risenphoenix — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 02:53:19 CST

Picture courtesy: Artworks Within

I Sit By The Window

I said fate plays a game without a score,
and who needs fish if you've got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to pass
and turn you on--no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window. Outside, an aspen.
When I loved, I loved deeply. It wasn't often.

I said the forest's only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you've got her knee?
Sick of the dust raised by the modern era,
the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window. The dishes are done.
I was happy here. But I won't be again.

I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.

I said that the leaf may destory the bud;
what's fertile falls in fallow soil--a dud;
that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain
nature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window. Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow's my squat company.

My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked,
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one--no one's legs rest on my sholders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.

A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.

-- Joseph Brodsky