• You are here
  • Forum Header
  • Topics not covered in other forums.
sjfgreenman
Expert Boarder
Posts:733

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21074 3 years, 2 months ago
You can tell it's Friday..

How doth the little crocodile...
a poem by Lewis Carroll


How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
Last Edit: 3 years, 2 months ago by sjfgreenman.
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer
Equinox
Platinum Boarder
Posts:16535

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21155 3 years, 2 months ago
Since we seem to be bending reality today, here's something from one of the great French Surrealists.

To paint a bird's portrait

First of all, paint a cage
with an opened little door
then paint something attractive
something simple
something beautiful
something of benefit for the bird
Put the picture on a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide yourself behind the tree
silent
immovable...

Sometimes the bird arrives quickly
but sometimes it takes years
Don't be discouraged
wait
wait for years if necessary
the rapidity or the slowness of the arrival
doesn't have any relationship
with the result of the picture

When the bird comes
if it comes
keep the deepest silence
wait until the bird enters the cage
and when entered in
Close the door softly with the brush
then remove one by the one all the bars
care not to touch any feather of the bird

Then draw the portrait of the tree
choosing the most beautiful branch
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the coolness
of the beasts of the grass in the summer's heat
and then, wait that the bird starts singing

If the bird doesn't sing
it's a bad sign
it means that the picture is wrong
but if it sings it's a good sign
it means that you can sign

so you tear with sweetness
a feather from the bird
and write your name in a corner of the painting.

Jacques Prévert
"Got any nails?"
"No!"
"Got any flies?"
Last Edit: 3 years, 2 months ago by Equinox.
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer , sjfgreenman
Equinox
Platinum Boarder
Posts:16535

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21156 3 years, 2 months ago
Now about that Hemp poem... OH, WOW!
"Got any nails?"
"No!"
"Got any flies?"
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer
PMoondancer
Platinum Boarder
Posts:1824

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21159 3 years, 2 months ago
Thank you!

(And does bird=soul?)

Looking forward to one of your poems too!
Here's one in the surrealist vein...

Ode to Salvador Dali
by Federico Garcia Lorca

A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.

The modern painters in their white ateliers
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.

An absence of forests and screens and brows
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.

Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.


*

Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.

Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.


*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.

Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.

The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.

The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.

When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.

You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.

You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.

The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.

You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.

The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.


*

But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.

Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!


*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.

I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.

I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.

Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.

May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.

Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.
Last Edit: 3 years, 2 months ago by PMoondancer .
The following user(s) said Thank You: sjfgreenman
the highway terror
Platinum Boarder
Posts:6512
we gonna stay here til we soothe our souls

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21406 3 years, 2 months ago
Allen Ginsberg Dying
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti 4/1/97

Allen Ginsberg is dying
It's all in the papers
It's on the evening news
A great poet is dying
But his voice
won't die
His voice is on the land
In Lower Manhattan
in his own bed
he is dying
There is nothing
to do about it
He is dying the death that everyone dies
He is dying the death of the poet
He has a telephone in his hand
and he calls everyone
from his bed in Lower Manhattan
All around the world
late at night
the telephone is ringing
"This is Allen"
the voice says
"Allen Ginsberg calling"
How many times have they heard it
over the long great years
He doesn't have to say Ginsberg
All around the world
in the world of poets
there is only one Allen
"I wanted to tell you" he says
He tells them what's happening
what's coming down
on him
His voice goes by satellite
over the land
over the Sea of Japan
where he once stood naked
trident in hand
like a young Neptune
a young man with black beard
standing on a stone beach
It is high tide and the seabirds cry
The waves break over him now
and the seabirds cry
on the San Francisco waterfront
There is a high wind
There are great whitecaps
lashing the Embarcadero
I am reading Greek poetry
Horses weep in it
The horses of Achilles
weep in it
here by the sea
in San Francisco
where the waves weep
They make a sibilant sound
a sibylline sound
Allen
they whisper
Allen
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer , sjfgreenman
PMoondancer
Platinum Boarder
Posts:1824

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21667 3 years, 2 months ago
Sonnets are full of love
Christina Rossetti (1881)


Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.
The following user(s) said Thank You: sjfgreenman
odea
Junior Boarder
Posts:61
At least I'm enjoying the ride

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21805 3 years, 2 months ago
thanks for all the encouragement, everyone

i am only beginning to separate decent stuff from rubbish

here's a good one from Marie Howe

DEATH, THE LAST VISIT

Hearing a low growl in your throat, you’ll know that it’s started.
It has nothing to ask you. It has only something to say, and
it will speak in your own tongue.

Locking its arms around you, it will hold you as long as you ever wanted.
Only this time it will be long enough. It will not let go.
Burying your face in its dark shoulder, you’ll smell mud and hair and water.

You’ll taste your mother’s sour nipple, your favorite salty cock
and swallow a word you thought you’d spit out once and be done with.
Through half-closed eyes you’ll see that its shadow looks like yours,

a perfect fit. You could weep with gratefulness. It will take you
as you like it best, hard and fast as a slap across your face,
or so sweet and slow you’ll scream give it to me give it to me until it does.

Nothing will ever reach this deep. Nothing will ever clench this hard.
At last (the little girls are clapping, shouting) someone has pulled
the drawstring of your gym bag closed enough and tight. At last

someone has knotted the lace of your shoe so it won’t ever come undone.
Even as you turn into it, even as you begin to feel yourself stop,
you’ll whistle with amazement between your residual teeth oh jesus

oh sweetheart, oh holy mother, nothing nothing nothing ever felt
this good.

-Marie Howe

Now THAT'S a metaphor
"Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, sky and river, woods and mountains, all beautiful, all mysterious and enchanting, and in the midst of it, he, Siddhartha, the awakened one, on the way to himself."
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer , sjfgreenman
Equinox
Platinum Boarder
Posts:16535

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21833 3 years, 2 months ago
Happy Mother's Day to you, PM. That's an absolutely beautiful sonnet.

I've read very little Lorca but I love that Dali poem. He's such a purely visual painter -- totally hallucinogenic -- you'd think words couldn't capture his effects. But this poem seems to do it perfectly. Not an easy trick as the poet has to transcend linear thought yet still create sharply vivid images. Like Dali

In response to your question about the French poem I would agree bird = soul but I wouldn't stake my life on it. One thing I've heard repeatedly about Prevert's poetry is that some of it is simply untranslatable. He uses so many French colloquialisms that the whole context is lost when you take the poem out of its original language.

And yes, odea, I agree. THAT'S a metaphor!
"Got any nails?"
"No!"
"Got any flies?"
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer
PMoondancer
Platinum Boarder
Posts:1824

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21878 3 years, 2 months ago
Hello!

I was intensely fasinated by Lorca and his work at the end of high school and into college. My Spanish teacher gave me a copy of some plays to translate, and I was "in love" with Lorca.

en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_Garc%C3%ADa_Lorca

still looking forward to reading more originals from Odea and Equinox...

Wish me happy work...I start a new job today!

Love,
Paige
Last Edit: 3 years, 2 months ago by PMoondancer .
The following user(s) said Thank You: sjfgreenman
sjfgreenman
Expert Boarder
Posts:733

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21907 3 years, 2 months ago
Have a happy work day, Paige! ...and many more..

Wow, odea, that IS deep. Love it.

Thanks for the bird poem, the Ginsberg, the Dali. Nice to take a break from bookwork and come across these gems.
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer
sjfgreenman
Expert Boarder
Posts:733

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21909 3 years, 2 months ago
Here's a couple about sweeping and brooms.

The Chimney Sweeper
William Blake

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep,
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lambs back was shav'd, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair

And so he was quiet. & that very night.
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who had a bright key
And he open'd the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind.
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.


Lee Upton - The Broom

The rocks shone like emery boards,
reflective ruins.
Ceremonial without great effort—
like the swaying of a great rope bridge
over a ravine,
or mushrooms that suddenly
pry upward, the size of cabbages,
footstools,
to reveal the tip
of a lost continent,
the way the broom
in a pantry dumbly speaks.
It is a mule of words—
useful for wresting under edges,
unsupplanted,
as if straw were dried fire and a match
a way of watering it.
Because of dead leaves
I can hear
when people walk on my lawn.
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer
sjfgreenman
Expert Boarder
Posts:733

Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21910 3 years, 2 months ago
One more...

She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms
by Emily Dickinson

She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!

You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!

And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars -
And then I come away.
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
The following user(s) said Thank You: PMoondancer
Time to create page: 0.82 seconds