Post your favourite Poems

[Franco]

Thanks, Sarge - reminds me of our "Miss Kim": a female Labrador mix.  Great dog, now lying underneath an asphalt parking lot.

[secondwind]

It's always dangerous to submit one's own poetry to the world (as John Berryman said, Whenever you show someone your scribblings, you run the risk of making a fool of yourself). But I'm a bit nostalgic today and I feel, again like John Berryman, that some of my deepest feelings are for what has past: "accomodating idealistic regrets more readily than present joys."  And anyway, this is one of my favorite poems 


AUBADE FOR MISS KIM
   
(Yobo is a Korean term of affection between lovers)
   
I stood beside you in the chill October
morn and you so warm, Kim Kil Cha, cocooned nude
in the fat, garish quilt, your flesh like fire
hidden. Yobo, you wake? Come back to bed...
Come... I think on these things as I read her

old letters of pressed clover and flower,
once letters of luck, the stationary of spring.
But twenty-eight autumns crumble like leaves
in my hand, dusty and dried to a sullen
yellow, a terminal gangrene.

Raked by the years, I see you standing
where the sadness ran so deep that morning,
in the doorway, a stricken Butterfly
in the dawn, the servant at your side, smiling,
dustrag in hand, waving goodbye, goodbye...

But you, Kil Cha, you my love, my yobo,
said nothing, moved not in the morning chill.
Your final word, your last goodbye, a soundless O
but I heard what you felt, I felt you cry, No!
It doth make me still...


Sarge

It is a beautiful, if painful, read, Sarge.  It evokes a loss that is not so much remembered as continually re-experienced, not a simple absence but a festering wound, "terminal gangrene".   Thanks for sharing it.

[Sergeant Rock]

It is a beautiful, if painful, read, Sarge.  It evokes a loss that is not so much remembered as continually re-experienced, not a simple absence but a festering wound, "terminal gangrene".

Perceptive. Yes, that parting, that moment 40 years ago, is still as fresh in my mind as the day it happened.  Still haunts me. Thank you for your comments.

Sarge

[DavidRoss]

Nice, Sarge.  Whodathunk yahadit inya?

LIGHT

Light, my light, the world-filling light,
the eye-kissing light,
heart-sweetening light!

Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the center of my life;
the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love;
the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.

The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light.
Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.

The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling,
and it scatters gems in profusion.

Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,
and gladness without measure.
The heavens' river has drowned its banks
and the flood of joy is abroad.

~Rabindranath Tagore

[secondwind]

. . . Yes, that parting, that moment 40 years ago, is still as fresh in my mind as the day it happened.  Still haunts me.  . . .

Sarge

And now it haunts me, too.  I guess that even though writing may not exorcise our demons, it does let us name them, recognize them, share them.

The Tagore poem is lovely, David.  It is amazing that words on a page (or a collection of sounds, or splotches of paint on canvas, or particular shapings of marble or clay) can express the deepest feelings of the human heart and soul, but somehow they do.

Here's another that I like:

            The Neighbor

Strange violin, are you following me?
In how many towns when I am alone
your lonely night has called to mine?
Do hundreds play you, or only one?

Are there in all great cities ever
those who without you would have lost
themselves already in the river?
Will your music pick on me to the last?

Why must I always have as neighbor
him who makes you fearfully sing
and say that life is heavier
than the heaviness of all things?

Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by C. F. MacIntyre

[Sergeant Rock]

And now it haunts me, too.  I guess that even though writing may not exorcise our demons, it does let us name them, recognize them, share them.

I've written over 200 poems and most could be said to have been attempts to exorcise the pain, the losses, the regrets of my first quarter century. Writing them hasn't helped me much but yes, it has helped explain me to people I care about. (Explain things like why I quit college during the Vietnam War and enlisted in the army: a seemingly rash and potentionally fatal decision that baffled my family and friends in 1968.)

The relationships that did the most damage are well documented now in poetry. My high school girlfriend "inspired" over 50 poems, including this sonnet written in 1999 in which, after 44 previous attempts, I finally accept defeat and admit she's always going to be haunting my life.

JEAN FORTY-FIVE/SONNET TWENTY

You are my text, my reason to write. Not
a day has died since sixty-six, the Fall,
when you haven't appeared, disrupting thought
and dashing expectations like the "wrong"
notes in a sixteenth century madrigal
by Gesualdo that startle but enthrall
and weave us moody into dissonant
textures. You clash with my life; like a gong,
shatter my peaceful consonance in the light
of 9 p.m., walking down hillside vines;
the clashing note I use to fashion lines,
a song, as evening darkens into night,
broods into West where, still, a pale light shines,
where my text resides, my reason to write.

[Sergeant Rock]

Nice, Sarge.  Whodathunk yahadit inya?

I got a million of 'em, David...at some points in my life I scribbled incessantly.

Sarge

[DavidRoss]

secondwind--thanks for the Rilke poem.  It makes me think of the fiddle in Mahler's 4th.

Sarge--thanks for the gifts of yourself.  Here's one of mine:

Between Harvests

Dust devils spin across the drying fields,
Raising plumes toward the heavens--
Prayers from the parched earth.

Fat, lazy bees stumble drunkenly
Through the searing air.

Man-high sunflowers heavy with seed
Droop like weary soldiers on parade,
Wilting in the mid-day sun.

And smoke from summer fires
Stacks up against the hills.

[Sergeant Rock]

Between Harvests

Dust devils spin across the drying fields,
Raising plumes toward the heavens--
Prayers from the parched earth.

Fat, lazy bees stumble drunkenly
Through the searing air.

Man-high sunflowers heavy with seed
Droop like weary soldiers on parade,
Wilting in the mid-day sun.

And smoke from summer fires
Stacks up against the hills.

Lovely impressionistic piece, David. I like it...especially the soldier simile 

Sarge

[karlhenning]

Just basking here. Carry on!

[Scarpia]

I usually don't like poety, but this one impressed me.  I'm not sure where I found out about it, maybe here

The last stanze of "On Living" by Nazim Hikmet

This earth will grow cold, a star among stars
                        and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet -
                        I mean this, our great earth.

This earth will grow cold one day.
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
                            in pitch-black space.

You must grieve for this right now
- you have to feel this sorrow now -
for the world must be loved this much
                            if you're going to say "I lived"...

[secondwind]

Scarpia, that last stanza from On Livig really packs a wallop:

You must grieve for this right now
- you have to feel this sorrow now -
for the world must be loved this much
                            if you're going to say "I lived"...

David, I found Between Harvests very evocative.  I can feel the dry heat, feel the heft of those drooping sunflower heads, smell the dust and smoke.  And there is so much movement in it--everything is in motion, nothing is fully still.  For some reason, that matters.

[Antoine Marchand]

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

[secondwind]

That is lovely, A.M.  Both the poem and the poet are new to me, and I thank you for the introduction.  I confess I'll have to look up the Lestrygonians, but evidently they're bad guys (along with Cyclops and angry Poseiden). How true that you will not encounter them unless you carry them within your soul! And a great ending.  Has it ever been set as a song?

[Antoine Marchand]

That is lovely, A.M.  Both the poem and the poet are new to me, and I thank you for the introduction.  I confess I'll have to look up the Lestrygonians, but evidently they're bad guys (along with Cyclops and angry Poseiden). How true that you will not encounter them unless you carry them within your soul! And a great ending.  Has it ever been set as a song?

Hi, secondwind. Kavafis (the preferred spelling is different in English) is one of my favorite poets. I know his work since 2003 when a notable Chilean professor of Greek named Miguel Castillo Didier published his translations of the complete Kavafis' poems. One of the most remarkable features of Kavafis is how he is able to convey intimate feelings using some mythic or historical accounts.   



Here another beautiful poem:

Trojans

Our efforts are those of the unfortunate;
our efforts are like those of the Trojans.
Somewhat we succeed; somewhat
we regain confidence; and we start
to have courage and high hopes.

But something always happens and stops us.
Achilles in the trench before us
emerges and with loud cries terrifies us.--

Our efforts are like those of the Trojans.
We believe that with resolution and daring
we will alter the blows of destiny,
and we stand outside to do battle.

But when the great crisis comes,
our daring and our resolution vanish;
our soul is agitated, paralyzed;
and we run around the walls
seeking to save ourselves in flight.

Nevertheless, our fall is certain. Above,
on the walls, the mourning has already begun.
The memories and the sentiments of our days weep.
Bitterly Priam and Hecuba weep for us.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1905)

Although I have always read Kavafis in Spanish, I think this page provides nice translations: http://users.hol.gr/~barbanis/cavafy/. I would especially recommend to you the reading of poems like "Supplication" (1898) or "The god forsakes Antony" (1911).

[secondwind]

Thanks.  I liked Trojans too, and I'm looking forward to reading more.

[greg]

I've always like the Book of Hanging Gardens. Too bad I can't find them online.

[Sergeant Rock]

For awhile now I've used as my forum signature the first stanza of Charles Bukowski's  poem "Mahler" (from one of his posthumous volumes, What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire, published in 2002). Here is the complete poem.


the phone rings and somebody says,
"hey, they made a movie about
Mahler. you oughta go see it.
he was as fucked up as you are."

the phone rings again. it's
somebody else: "you ought to see
that Mahler movie. when you get high
you always talk about Mahler's music."

it's true. I like the way
Mahler wandered about in his
music and still retained his
passion.

he must have looked like an
earthquake walking down the street.
he was a gambler and he shot
the works

but I'd feel foolish
walking into a movie house.
I make my own
movies.

I am the best kind of German:
in love with the music
of a great Jew.

[secondwind]

I really like the Mahler poem, Sarge.  I'd seen your forum signature and wondered about it, but I had never tried to look it up.  Thanks for posting the poem.   I love the last stanza! 

[Chosen Barley]

Between Harvests

Dust devils spin across the drying fields,
Raising plumes toward the heavens--
Prayers from the parched earth.

Fat, lazy bees stumble drunkenly
Through the searing air.

Man-high sunflowers heavy with seed
Droop like weary soldiers on parade,
Wilting in the mid-day sun.

And smoke from summer fires
Stacks up against the hills.

I love this poem.