A Poem 4 U

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2009-07-01T17:48:29Z

POEM

Hate is only one of many responses
true, hurt and hate go hand in hand
but why be afraid of hate, it is only there
think of filth, is it really awesome
neither is hate
don't be shy of unkindness, either
it's cleansing and allows you to be direct
like an arrow that feels something

out and out meanness, too, lets love breathe
you don't have to fight off getting in too deep
you can always get out if you're not too scared

an ounce of prevention's
enough to poison the heart
don't think of others
until you have thought of yourself, are true

all of these things, if you feel them
will be graced by a certain reluctance
and turn into gold

if felt by me, will be smilingly deflected
by your mysterious concern

—Frank O'Hara

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2009-06-09T03:33:08Z

THE BEARER

Like all his people he felt at home in the forest.
The silence beneath great trees, the dimness there,
The distant high rustling of foliage, the clumps
Of fern like little green fountains, patches of sunlight,
Patches of moss and lichen, the occasional
Undergrowth of hazel and holly, was he aware
Of all this? On the contrary his unawareness
Was a kind of gratification, a sense of comfort
And repose even in the strain of running day
After day. He had been aware of the prairies.
He had known he hated the sky so vast, the wind
Roaring in the grasses, and the brightness that
Hurt his eyes. Now he hated nothing; nor could he
Feel anything but the urgency that compelled him
Onward continually. "May I not forget, may I
Not forget," he said to himself over and over.
When he saw three ravens rise on their awkward
Wings from the forest floor perhaps seventy-five
Ells ahead of him, he said, "Three ravens,"
And immediately forgot them. "May I not forget,"
He said, and repeated again in his mind the exact
Words he had memorized, the message that was
Important and depressing, which made him feel
Worry and happiness at the same time, a peculiar
Elation. At last he came to his people far
In the darkness. He smiled and spoke his words,
And he looked intently into their eyes gleaming
In firelight. He cried when they cried. No rest
For his lungs. He flinched and lay down while they
Began to kill him with clubs and heavy stones.

-- Hayden Carruth

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2009-06-03T12:44:00Z

ONE NIGHT STAND

Listen, you silk-hearted bastard,
I said in the bar last night,
You wear those dream clothes
Like a swan out of water.
Listen, you wool-feathered bastard,
My name, just for the record, is Leda.
I can remember pretending
That your red silk tie is a real heart
That your raw wool suit is real flesh
That you could float beside me with a swan’s touch
Of casual satisfaction.
But not the swan’s blood.
Waking tomorrow, I remember only
Somebody’s feathers and his wrinkled heart
Draped loosely in my bed.

— Jack Spicer

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2009-05-22T15:47:07Z

OCTOBER

I

October --
its plangency, its glow

as of words in
the poet's mind

as of God in
the saint's.

II

I wept for your mother
in her pain, wept in
my joy when you were
born,
Maia,
that October morning.
We named you
for a star a star-like
poem sang.
I write this
for your birthday
and say I love you
and say October
like the phoenix sings you.

III

This chiming
and tolling
of lion
and phoenix
and chimera
colors.
This huntsman's
horn, sounding
mort for
quarry fleeing
through mirrors
of burning
into deathless
dying.

IV

Rockweight
of surprising snow

crushed
the October trees,

broke
branches that
crashing set
the snow on fire.

-- Robert Hayden

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2009-05-05T19:37:11Z

FAREWELL TO FLORIDA

I

Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves fly back

II

Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs.
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ...

III

I hated the weathery yawl from which the pools
Disclosed the sea floor and the wilderness
Of waving weeds. I hated the vivid blooms
Curled over the shadowless hut, the rust and bones,
The trees likes bones and the leaves half sand, half sun.
To stand here on the deck in the dark and say
Farewell and to know that that land is forever gone
And that she will not follow in any word
Or look, nor ever again in thought, except
That I loved her once ... Farewell. Go on, high ship.

IV

My North is leafless and lies in a wintry slime
Both of men and clouds, a slime of men in crowds.
The men are moving as the water moves,
This darkened water cloven by sullen swells
Against your sides, then shoving and slithering,
The darkness shattered, turbulent with foam.
To be free again, to return to the violent mind
That is their mind, these men, and that will bind
Me round, carry me, misty deck, carry me
To the cold, go on, high ship, go on, plunge on.

— Wallace Stevens

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2009-05-03T16:23:10Z

WILDERNESS

You are the man
You are my other country
and I find it hard going

You are the prickly pear
You are the sudden violent storm

the torrent to raise the river
to float the wounded doe

— Lorine Niedecker

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2009-04-30T02:08:36Z

READING THE POEMS
OF AN ABSENT FRIEND

Tsu Mei is early dead. Chang Yu
Now is somewhere in the South.
And I, unhappy, am like
A four horse chariot which
Has lost the horses on right
And left. Their memory, like
A strong enemy, attacks
And overthrows me. The feeble
Swarm of my own thoughts struggles
In vain against the shock. All
Men respect hard work, but in
Leisure and repose they find
Happiness and peace. And me,
What is the matter with me?
Nothing, except that I cannot
Bear the loss of friends. It has
Been a long time since I have
Written a poem. My ideas
Are like sticky pudding. When
Good land is not cultivated
Regularly the grass vanishes
And is replaced by weeds, hard
To hoe. When you do not use
A well every day the pure
Water does not replace itself.
By chance, I opened a book
Of Mei's and I forgot
Everything else while the sun
Sank below the eaves. The joys
Of poetry, for those who
Appreciate them, increase with
Time and familiarity,
Their richness never ends in
Satiety. I am sorry
For the men of these times. They
Talk of nothing interesting
And have no ambition and
Die without ever being
Aware of the music of verse.
But I am lucky enough
To appreciate these pleasures,
The more I savour, the deeper
I understand, the more I want.
In the leisure which my duties
Leave me, I stay at home, so
I can enjoy them undisturbed.
And I wonder that my feeble
Means have enabled me to
Enjoy these poems so much, that here
I have run off, like a horse
Whose rider has lost the bit.

— Ou Yang Hsiu (1007-1072)
translated by Kenneth Rexroth

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2009-04-25T02:48:40Z

IDLENESS

Once we had a knocker
On the gate.
Now we seldom
Open it. I don’t want people
Scuffing up the green moss.
The sun grows warm. Spring has really
Come at last. Sometimes you
Can hear faintly on the gentle
Breeze the noise of the street.
My wife is reading the classics.
She asks me the meaning
Of ancient characters.
My son begs for a sip of wine.
He drinks the whole cup before
I can stop him.
Is there anything
Better than an enclosed garden
With yellow plums and purple plums
Planted alternately?

— Lu Yu, translated by Kenneth Rexroth