Comments on: Old world

By: Henry Gould

Henry Gould — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 01:11:31 +0000

The train ride to Oxford was something else.
Profound droning weight of iron travel machine,
farmland English backyard a pale moss green
in the moist December light, your pulse
is calm outside of London, Providence
might be a way of life, a common sphere,
fair, sensible and just – a Hertfordshire
in an ovoid Shakespeare’s head, a salience.
- Henry Gould, Stubborn Grew

By: Mary Meriam

Mary Meriam — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 04:21:04 +0000

The composer’s name was Beagle or something,
one of those Brits who make the world wistful
with chorales and canticles and this piece,
a tone poem or what-have-you,
chimes and strings aswirl, dangerous for one
whose eyelids and sockets have been rashing from tears.
April Bernard, Beagle or Something

By: Gary B. Fitzgerald

Gary B. Fitzgerald — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 20:20:22 +0000

when serpents bargain for the right to squirm
and the sun strikes to gain a living wage-
when thorns regard their roses with alarm
and rainbows are insured against old age
when every thrush may sing no new moon in
if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice
-and any wave signs on the dotted line
or else an ocean is compelled to close
when the oak begs permission of the birch
to make an acorn – valleys accuse their
mountains of having altitude – and march
denounces april as a saboteur
then we’ll believe in that incredible
unanimal mankind (and not until)
.
- E.E.Cummings
.
Is that phone ringing?

By: Lavinia Greenlaw

Lavinia Greenlaw — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 19:18:41 +0000

High Country Weather
Alone we are born
And die alone;
Yet see the red-gold cirrus
Over snow mountain shine.
Along the upland road
Ride easy, stranger:
Surrender to the sky
Your heart of anger.
James K. Baxter

By: Gary B. Fitzgerald

Gary B. Fitzgerald — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 18:21:02 +0000

For You Not Yet
As I write, right now, your mother
is the size of a pea.
She will grow and be born
and not hear of me.
You at this time
do not even exist and only
by luck and grace will you be
if your mother survives
and gets married.
But I write not for your mother
or even right now.
Now knows nothing of me.
Now knows not what I now do.
I write for tomorrow, for they
not yet here.
I have written for you.
Copyright 2008 – HARDWOOD-77 Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

By: Mary Meriam

Mary Meriam — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 15:58:52 +0000

“what sort of enchantment is this?
what art will you weild with a fagot?
are you Hectate? are you a witch?
a vulture, a hieroglyph,
the sign or the name of a goddess?
what sort of goddess is this?
where are we? who are you?
where is this desolate coast?
who am I? am I a ghost?”
H.D., Helen in Egypt

By: aonymous

aonymous — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 12:59:25 +0000

A cricket.

By: Desmond Swords

Desmond Swords — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 08:03:05 +0000

wow ! wow ! wow !
Yo tiny town squeezers
whaazzup wiv yiz trippin full time on the miseriblic moment?
Yiz wanna get like, dead busy ‘n up to all sorts of daftness
wiv da full time unemployed penniless poet
just offered a well paid voluntary position bein a global
news hound, reviewin for the World Poetry Council
Surf Collective; but it’s a bit tricky at the mo coz I’m banged up
on the secure unit of Ward 11.
If yous lot out there in cyberville can rustle up a snatch squad
and have a do at smuggling me past the nurses
when showtime explodes on the pages
I’m your number one hack, firin on all the ink cylindrical spikes
I can stick in and go to OD heaven on, squeeze feelin’ trainee corpses.
Just tell me sister about the where’s ‘n when’s and make sure
there’s a stash of unmentionables on standby
so we can get in the right frame of mind as befits a posse
at the press launch of such an august red alert occassion.
wow ! wow ! wow !
rantin great right through to the giftless of our too few true poetic
community, banged up wiv the Ron Sillyman red alert ’bout poetry
theft, satirically disected in that part of da ed known as the Jan Manzwotz
Daemon Blogspot — so get clickin ‘n tell uz what yiz R finkin laah.
Hallelujah Hallelujah
wow ! wow ! wow !
Hallelujah Hellelujah
Wow ! Wow ! Wow !

By: Lavinia Greenlaw

Lavinia Greenlaw — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 06:37:08 +0000

Call to walk comes as of true nature,
Easy should the body move.
And poetry comes after eight miles’ seeking,
Mere right out of mere love.
Ivor Gurney, Silver Birch

By: Mary Meriam

Mary Meriam — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 04:43:38 +0000

That all my poems over the long years before I met you made you come true
Hayden Carruth