Nov 13

Gargoyles (Stryk)

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Gargoyles by Lucien Stryk (1927-)

 

Hungry-eyed fogies

gargoyles in full cry

above the ruck and tumble

 

of the street. They stare

through shadows at

a first-class loser, failed

 

at selling shoes, flunked

waiting tables, freaked

out at knocking holes

 

through cellar walls for

slumlord hovels, scratched

through flea-bitten nights

 

in far-off places, fumbled

over phrases for a shrinking

ear. Open mouthed, they shrug

 

me off, but I don’t care. An

empty bag, I litter-dance in air.

Nov 12

The Identification (McGough)

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The Identification, by Roger McGough (1937-)

So you think its Stephen?

Then I’d best make sure

Be on the safe side as it were.

Ah, there’s been a mistake. The hair

you see, it’s black, now Stephen’s fair …

What’s that? The explosion?

Of course, burnt black. Silly of me.

I should have known. Then let’s get on.

 

The face, is that the face mask

that mask of charred wood

blistered scarred could

that have been a child’s face?

The sweater, where intact, looks

in fact all too familiar.

But one must be sure.

 

The scoutbelt. Yes that’s his.

I recognise the studs he hammered in

not a week ago. At the age

when boys get clothes-conscious

now you know. It’s almost

certainly Stephen. But one must

be sure. Remove all trace of doubt.

Pull out every splinter of hope.

 

Pockets. Empty the pockets.

Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy’s.

Dirty enough. Cigarettes?

Oh this can’t be Stephen.

I don’t allow him to smoke you see.

He wouldn’t disobey me. Not his father.

But that’s his penknife. That’s his alright.

And that’s his key on the keyring

Gran gave him just the other night.

Then this must be him.

 

I think I know what happened

… … … about the cigarettes

No doubt he was minding them

for one of the older boys.

Yes that’s it.

That’s him.

That’s our Stephen.

 

See also Hautman, Pete.  Invisible. New York: Simon Pulse (divison of Simon & Schuster),

2006.











Nov 11







jingoism(shields)






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jingoism, by bill shields


I never wore a yellow ribbon

& I’ve bled for this country

no flag either

or “WELCOME HOME HEROES” bumper sticker on my car

I can’t find one good thing to say

about American teen-agers firing extremely high-tech weaponry

against a virtually unarmed enemy

A parade for our heroes?

A parade for death?

What was the body count anyway?

How many Iraqi children died with our metal in their bones?

I’m not going to make a nineteen year old kid a hero

for having the innocence to kill

I have two Purple Hearts myself

for being young & stupid

& that is not an excuse

to fill a coffin










Nov 11







Courage (Sexton)






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Courage, by Anne Sexton (1928-1974)




It is in the small things we see it.


The child’s first step,

as awesome as an earthquake.

The first time you rode a bike,

wallowing up the sidewalk.

The first spanking when your heart

went on a journey all alone.

When they called you crybaby

or poor or fatty or crazy

and made you into an alien,

you drank their acid

and concealed it.




 




Later,

if you faced the death of bombs and bullets

you did not do it with a banner,

you did it with only a hat to

cover your heart.

You did not fondle the weakness inside you

though it was there.

Your courage was a small coal

that you kept swallowing.

If your buddy saved you

and died himself in so doing,

then his courage was not courage,

it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.




 




Later,

if you have endured a great despair,

then you did it alone,

getting a transfusion from the fire,

picking the scabs off your heart,

then wringing it out like a sock.

Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,

you gave it a back rub

and then you covered it with a blanket

and after it had slept a while

it woke to the wings of the roses

and was transformed.




 




Later,

when you face old age and its natural conclusion

your courage will still be shown in the little ways,

each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,

those you love will live in a fever of love,

and you’ll bargain with the calendar

and at the last moment

when death opens the back door

you’ll put on your carpet slippers

and stride out.





















Nov 09







On The Birth Of A Son (Su)






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On The Birth Of A Son, by Su Tung-Po, also known as Su Shi (1037-1101)


Families when a child is born


Hope it will turn out intelligent.


I, through intelligence


Having wrecked my whole life,


Only hope that the baby will prove


Ignorant and stupid.


Then he’ll be happy all his days


And grow into a cabinet minister.


(Trans. Arthur Waley)










Nov 08







The Obligation to be Happy (Pastan)






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The Obligation to be Happy, by Linda Pastan (1932-)




It is more onerous


than the rites of beauty


or housework, harder than love.


But you expect it of me casually,


the way you expect the sun


to come up, not in spite of rain


or clouds but because of them.


And so I smile, as if my own fidelity


to sadness were a hidden vice—


that downward tug on my mouth,


my old suspicion that health


and love are brief irrelevancies,


no more than laughter in the warm dark


strangled at dawn.


Happiness. I try to hoist it


on my narrow shoulders again—


a knapsack heavy with gold coins.


I stumble around the house,


bump into things.


Only Midas himself


would understand.












Nov 07







Grenoble Cafe (Garrigue)






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Grenoble Cafe, by Jean Garrigue (1914-1972)


 


At breakfast they are sober, subdued.


It is early. They have not much to say


Or with declamations fit only for whisper


Keep under pressure the steam of their joy.


She listens, usually. It is he who talks,


Surrounding her with the furious smoke


Of his looking that simply feeds,


Perhaps, her slightly traveling-away dreams


That, if you judge from her cheek,


Young and incomparably unbroken,


Are rich with the unknowing knowing


Of what he has said the time before


And with the smiles coming down the corridor


Of how it will be for year on year,


Nights as they’ll be in his rough arms.










Nov 06







Elegy Written in a County Churchyard (Gray)






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Elegy Written in a County Churchyard, by Thomas Gray (1716-1771)


The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,


         The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,


The plowman homeward plods his weary way,


         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.


 


Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,


         And all the air a solemn stillness holds,


Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,


         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;


 


Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r


         The moping owl does to the moon complain


Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,


         Molest her ancient solitary reign.


 


Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,


         Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,


Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,


         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.


 


The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,


         The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,


The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,


         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.


 


For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,


         Or busy housewife ply her evening care:


No children run to lisp their sire’s return,


         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.


 


Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,


         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;


How jocund did they drive their team afield!


         How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!


 


Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,


         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;


Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile


         The short and simple annals of the poor.


 


The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,


         And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,


Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.


         The paths of glory lead but to the grave.


 


Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,


         If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,


Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault


         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.


 


Can storied urn or animated bust


         Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?


Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,


         Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?


 


Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid


         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;


Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,


         Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.


 


But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page


         Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;


Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,


         And froze the genial current of the soul.


 


Full many a gem of purest ray serene,


         The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:


Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,


         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.


 


Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast


         The little tyrant of his fields withstood;


Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,


         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.


 


Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,


         The threats of pain and ruin to despise,


To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,


         And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,


 


Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone


         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;


Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,


         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,


 


The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,


         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,


Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride


         With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.


 


Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,


         Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;


Along the cool sequester’d vale of life


         They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.


 


Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,


         Some frail memorial still erected nigh,


With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,


         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.


 


Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,


         The place of fame and elegy supply:


And many a holy text around she strews,


         That teach the rustic moralist to die.


 


For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,


         This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,


Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,


         Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?


 


On some fond breast the parting soul relies,


         Some pious drops the closing eye requires;


Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,


         Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.


 


For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead


         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;


If chance, by lonely contemplation led,


         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,


 


Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,


         “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn


Brushing with hasty steps the dews away


         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.


 


“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech


         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,


His listless length at noontide would he stretch,


         And pore upon the brook that babbles by.


 


“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,


         Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,


Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,


         Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.


 


“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,


         Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;


Another came; nor yet beside the rill,


         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;


 


“The next with dirges due in sad array


         Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.


Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,


         Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”




THE EPITAPH


Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth


       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.


Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,


       And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.


Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,


       Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:


He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,


       He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.


No farther seek his merits to disclose,


       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,


(There they alike in trembling hope repose)


       The bosom of his Father and his God.









 NOTE


Thomas Gray is also the author of this blog’s namesake — “Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn.”










Nov 05







To the Sour Reader (Herrick)






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To the Sour Reader, by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)


If thou dislik’st the piece thou light’st on first,


Think that of all that I have writ the worst;


But if thou read’st my book unto the end,


And still dost this and that verse reprehend,


O perverse man! If all disgustful be,


The extreme scab take thee and thine, for me.










Nov 04







“What Do Women Want?” (Addonizio)






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“What Do Women Want?”, by Kim Addonizio (1954-)




I want a red dress.


I want it flimsy and cheap,


I want it too tight, I want to wear it


until someone tears it off me.


I want it sleeveless and backless,


this dress, so no one has to guess


what’s underneath. I want to walk down


the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store


with all those keys glittering in the window,


past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old


donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers


slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,


hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.


I want to walk like I’m the only


woman on earth and I can have my pick.


I want that red dress bad.


I want it to confirm


your worst fears about me,


to show you how little I care about you


or anything except what


I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment


from its hanger like I’m choosing a body


to carry me into this world, through


the birth-cries and the love-cries too,


and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,


it’ll be the goddamned


dress they bury me in.











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