Headpiece Filled With Straw

Carol Ann Duffy named as Poet Laureate

Carol Ann Duffy named as Poet Laureate - News, Books - The Independent.

Valentine

By Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring, if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Bewitched, Bothered, And Bewildered

by Lorentz Hart

After one whole quart of brandy
Like a daisy, I'm awake
With no Bromo-Seltzer handy
I don't even shake

Men are not a new sensation
I've done pretty well I think
But this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink

I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleep
When love came and told me, I shouldn't sleep
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Lost my heart, but what of it
He is cold I agree
He can laugh, but I love it
Although the laugh's on me

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And long, for the day when I'll cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

He's a fool and don't I know it
But a fool can have his charms
I'm in love and don't I show it
Like a babe in arms

Love's the same old sad sensation
Lately I've not slept a wink
Since this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink

I've sinned a lot, I'm mean a lot
But I'm like sweet seventeen a lot
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And worship the trousers that cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

When he talks, he is seeking
Words to get off his chest
Horizontally speaking, he's at his very best

Vexed again, perplexed again
Thank God, I can be oversexed again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Wise at last, my eyes at last,
Are cutting you down to your size at last
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Burned a lot, but learned a lot
And now you are broke, so you earned a lot
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Couldn't eat, was dispeptic
Life was so hard to bear
Now my heart's antiseptic
Since you moved out of there

Romance, finis.
Your chance, finis.
Those ants that invaded my pants, finis.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Link: Bewitched, Bothered, And Bewildered Lyrics.

Her breast is fit for pearls

By Emily Dickinson

Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a `Diver' -
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home -
I - a Sparrow - build there
Sweet twigs and twine
My perennial nest.

Link: Isle of Lesbos: Poetry of Emily Dickinson.

Well, It's my new home, anyway

Garrison Keillor read this poem today on The Writer's Almanac, and I just had to hang on to it. I'm a new to the city and loving it, and you can still feel that love in the poem below.

Link: Random House | Books | The Second Child by Deborah Garrison.

Goodbye, New York

(song from the wrong side of the Hudson)

By  Deborah Garrison

You were the big fat city we called hometown
You were the lyrics I sang but never wrote down
You were the lively graves by the highway in Queens
the bodega where I bought black beans
stacks of the Times we never read
nights we never went to bed
the radio jazz, the doughnut cart
the dogs off their leashes in Tompkins Square Park
You were the tiny brass mailbox key
the joy of “us” and the sorrow of “me”
You were the balcony bar in Grand Central Station
the blunt commuters and their destination
the post-wedding blintzes at 4 a.m.
and the pregnant waitress we never saw again
You were the pickles, you were the jar
You were the prizefight we watched in a bar
the sloppy kiss in the basement at Nell’s
the occasional truth that the fortune cookie tells
Sinatra still swinging at Radio City
You were ugly and gorgeous but never pretty
always the question, never the answer
the difficult poet, the aging dancer
the call I made from a corner phone
to a friend in need, who wasn’t at home
the fireworks we watched from a tenement roof
the brash allegations and the lack of any proof
my skyline, my byline, my buzzer and door
now you’re the dream we lived before

Dead Man's Chest

By Robert L. Stevenson

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
   Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
   Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

 

Breakfast

By Jacques Prévert (translated by Alastair Campbell)

He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He poured the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He added the sugar
To the coffee and milk
He stirred it
With a teaspoon
He drank the coffee
And put back the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit a cigarette
He blew some rings
With the smoke
He flicked the ashes
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put his hat
On his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it was raining
He went out
Into the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I
I took my head
In my hands
And I wept

 

Ode to Pipeline Pigs

With all the talk of problems with the Prudhoe Bay part of the pipeline in Alaska (not The Pipeline, a proper noun in Alaska, meaning 800 some miles of the main pipeline), I was reminded of a poem I wrote back in the 1980s, especially because it has a pipeline pig in it, my favorite part of the poem.

Link: Darkroom Glories: Boomtown Winter.

Boomtown Winter

By Christine Boese

Here in the land of Cessna and moose
and commuters to Anchorage
who drive to work in the dark,
and drive back home in the dark,
it's video heaven, I take home grocery bags
of movies, and hear the news of that woman
they found dissected in the gravel pit
out in Shorewood Acres Subdivision,
or my classmate who shot his parents
in their bed on Christmas Eve,
the eighth grader who raped his teacher,
or the gang of pit bulls up the road.
Here, in this midday night,
the suddenly rich and newly divorced
buy snowmachines and meth,
as howling Chinook Winds melt water
on glare ice, and the never-ending
night terrors in the never-ending
night chase herds of three-wheelers
through ditches lined with loose nails.

Meanwhile one shining sliver of pipe
angles through snowfields and passes.
A round iron pig rumbles down inside.
Sensors gauge the inner walls
for weak spots, deformities, incipient cracks
as it pushes black crude to Valdez.

   

Hyacinths

By Muslih-uh-Din Sa'di (alt. Moslih Eddin Saadi)
from "Gulistan" (The Garden of Roses), 13th century Persian.

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store
Two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy Soul.

The Owl and the Pussycat

By Edward Lear (1871)

 

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

II

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

 

 

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

 

Link: Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussycat.

Humor for the holiday: Jewish Haiku

No offense is meant in posting the poems below, which were forwarded to me with no authorship noted, by a friend. The spirit feels to me lighthearted and fun. If anyone is offended, I welcome and respect your comments below.

  Lacking fins or tail

  the gefilte fish swims with

  great difficulty.

  *****

  Beyond Valium,

  peace is knowing one's child

  is an internist.

  *****

  On Passover we

  opened door for Elijah.

  Now our cat is gone.

  *****

  After the warm rain

  the sweet smell of camellias.

  Did you wipe your feet?

  *****

  Her lips near my ear,

  Aunt Sadie whispers the name

  of her friend's disease.

  *****

  Today I am a man.

  Tomorrow I will return

  to the seventh grade.

  *****

  The sparkling blue sea

  reminds me to wait an hour

  after my sandwich.

  *****

  Like a bonsai tree,

  is your terrible posture

  at my dinner table.

  *****

  Jews on safari --

  map, compass, elephant gun,

  hard sucking candies.

  *****

  The same kimono

  the top geishas are wearing:

  I got it at Loehmann's.

  *****

  Mom, please! There is no

  need to put that dinner roll

  in your pocketbook.

  *****

  Seven-foot Jews in

  the NBA slam-dunking!

  My alarm clock rings.

  *****

  Sorry I'm not home

  to take your call. At the tone

  please state your bad news.

  *****

  Is one Nobel Prize

  so much to ask from a child

  after all I've done?

  *****

  Today, mild shvitzing.

  Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.

  Five-day forecast: feh

  *****

  Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt.

  Shlemiel. Shlimazl. Meshuganah

  Oy! To be fluent!

  *****

  Quietly murmured

  at Saturday Synagogue services,

  Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.

  *****

  Hard to tell under the lights.

  White Yarmulke or

  male-pattern baldness