Headpiece Filled With Straw

The Place I Want to Get Back To

By Mary Oliver

is where
in the pinewoods
in the moments between
the darkness

and first light
two deer
came walking down the hill
and when they saw me

they said to each other, okay,
this one is okay,
let's see who she is
and why she is sitting

on the ground, like that,
so quiet, as if
asleep, or in a dream,
but, anyway, harmless;

and so they come
on their slender legs
and gazed upon me
not unlike the way

I go out to the dunes and look
and look and look
into the faces of the flowers;
and then one of them leaned forward

and nuzzled my hand, and what can my life
bring me that could exceed
that brief moment?
For twenty years

I have gone every day to the same woods,
not waiting, exactly, just lingering.
Such gifts, bestowed,
can't be repeated.

If you want to talk about this
come to visit. I live in the house
near the corner, which I have named
Gratitude.

LINK: The Place I Want to Get Back To - Thirst. By Mary Oliver.

Seriously sexy...

by Carol Ann Duffy (new British Poet Laureate)

Frau Freud

Ladies, for arguments sake, let us say

That I've seen my fair share of ding-a-ling, member and jock,

Of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle,

Of three-for-a-bob, of willy and winky; in fact,

you could say, I'm as au fait with Hunt-the-Salami

as Ms M. Lewinsky – equally sick up to here

with the beef bayonet, the pork sword, the saveloy,

love-muscle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick,

dipstick and wick, the rammer, the slammer, the Rupert,

the shlong. Don't get me wrong, I've no axe to grind

with the snake in the trousers, the wife's best friend,

the weapon, the python – I suppose what I mean is,

ladies, dear ladies, the average penis is – not pretty...

the squint of its envious solitary eye...one's feeling of

pity...

Stuffed

I put two yellow peepers in an owl.

Wow. I fix the grin of crocodile.

Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel.

I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.

Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.

Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.

Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.

Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.

I like her to be naked and to kneel.

Tame. My motionless, my living doll.

Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

'It was my daughter who made me accept Poet's job' - News, Books - The Independent.

Tracks

By Marge Piercy

The small birds leave cuneiform
messages on the snow: I have
been here, I am hungry, I
must eat. Where I dropped
seeds they scrape down
to pine needles and frozen sand.

Sometimes when snow flickers
past the windows, muffles trees
and bushes, buries the path,
the jays come knocking with their beaks
on my bedroom window:
to them I am made of seeds.

To the cats I am mother and lover,
lap and toy, cook and cleaner.
To the coyotes I am chaser and shouter.
To the crows, watcher, protector.
To the possums, the foxes, the skunks,
a shadow passing, a moment's wind.

I was bad watchful mommy to one man.
To another I was forgiving sister
whose hand poured out honey and aloe;
to that woman I was a gale whose lashing
waves threatened her foundation; to this
one, an oak to her flowering vine.

I have worn the faces, the masks
of hieroglyphs, gods and demons
bat-faced ghosts, sibyls and thieves,
lover, loser, red rose and ragweed,
these are the tracks I have left
on the white crust of time.

       

Link: "Tracks" by Marge Piercy (on virb.com).

The Change

By Tony Hoagland

The season turned like the page of a glossy fashion magazine.
In the park the daffodils came up
and in the parking lot, the new car models were on parade.

Sometimes I think that nothing really changes -

The young girls show the latest crop of tummies,
        and the new president proves that he's a dummy.

but remember the tennis match we watched that year?

Right before our eyes
some tough little European blonde
pitted against that big black girl from Alabama,
cornrowed hair and Zulu bangles on her arms,
some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite -

We were just walking past the lounge
      and got sucked in by the screen above the bar,
and pretty soon
we started to care about who won,

putting ourselves into each whacked return
as the volleys went back and forth and back
like some contest between
the old world and the new,

and you loved her complicated hair
and her to-hell-with-everybody stare,
and I,
         I couldn't help wanting
the white girl to come out on top,
because she was one of my kind, my tribe,
with her pale eyes and thin lips

and because the black girl was so big
and so black,
                           so unintimidated,

hitting the ball like she was driving the Emancipation Proclamation
down Abraham Lincoln's throat,
like she wasn't asking anyone's permission.

There are moments when history
passes you so close
                  you can smell its breath,
you can reach your hand out
                           and touch it on its flank,

and I don't watch all that much Masterpiece Theatre,
but I could feel the end of an era there

in front of those bleachers full of people
in their Sunday tennis-watching clothes

as that black girl wore down her opponent
then kicked her ass good
then thumped her once more for good measure

and stood up on the red clay court
holding her racket over her head like a guitar.

And the little pink judge
                 had to climb up on a box
to put the ribbon on her neck,
still managing to smile into the camera flash,
even though everything was changing

and in fact, everything had already changed -

Poof, remember? It was the twentieth century almost gone,
we were there,

and when we went to put it back where it belonged,
it was past us
and we were changed

 

From What Narcissism Means to Me © Graywolf Press.

Link: The Writer's Almanac from American Public Media.

TUESDAY, 11 JANUARY, 2005
Listen (RealAudio) | How to listen

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

Did I Miss Anything?

By Tom Wayman

Question frequently asked by
students after missing a class

Nothing. When we realized you weren't here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

     Everything. I gave an exam worth
     40 per cent of the grade for this term
     and assigned some reading due today
     on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
     worth 50 per cent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

     Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
     a shaft of light descended and an angel
     or other heavenly being appeared
     and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
     to attain divine wisdom in this life and
     the hereafter
     This is the last time the class will meet
     before we disperse to bring this good news to all people on earth

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

     Everything. Contained in this classroom
     is a microcosm of human existence
     assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
     This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered

     but it was one place

     And you weren't here

     --

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.

   

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.

The Emperor of Ice-Cream

By Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

There's always time for Uncle Wally!

Link: [minstrels] The Emperor of Ice-Cream -- Wallace Stevens.