Poetry Solace: aimless love

This poem is taken from a poetry collection (book) of the same name by Billy Collins. This will be the last poem that I'll share from this poet. I usually prefer short(er) poems but this is one of the few longs ones that I like. Hope you'll like it too..

Aimless Love
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door --
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor --
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.



Have a great weekend!

Poetry Solace: a word about transitions

This week another poem from Billy Collins.. I like his poems because they are simple yet complex.. no need to think too deep about what kind of metaphor(s) he using and what he is trying to say.. yet his poems are not that literal.. Sometimes they are kinda light and funny like this one that I've chosen for you..

A Word About Transitions
Moreover is not a good way to begin a poem
though many start somewhere in the middle.

Secondly should not be placed
at the opening of your second stanza.

Furthermore should be regarded
as a word to avoid,

Aforementioned is rarely found
in poems at all and for good reason.

Most steer clear of notwithstanding
and the same goes for

nevertheless, however,
as a consequence, in any event,

subsequently,
and as we have seen in the previous chapters. 

Finally's appearance at the top 
of the final stanza is not going to help.

All of which suggests (another no-no)
that poems don't need to tell us where we are

or what is soon to come.
For example, the white bowl of lemons

on a table by a window
is fine all by itself

and, in conclusion, so are
seven elephants standing in the rain.


Have a fun post-Christmas weekend! Enjoy and stay safe!

Poetry Solace: the chairs that no one sits in

For the next few entries, I will be sharing poems from Billy Collins from his poetry collection, Aimless Love, that my library bought on my request. This week the poem I've selected is as stated in the blog title.. Enjoy!

The Chairs That No One Sits In
You see them on porches and on lawns
down by the lakeside,
usually arranged in pairs implying a couple

who might sit there and look out
at the water or the big shade trees.
The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs
though at one time it muse have seemed
a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a little table
between the chairs where no one
is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It may not be any of my business,
but let us suppose one day
that everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock sat down in them
if only for the sake of remembering
what it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from two chairs,
side by side with a table in between.
The clouds are high and massive on that day.

The woman looks up from her book.
The man takes a sip of his drink.
Then there is only the sound of their looking,

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird
then another, cries of joy or warning --
it passes the time to wonder which.



Have a great weekend! Be safe!

Poetry Solace: winter's formulae

No, winter is not coming, it's already here.. ^.^ Anyway, this week, I'm sharing one final poem from Tomas Tranströmer called 'winter's formulae' as translated by May Swenson..

Winter's Formulae
I
I went to sleep in my bed
and awoke under the keel.

In the morning, four o'clock,
when bones, scoured clean,
collect together coldly.

I went to sleep among swallows
and awoke among eagles.

II
In lamplight, ice on the road
glistens like lard.

This is not Africa.
This is not Europe.
This is nowhere but "here".

And what was "I"
is only a word
in December's dark mouth.

III
The hospital pavilions
glow against the darkness
like lighted TV screens.

A hidden tuning fork
in the immense cold
emits its ringing hum.

I stand under starry sky
and feel the world crawl
in and out of my coat
as in an anthill.

IV
Three black oaks jut out of snow.
So rough, but nimble-fingered.
From their ample bottles
greenery will foam this spring.

V
The bus crawls through winter dusk
like a ship aglow among pines
where the road is a narrow, deep, dead canal.

Few passengers: some old, some youngsters.
If the bus stopped, with its lights out,
the whole world would be obliterated.


Have a fun weekend! Stay warm and stay safe!

Poetry Solace: journey

This week is back to Tomas Tranströmer.. another poem by this Swedish Nobel Laureate. It is translated by May Swenson, an American poet.  Hope you'll like it.

Journey
On the subway platform.
A crowd among billboards
in a staring dead light.

The train comes and fetches
faces and briefcases.

Darkness next. We sit 
like statues in the cars
hauled into the tunnels.
Strain, dreams, strain.

At the stations below sea level 
the news of darkness is sold.
People moving melancholy,
mum, beneath clockfaces.

The train carries a load
of street clothes and souls.

Looks in all directions,
passing through the mountain.
Nothing changing yet.

But near the surface begins
the hum of freedom's bees.
We emerge from the earth.

The countryside flaps its wings
once, and then subsides
under us, wide and greenish.

Shucks of corn blow in
across the platforms.
End of the line! I ride
beyond the end of the line.

How many aboard? Four,
five, hardly more.

Houses, roads, skies,
fjords, mountains
have opened their windows.



Have a great weekend! Stay healthy and be safe!

Poetry Solace: day of the dead

Today is the Day of the Dead, so I think it is appropriate for me to share a poem about this celebration. This is a poem from Joy Harjo's In Mad Love and War poem collection.

Day of the Dead
This is a witching season, the pivotal mouth as the world of the dead, staggered with the living, opens. Children dressed as spirits and monsters suck candy, parade the streets.

Wind is electric, sharp as truth. Spirits play crack-the-whip in the abyss. I have needed to talk but you are insanely absent and I have become insanely mute. When I hold the compass you gave me, the needle points in a direction that is neither yes nor no. The star map has become symbols I can't describe because it delineates a system entering a distant compassionate universe. I have built a fire in the cave of my body, and hope the devil wind gives it a chance. There is an underground river with blind fish nearby. What do they choose in this season where there must be spirit fish with wings? I cannot sing song of either staying or leaving unless I know what shape it takes when it leaves my mouth. And which direction, because I forgot to tell you that love changes molecular structure. I am transformed but without a map. The Day of the Dead marks skeletal transition and flowers bloom in the snow. I have checked the weather, and will tend the fire until I am forced to join the parade. Then I will be a madman. I will drink whiskey and slow-dance with slim boys, rock with glitter angels, before going home alone. Tomorrow I will feed the dead. Then I must find you.


Have a great weekend! Have fun and stay safe!

Poetry Solace: midnight and kyrie

This week I'm sharing 2 poems from Tomas Tranströmer, a Swedish poet and a winner of the 2011 Nobel Prize in Literature. These two poems are English translations from their original Swedish by renowned poets which I believe had tried their best to preserve and conserve the poems' nuances.

Midnight Turning Point
(translated by May Swenson)
Unmoving, the ant in the forest looks into
nothing. And nothing is heard but the ticking
of dark greenery, nightlong the murmur deep
                                  in summer's chasm.

The spruce tree at point, like a clock's jagged
hand. The ant aglow in the mountain's shadow.
A bird screams! At last. Slowly the cloud cart
                                 begins to roll.





Kyrie
(translated by Robin Fulton)
Sometimes my life opened its eyes in the dark.
A feeling as if crowds drew through the streets
in blindness and anxiety on the way towards a miracle,
while I invisibly remain standing.

As the child falls asleep in terror
listening to the heart's heavy tread.
Slowly, slowly until morning puts its rays in the locks
and the doors of darkness open.


Have a fun weekend! Be safe!

Poetry Solace: eagle poem

This week I'm sharing a poem by Joy Harjo, a Native American poet. I've always been fascinated with eagles and hawks, maybe because my (Chinese) nickname in primary school is ‘吳老鷹’. So I am drawn to the strength, majesty and freedom these birds symbolized. Hope you like this poem about eagles, taken from her poetry book, In Mad Love and War. Enjoy!

Eagle Poem
To pray you open your whole self 

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear,
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.



Have a fun weekend! Be safe!

Poetry Solace: of mother nature

One last poem from Emily Dickinson.. Next I'll move to ..

MOTHER NATURE
Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest, - 
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel 
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon, - 
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.

When all children sleep
She turns as long way
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.



Have a great weekend! Enjoy but stay safe!

Poetry Solace: of returning

Another poem from Emily Dickinson..

RETURNING
I years had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, - just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.


Have a great weekend! Enjoy the last weeks of summer! Be safe!

Poetry Solace: of life (part II)

The next few Poetry Solace entries will feature poems taken from Series Two of  'Poems by Emily Dickinson'. Hope you will like them as much as I do..

I.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog! 


XVI.
Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
Stirs the culprit, - Life!


XXX.
Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency! 


XXXI.
Except the heaven had come so near,
So seemed to choose my door,
The distance would not haunt me so;
I had not hoped before.

But just hear the grace depart
I never thought to see,
Afflicts me with a double loss;
'T is lost, and lost to me.



Have a fun summer weekend! Stay safe!

Poetry Solace: of time and eternity

Two more poems from Series One of 'Poems by Emily Dickinson' before moving on to Series Two..

                                                XXIII.
                                                I reason, earth is short,
                                                And anguish absolute,
                                                And many hurt;
                                                But what of that?

                                                I reason, we could die:
                                                The best vitality
                                                Cannot excel decay;
                                                But what of that?

                                                I reason that in heaven
                                                Somehow, it will be even,
                                                Some new equation given;
                                                But what of that?

                                                THE CHARIOT
                                                Because I could not stop for Death,
                                                He kindly stopped for me;
                                                The carriage held but just ourselves
                                                And Immortality.

                                                We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
                                                And I had put away
                                                My labor, and my leisure too,
                                                For his civility.

                                                We passed the school where children played,
                                                Their lessons scarcely done;
                                                We passed the fields of gazing grain,
                                                We passed the setting sun.

                                                We paused before a house that seemed
                                                A swelling of the ground;
                                                The roof was scarcely visible,
                                                The cornice but a mound.

                                                Since then 't is centuries; but each
                                                Feels shorter than the day
                                                I first surmised the horses' heads
                                                Were toward eternity.

Have a great weekend! stay safe!

Poetry Solace: of love

Another two more poems from Emily Dickinson..

                                            WITH A FLOWER
                                            I hide myself within my flower,
                                            That wearing on your breast,
                                            You, unsuspecting, wear me too -
                                            And angels know the rest.

                                            I hide myself within my flower,
                                            That, fading from your vase,
                                            You, unsuspecting, feel for me -
                                            Almost a loneliness.

                                            PROOF
                                            That I did always love,
                                            I bring thee proof:
                                            That till I loved
                                            I did not love enough.

                                            That I shall love always,
                                            I offer thee
                                            That love is life,
                                            And life hath immortality.

                                            This, dost thou doubt, sweet?
                                            Then have I
                                            Nothing to show
                                            But Calvary.


Have a great weekend! Stay safe!

Poetry Solace: of life

Continuing with more poems from Emily Dickinson...

Life
VI.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

XXII.
I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me. 




THE MYSTERY OF PAIN
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain. 


Have a great weekend! Be safe!

Poetry Solace: in a library

From this week onward I will be sharing some poems taken from 'Poems of Emily Dickinson', Series One and Series Two. There is no intention to infringe any copyrights.

IN A LIBRARY
A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,
And warming in  our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect, 
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so. 

Have a great weekend! Enjoy but stay safe!!

Poetry Solace: Of the wave

This week, the final poem from Elizabeth Bishop.. :)

The Wave
A shining wave
Fills all the skies.
Bright shadows float
Across the land.
See, crystal clear,
Its helmet rise!
And now the motion
Of a hand,
A tiny quickening
Of the heart,
And it will fall
And nothing more
Can keep the sea and land apart.
How still, how blinding is the light!
Spellbound and golden shines the foam.
Without a gesture
Or a word
It cannot break;
The wing must turn,
And nest again
The radiant bird,
The wave, the wonder, go back home.
We do not move,
We do not flee.
We see it shudder, lightning bright,
And dully double
On the sea.
We are too innocent and wise,
We laugh into each other's eyes.
~ 1929

Have a fun-filled weekend!

Poetry Solace: Of one art

This is the second poem from Elizabeth Bishop that I would like to share with you.. hope you'll like it..

One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lose my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Have a great weekend! Stay safe!

Poetry Solace: Of insomnia

Over the next 3 entries of Poetry Solace, I will be sharing the works of Elizabeth Bishop.. Let's start with 'Insomnia'..

Insomnia
The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me. 

Have a great weekend! Have fun but be safe!

Poetry Solace: i substitute for the dead lecturer

Here's another poem by Leroi Jones (Amiri Baraka). I don't like all his poems, just a couple, and this is one of the few that I like. Enjoy!

I Substitute for the Dead Lecturer

What is most precious, because

it is lost. What is lost,

because it is most precious.

They have turned, and say that I am dying. That
I have thrown
my life
away. They
have left me alone, where
there is no one, nothing
save who I am. Not a note
nor a word.

          Cold air batters
the poor (and their minds
turn open
like sores). What kindness
What wealth
can I offer? Except
what is, for me,
ugliest. What is
for me, shadows, shrieking
phantoms. Except
they have need
of life. Flesh
at least,
     should be theirs.

The Lord has saved me
to do this. Te Lord
has made me strong. I
am as I must have
myself. Against all
thought, all music, all
my soft loves.

          For all these wan roads
I am pushed to follow, are
my own conceit. A simple muttering
elegance, slipped in my head
pressed on my soul, is my heart's
worth. And I am frightened
that the flame of my sickness
will burn off my face. And leave
the bones, my stewed black skull,
an empty cage of failure.




Have a great weekend. Be safe!

Poetry Solace: song of the open road

This week, it's yet another poem from Walt Whitman. Actually, it is a portion of a poem. Hope you will like it.

Song of the Open Road
(1)
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need
   nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me
   wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.)



Have a great spring weekend! Have fun but be safe!