Hey kids - April is National Poetry Month. Care to share a link or a line?

I love that poem. So does most of the literary world. Try googling, “This is Just To Say” parody.

This is one of dozens aired on a segment of “This American Life.”

This is just to say …

I’m sorry for the words
that made you
punch
the door

I did not
mean them
and you lost
your damage deposit

forgive me
but revenge is so sweet
so delicious
and best served cold

Here’re the words I sing
War’s a horrid thing
So I sing sing sing
Ding-a-ling-a-ling

Here’s a Mary Oliver poem that I love, particularly the last lines, and the next-to-last, and the first… the entire poem is perfect, now that I think of it.

A Summer Day

Marriage by Gregory Corso.

Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

I’ll post a poem another time but for now my favorite quote at the time (which I made up )
Ice breaks more easily on contact with conflict than silly putty

Here’s my favourite poem, Strigoiul, by Vasile Alecsandri.

Near the cliff’s sharp edge, on high
Standing out against the sky,
Dost thou see a ruined cross
Weatherstained, o’ergrown by moss,
Gloomy, desolate, forsaken,
By unnumbered tempests shaken?

Not a blade of grass grows nigh it,
Not a peasant lingers by it.
E’en the sombre bird of night
Shuns it in her darksome flight,
Startled by the piteous groan
That arises from the stone.

All around, on starless nights,
Myriad hosts of livid lights
Flicker fretfully, revealing
At its foot a phantom, kneeling
Whilst it jabbers dismal plaints,
Cursing God and all the saints.

Tardy traveller, beware
Of that spectre gibbering there;
Close your eyes, and urge your steed
To the utmost of his speed;—
For beneath that cross, I ween,
Lies a Vampyre’s corpse obscene!

Though the night is black and cold
Love’s found story, often told,
Floats in whispers through the air,
Stalwart youth and maiden fair
Seal sweet vows of ardent passion
With their lips, in lovers’ fashion.

“Restless, pale, a shape I see
Hov’ring nigh; what may it be?
‘Tis a charger, white as snow,
Pacing slowly to and fro
Like a sentry. As he turns
Haughtily the sward he spurns.

“Leave me not, beloved, tonight!
Stay with me till morning’s light!’
Weeping, thus besought the maid;
‘Love, my soul is sore afraid!
Brave not the dread Vampyre’s power,
Mightiest at this mystic hour!’

Not a word he spake, but prest
The sobbing maiden to his breast;
Kissed her lips and cheeks and eyes
Heedless of her tears and sighs;
Waved his hand, with gesture gay,
Mounted—smiled—and rode away.

We rides across the dusky plain
Tearing along with might and main
Like some wild storm-fiend, in his flight
Nursed on the ebony breast of Night?
‘Tis he, who left her in her need—
Her lover, on his milk-white steed!

The blast in all its savage force
Strives to o’erthrow the gallant horse
That snorts defiance to his foe
And struggles onward. See! below
The causeway, ‘long the river-side
A thousand flutt’ring flamelets glide!

Now they approach, and now recede,
Still followed by the panting steed;
He nears the ruined cross! A crash,
A piteous cry, a heavy splash,
And in the rocky river-bed
Rider and horse lie crushed and dead.
Then from those dismal depths arise
Blaspheming yells and strident cries
Re-echoing through the murky air
And, like a serpent from its lair,
Brandishing high a blood-stained glaive
The Vampyre rises from his grave!

So many great and wonderful poems to choose from so I will use this opportunity to post these wonderful things, some of my very favorites of Kenneth Patchen’s “picture poems” for those of you not familiar with this work of his or for anyone like me who, never gets tired of them.

http://falsedawn.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/pacheninstance-774451.jpg

http://www.concentric.net/~lndb/patchen/kpc03b.jpg

http://www.concentric.net/~lndb/patchen/kpc12b.jpg

http://www.concentric.net/~lndb/patchen/kpc07b.jpg

http://www.concentric.net/~lndb/patchen/kpc04b.jpg

http://www.concentric.net/~lndb/patchen/kpc05b.jpg

Here’s a funny poem by Billy Collins about teaching poetry to over-earnest students.

http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/001.html

And this self-explanatory and tautological one called The Trouble with Poetry

I feel horrible. She doesnt

I feel horrible. She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.

-Richard Brautigan

Roses are red, Violets are blue.
In Soviet Russia, Poem writes YOU!

@ragingloli What is that from? What’s the whole “In Soviet Russia, blank blanks YOU!” thing?

Dunno what my favorite poem is, but this oneis definitely up there.

She Walks In Beauty
George Gordon Byron

I.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

III.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

MyNewtBoots, Call of Duty, Zombies.

@ragingloli that totally reminded me of a similar thing I heard:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I have a gun,
Get in the van.

There are so many that I could choose, but this one has been on my mind lately:

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don’t know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—

—Emily Dickinson

Amazing

This poem makes me cry.

No Edgar Allan Poe? I is a sad panda.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
-E.A.P., “Annabel Lee”

Emily Dickinson

I died for Beauty—but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining room—

He questioned softly “Why I failed”?
“For Beauty”, I replied—
“And I—for Truth—Themself are One—
We Brethren, are”, He said—

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night—
We talked between the Rooms—
Until the Moss had reached our lips—
And covered up—our names—

I’m thinking of getting some of it tattooed on me.

I know why the caged bird sings-Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Thanks all – great poems! Keep ‘em coming.

Here’s one of my favourite Edgar Allan Poe poems, The Bells. I love the whole decline into darkness thing it has.

I

Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! -how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people -ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells,
Of the bells -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Another of mine, done here on the spot, again proving that anyone can write poetry.

Blue Vidalia

A fragrant breeze
Of fetid old
Days for none to be.

A longing switch
Of tangled sneers
And nonsense nagging
Pleas.

Paired with five
Of my three best
Candid singing
Mottled breaths
And hopeful bending trees.

A fragrant breeze
Of fetid old
Days for none to be.

@Blondesjon Since you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine.

20 Seconds of War

The boy would be no match for the ordnance
Inexorably seeking it’s target.
The simple chemistry of weaponry
The simple physics of slaughter,
No two objects can occupy the same space
at the same time.
But you say, “He wasn’t an object,
the boy was a person.”
The bomb was cold steel,
Efficiently and powerfully ignorant of the limits of flesh and bone
First, It ripped that quirky smile right off his face,
the one he charmed the girls with.
And in a split second
it tore to shreds 18 years of
tantrums, cuts and bruises,
tears and laughter,
discovery,
acts of kindness and cruelty,
The best day of his life and
The worst day of his life
dozens of bad jokes
Ten years of piano lessons
a natural talent for cooking
sunny afternoons of baseball,
sneaked cigarettes and beer.
the hearts of his parents,
his little brother
and his big sister
and all the dreams and
bravado and
fears and
and triumphs,
all the mistakes that can be made,
all that can be dreamt of
and said
and left unsaid
and screwed up
and hoped for
and anticipated
in 18 years.
In a matter of seconds,
A world,
that constellation of all the little bits of being and been,
Of expectation and disappointment, of delight and regret
That we are
Was destroyed
Not a fair fight if you ask me,
The one between bomb and boy.

@lillycoyote . . . beautiful. thank you.

Some new Daleks are red,
Others are blue,
No matter what type you meet,
They’ll exterminate you.

@Blondesjon Thank you. And, don’t be so quick to say that yours is proof that anyone can write poetry. Yours was very good. Or maybe it’s just that I’m very fond of the word fetid and don’t get to hear it as much as I’d like to in every day conversation.

And now, for some poems on Male Love from medieval times:

To A Hermaphrodite Girl:
Double-membered monster of the female sex
Whom unnatural desire makes a man,
With your raging cunt why don’t you like to be fucked?
Why does this impossible desire make a fool out of you?
The cut, with which you should submit and act, you don’t use.
When you yield the part which proves
You are a woman, then you may be a girl.

To a Friend:
When the splendor of the unclouded moons shines from the sky,
Stand under the heavens and see with a wondering gaze
How the moon shines like a clear torch
And how with its single splendor it embraces loved ones
Divided in body but joined in spirit by love.
If face cannot gaze on loving face,
At least let this light be our pledge of love.
A faithful friend has sent you these little verses.
If on your side the bond of faith stands firm,
Now I bid you farewell, be happy forever.

@MyNewtBoobs Awesome, my friend. Dirty, bawdy, rowdy ones, those medieval folks were. Damn Puritans and Victorians desexed the Western world.

Here is Kenneth Koch’s take on This is Just to Say I believe his was the first of the “variations” but I’m not sure and it is really sweet and funny homage to William Carlos Williams and his little poem.

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
Kenneth Koch

1

I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer. 

I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do

and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2

We laughed at the hollyhocks together

and then I sprayed them with lye. 

Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3

I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.

The man who asked for it was shabby

and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4

Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg. 

Forgive me. I was clumsy and

I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

Another Monday, Two Months Later
Now I have the time
to take you riding
in the car
to lie with you in private deserts
or eat with you
in public restaurants.

Now I have the time
for football all fall long
and to apologize
for little lies and big lies
told when there was no time
to explain the truth.

I am finished
with whatever tasks
kept me from walking
in the woods with you
or leaping in the Zanford sand.

I have so much time
that I can build for you
sand castles out of mortar.

Now I have the time
to see bad movies
and read bad books
aloud to you.
I can now waste time
on you and on myself.

Mid-week picnics.
Minding my temper in traffic.
Washing your back
and cleaning out my closets.
Staying in bed with you
long past the rush hour
and the pangs of hunger.
And listening
to the story of your life
in deadly detail
whatever time it takes
I have that time.

I’ve always wanted
to watch flowers open
all the way,
however long the process took.

I’d hoped that I might
take you traveling
down the block
or to wherever,
now I have the time.

Now I have the time
to be bored
to be delivered
to be patient
to be understanding,
to give you
all the time you need.

Now I have the time.
Where are you?
Rod McKuen

I memorized this in ninth grade, still remember it almost word for word, and find it appropriate this week.

A.E. Housman; from A Shropshire Lad (1896)

Lovliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

I will post one of mine

Someday Morning
If morning becomes you,
it will be in that twilight hour…
when the sun awakens the earth,
that my heart will awaken yours.

Ever so gently my hands will caress
the small of your back
to the cliff of your shoulders
and there my lips will soften your skin.

My fingers will glide ever so gently
around your waste
and quietly pull me closer to you,
until your eyes awaken to my breath.

I will whisper your name
and the joy of wanting you.
My love will crawl deep inside of you,
whole heartily, and never leave the moment…..

You will feel me around you
and the pulse of my blood rising
in the quiet of our love…...
someday morning.

@blueiiznh Very nice.

@blueiiznh always my favorite

Well, since we’re posting poems we actually wrote, I’ll share one of mine that I haven’t posted on here before:

It’s called “More of a Melville than a Hemingway”

Decades, still, and they come filing in
To invert my hourglass once again
Apathetic kids, their fingers glide
In my faded living room to cast lots
and divide

While in the attic sits
My old war chest with photos and letters stained
From all the years I have abstained
From telling anyone how I really felt

But I still remember those dusty absinthe nights
Where we’d invoke
The Green Fairy
and earthly delights
But now I’m left, a scratch on these records
That sing:

“This magic moment
While your lips are close to mine
Will last forever
Forever ‘til the end of time”

But my watch has stopped
And my calendar has flaked to the floor with
The toxic chips of my portrait you left
With the words on my lips:

“What could come next?” Houses and sex? And Beautiful Exes?
Carpet rings that are left when our children have left us?
And surely they don’t lie when they exclaim:

“God is with us!”

They say the pen is mightier, but my words have never drawn blood.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Pastrami on rye bread
No lettuce, thank you

@Fiddle_Playing_Creole_Bastard Love it!

@bob_ You are a one-theme writer.

@janbb: Tie me to the mast, please.

@gailcalled To seek and not to find?

@janbb:Au contraire. To find too many.

@gailcalled <Smiles>

Here are five favorites of mine:

Anonymous
Shakespeare
Shelley
Poe
Stevens

@Jeruba: I once wrote a poem about poets who wrote about (ostensibly) birds. How can I count the ways?

Now, there’s a wide-ranging topic, from skylarks, nightingales, ravens, owls (and pussycats), and albatrosses to the jubjub bird. Are you going to share this poem, @gailcalled?

@Jeruba: It turns out, as you know, that there don’t seem to be any poets who didn’t write about birds.

I’ll have to root around for it. Lost in the mists of time somewhere. I am trying to find a moment when I can concentrate long enough to answer important emails about topics that interest me, like 100-word short stories. I attemtped to write my own 100 word response but only succeeded in exhausting myself and forgetting my primary mission.