Do you have a poem to share?

There was a young chaplain from Kings,
Who talked about God and such things.
But his real desire
Was a boy in the choir,
With a bottom like jelly on springs.

“Gravy”

No other word will do. For that’s what it was.
Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving, and
being loved by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going. And he was going
nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head. “Don’t weep for me,”
he said to his friends. “I’m a lucky man.
I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected. Pure Gravy. And don’t forget it.

~Raymond Carver

Dust of Snow
BY ROBERT FROST
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Gene Gene made a machine
Jo-Jo made it go
Artie Art blew a fart
And blew the goddamn thing apart

The Death of the Hired Man by Robert Frost

“Eel-grass”

No matter what I say,
All that I really love
Is the rain that flattens on the bay,
And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie and bleach
At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach:
Nothing in this place.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The belly-button’s pretty small
You think about it, not at all
How much do you think about
Your belly-button’s pride ?
It doesn’t have too much a chance
With all that lint inside

Seidhe Llygad shone in its azure glow, sand marking time’s lackadaisical flow.

They ventured beyond walls by vines entwined, into the unknown, the poor barber to find.

Bidding them farewell, the gravestones moss-covered, they strode briskly on, by doubts unencumbered.

The witcher’s blade flashed, juices spouted and poured, covering all about in an archespore’s gore.

No piece of the stylist fell from its bowels, the friseur had been nabbed by ought else most foul.

Oh no! Foul bandits have bound our stylist in chains! Little do they know they’ll be punished, in pain.

They froze in their fear, the knight’s henchmen and squires, while his bowels set loose, heavenward spiraled.

The witcher cleft him, in two lacerated, his next swing the swine adroitly castrated.

With one more caress from the witcher’s blade, the knight’s gut plopped out, his breakfast betrayed.

Then he hobbled apace, on his stump arms like crutches, all for the glory of Her Grace, the Duchess!

If @Sneki2 ‘s
A clerihew
Then I’m
Too busy mixing metre foot and rhyme.

It is Charles Bukowski’s birthday today. Here’s one by him:

all that
by Charles Bukowski

the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it’s cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it’s like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.

The road to wisdom? — Well, it’s plain
and simple to express:
Err
and err
and err again
but less
and less
and less.

—Piet Hein

www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42891/stopping-by-woods-on-a-snowy-evening

www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46479/not-waving-but-drowning

Well, if @Pachy is going to lay “The Death of the Hired Man” on us, then…

Out, Out—-

One of my favorites:

Jabberwocky
– by Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

A translation of a very old poem, simple but moving. I don’t know its title.

Last night in a dream I returned to my oId home
And saw my wife weaving at her loom.
She held her shuttle poised, as though lost in thought,
As though she had no strength to lift it further.
I called. She turned her head to look,
But her eyes were blank-she didn’t know me.
So many years we’ve been parted
The hair at my temples has lost its old colour.

Hanshan 9th Century

When you’re old and feeble
and you are a total wreck,
may you drop right through your asshole
and break your fucking neck

excerpt from a poem I heard as a kid. Author unknown.

His smile fair as spring, as towards him he draws you
His tongue sharp and silvery, as he implores you
Your wishes he grants, as he swears to adore you
Gold, silver, jewels, he lays riches before you
Dues need be repaid, and he will come for you
All to reclaim, no smile to console you
He’ll snare you in bonds, eyes glowin’ afire
To gore and torment you, ‘til the stars expire

Taylor Mali – “What Teachers Make”