Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "At Days Bay" by James K. Baxter



To lie on a beach after
looking at old poems: how

slow untroubled by any

grouch of mine or yours, Father

Ocean tumbles in the bay

alike with solitary

 

divers, cripples, yelling girls

and pipestem kids. He does what

suits us all; and somewhere — there,

out there, where the high tight sails

are going — he wears a white

death flag of foam for us, far

 

out, for when we want it. So

on Gea’s breast, the broad nurse

who bears with me, I think of

adolescence: that sad boy

I was, thoughts crusted with ice

on the treadmill of self-love,

 

Narcissus damned, who yet brought

like a coal in a hallow

stalk, the seed of fire that runs

through my veins now. I praise that

sad boy now, who having no

hope, did not blow out his brains.



by James K. Baxter



For more information about the poet, James K. Baxter, see:



Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Dream of a Slave" by Gavin Ewart



I want to be carried, heavily sedated,
into a waiting aircraft.

I want to collapse from nervous exhaustion.

I want to bow my head like Samson

and bring down with me

the top ten advertising agencies.


I want to see the little bosses

vanish like harmless fairies.

I want the pantomime to be over,

the circus empty.


I want what is real to establish itself,

my children to prevail,

to live happy ever after

in this world that worships the preposterous.


It is better to be a scribe

than hacking at the salt mines,

heaving the building blocks.

Everybody wants to be a scribe.


But I want out. I want non-existence.

A passive dream, a future for my children.



by Gavin Ewart



For more information about poet, Gavin Ewart, see:



Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Afternoons" by Jorge H. Aigla



Those afternoons, the Saturdays of my tender childhood
in Mexico City

were just lovely.

It was the time when fathers

were one on one with their sons,

and took them to see friends, have an ice,

talk in the park, or to intriguing stores

from their youth.

I remember going to a store

that sold mountain climbing equipment:

my father knew “The Goat,”

one of the climbers of the great Popocatepetl,

and he would show us boots, ropes, and hammers,

and photographs of the Valley of Mexico and of snow.

Another place in my fantast was a corner

in the old section of the city,

where they sold model airplanes

with gasoline engines;

I would watch the wealthy kids buy

and we in our dreams would fly.

Another place was the small shop of the Japanese man, Osawa,

who sold shells, butterflies, spiders, beetles,

and other vermin and dried creepers;

for a few pesos one could well

enlarge a modest collection.

A labyrinth in the basement of a mansion

led one to the abode of the Old Catalán

who sold stamps and postal seals;

he had in his possession the first stamp of Juárez,

and promised never to sell it,

though perhaps, he might give it to me some day.

In a garage Don Leopoldo sold supplies for engineers:

slide rules with many rows, squares,

fine pens, india ink, complicated compasses,

and with all this my father’s friend

traced a world for me.

Those crammed afternoons, already abandoned,

shadowed by death,

undone by a fast and coarse world,

taught me what it is to fill out

the alertness of time.



by Jorge H. Aigla



For more information about the poet, Jorge H. Aigla, see:



Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Happily Planting the Beans Too Early" by Jack Gilbert



I waited until the sun was going down
to plant the bean seedlings. I was

beginning on the peas when the phone rang.

It was a long conversation about what

living this way in the woods might

be doing to me. It was dark by the time

I finished. Made tuna fish sandwiches

and read the second half of a novel.

Found myself out in the April moonlight

putting the rest of the pea shoots into

the soft earth. It was after midnight.

There was a bird calling intermittently

and I could hear the stream down below.

She was probably right about me getting

strange. After all, Bashō and Tolstoy

at the end were at least going somewhere. 



by Jack Gilbert




For more information about poet, Jack Gilbert, see:


https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jack-gilbert

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "The Second Going" by Philip Levine



Again the
day begins, only

no one wants its sanity

or its blinding clarity. Daylight is

not what we came all this way for. A

pinch of salt, a drop of schnapps in our cup

of tears, the ticket to the life to come, a short life of

long nights & absent dawns & a little mercy in the tea.



by Philip Levine
Image result for philip levine poet


For more information about poet, Philip Levine, see:


https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/philip-Levine

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "America" by Claude McKay

 
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate.
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

by Claude McKay

mckay
 
For more information on the poet, Claude McKay, see:
 
 

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Down the back of the chair" by Margaret Mahy


Our car is slow to start and go. We can’t afford a new one.
Now if you please, Dad’s lost the keys. We’re facing rack and ruin.
No car, no work! No work no pay!
We’re getting poorer day by day.
No wonder Dad is turning grey.
The morning is a blue one.

Nothing but dockets in his pockets.
Raging with despair
Dad acts appalled! Though nearly bald
He tries to tear his hair.
But Mary who is barely two
Said Dad should do what I would do
I lose a lot, but I find a few
Down the back of the chair.

He’s patted himself, and searched the shelf. He’s hunted here and there,
So now he’ll kneel and try to feel right down the back of the chair.
Oh it seemed to grin as his hand went in.
He felt a tingling in his skin.
What will a troubled father win
From down the back of the chair?

Some hairy string and a diamond ring
Were down the back of the chair,
Pineapple peel and a conger eel
Were down the back of the chair
A sip, a sup, a sop, a song. A spider seven inches long,
No wonder that it smells so strong
Down the back of the chair.

A packet of pins and one of the twins
Down the back of the chair.
A pan, a fan that belonged to Gran
Down the back of the chair …
A crumb, a comb, a clown, a cap
A pirate with a treasure map,
A dragon trying to take a nap
Down the back of the chair.

A cake, a drake, a smiling snake,
Down the back of the chair
A string of pearls, a lion with curls
Down the back of the chair
A skink, a skunk, a skate, a ski,
A couple of elephants drinking tea
The bandersnatch and the bumblebee
Down the back of the chair.

But what is this? Oh bliss! Oh bliss!
(Down the back of the chair).
The long lost will of Uncle Bill
(Down the back of the chair).
His money box all crammed with cash
Tangled up in a scarlet sash
There’s pleasure, treasure, toys and trash
Down the back of the chair.

I've found my dreams, our father beams.
(Down the back of the chair).
At last I see how life can be.
(Down the back of the chair).
Forget the keys! We're poor no more
Just call a taxi to the door.
A taxi shot out with a roar
From down the back of the chair.

The chair, the chair, the challenging chair,
The champion chair, the cheerful chair,
The charming chair, the children’s chair,
The chopped and chipped but chosen chair
To think our fortune waited there
Down the back of the chair.

by Margaret Mahy


For more information on poet and author, Margaret Mahy, see:

http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/writer/mahy-margaret/