Tuesday Poem: "Vespers" by Denis Johnson

The towels rot and disgust me on this damp
peninsula where they invented mist
and drug abuse and taught the light to fade,
where my top-quality and rock-bottom heart
cried because I'll never get to kiss
your famous knees again in a room made
vague by throwing a scarf over a lamp.
Things get pretty radical in the dark:
the sailboats on the inlet sail away;
the provinces of actuality
crawl on the sea; the dusk now tenderly
ministers to the fallen parking lots—
the sunset instantaneous on the fenders,
memory and peace . . . the grip of chaos . . .

by Denis Johnson

 

For more information about the poet, Denis Johnson, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denis_Johnson

 

Tuesday Poem: "Love after Love" by Derek Walcott

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, at your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

by Derek Walcott

For more information about the poet, Derek Walcott, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/derek-walcott

Tuesday Poem: "The Gift" by Andrew M. Bell

for Thomas and Ryan

When we are cosmic dust

blowing through the universe

and memories of us fade

like colours in a Polaroid

you can pick up your guitar and know

your parents gave you a gift

no one could take away

by Andrew M. Bell

For more information about the poet, Andrew M. Bell, see:

http://ambell4.wixsite.com/andrew-m-bell-author/bio

POET'S NOTE: The poet would like to acknowledge The Press, Christchurch, in whose pages this poem first appeared.

Tuesday Poem: "Hunger" by Jack Gilbert

Digging into the apple
with my thumbs.
Scraping out the clogged nails
and digging deeper.
Refusing the moon color.
Refusing the smell and memories.
Digging in with the sweet juice
running along my hands unpleasantly.
Refusing the sweetness.
Turning my hands to gouge out chunks.
Feeling the juice sticky
on my wrists. The skin itching.
Getting to the wooden part.
Getting to the seeds.
Going on.
Not taking anyone's word for it.
Getting beyond the seeds.


by Jack Gilbert

For more information about the poet, Jack Gilbert, see:

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