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Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 07:42:30 +0100

I love this question because over the past few days I've pulled out lots of poems to choose my favorite . . . but I can't! It depends on the weather, the scents, and maybe . . . hormones! For favorite poets I would say, Kevin Bowen and Marilyn French. Although my all time favorite poem is

Alberto Rios' Teodoro Luna's Two Kisses

Mr. Teodoro Luna in his later years had taken to kissing
his wife
This is not to say he put his forehead
Against her mouth- rather, he would lift his eyebrows, once, quickly:
Not so vigorously he might be confused with the villain
Famous in the theaters, but not so little as to be thought
A slight movement,one of accident. This way
He kissed her
Often and quietly, across tables and through doorways,
Sometimes in photographs, and so through the years themselves.
This was his passion, that only she might see. The chance
He might feel some movement on her lips
Toward laughter.

Lately I think often of Julia Kasdorf's poem

First TV in a Mennonite Family

1968
The lid of the Chevy trunk couldn't close
on that wooden console with a jade screen
and gold flecks in the fabric over the speaker.

they sent us to bed then set it up
in the basement, as far from our rooms
and the dinner table as they could get.

out of sight for grandparents' visits.
The first morning, Mother studied the guide
and chose Captain Kangaroo for me,

but when we turned it on, the point of light
on the screen grew into black-and-white men
lifting a stretcher into the back of an ambulance.

Each click of the huge, plastic knob
flashed the same men, the same ambulance door
propped back like a broken wing.

After that we were forbidden to watch everything
except the Captain and "I Love Lucy."
Yet, when Dad returned from business in Chicago,

I heard him tell Mom how police beat the kids
under his hotel window, and I knew whatever it was,
that vague, distant war had finally come.
and

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 14:41:19 +0100

Terror's Children and Pandora's Box

The screaming box blares,
inexplicable messages of
untold agony,
Terrors children.
The Energy goes,
as we watch trance-like
embalmed by sight and soumds.
The surf begings searching
visages pass evoking empty thoughts
the cartoon symphony of relief.
How can such be,
the anger thrown into faces,
devoid of emotional outcry?
The wave begins to grow,
a ripple on consciousness ocean
soon to break on the Heart's shore.
In deep compassion
the mind awakens,
form shock therapy
seeing what's been unseen.
Action stirs what apathy qwells,
Light falls on darkened thoughtforms.
Terrors Children
falling into disillusion
releasing a grip cold and forboding
Becomming anew
the paradise lost
regaining ourselves
Pandora's box, turned off.

Jeffrey Smith,

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 20:26:40 +0100

AMERICA, SWEET LOVELY HOMELAND
(An ode to a troubled nation)

America, sweet lovely homeland
Blessed with abundance to spare
Cradle of freedom and justice
You're bringing your people despair

Despair for the lowering standards
The loss of our national pride
Pain for the inroads in freedom
Encroaching on every side

It's time for us to remember
Those simple self-evident truths
Which gave our forefathers courage
To die by a shot or a noose

They fought in those days with muskets
Or whatever came to hand
Who says that we have less courage
And fear to die for our land

Is death by a rocket more painful
Than that by a sabre or ball
We'd lay down our lives in a minute
To defend our freedom from all

And yet we don't wish to export it
For that is beyond our right
We can't force our will on others
Explain it however we might

There is no shortcut to freedom
It must be earned by the will
Of the people who live in each country
And have their own needs to fill

So stop your unwarranted meddling
Stop trying to buy yourself friends
Such acts are only degrading
And truly defeat your own ends

Remember true freedom's example
Will outlive distortions and lies
And the greatest goal for a nation
Is respect ... in everyone's eyes

Not only in foreign relations
Are acts which cause us dismay
Right here in the midst of our homeland
Are wrongful forces at play

As nations must earn their own freedom
So men must earn the right
To have the respect of their neighbors
And this can't be forced by your might

We shall not respect any person
Who has no respect for himself
And no law, however it's worded
Can create self-respect by itself

A man who's a MAN will know it
Whatever the shade of his skin
Whatever his creed or religion
He'll be proud of himself and his kin

Of course there are those among us
Who'll cry out to you for aid
Because they can't see there's no help for
A person whose pride's been mislaid

But let them stand on their own feet
And let them learn as they must
That the day they gain self-respect
Is the day they'll get welcome and trust

You speak much of social injustice
And point to some people in need
Those imposed upon by others
Or with naught their families to feed

Then using these as a pretext
For raising a public furor
You seek to equate the balance
Which saps good men's strength even more

Couple this with social taxation
Which prohibits the building of wealth
And you teach, not fair distribution
But cheating, lying and stealth

In creation we all were equal
But there does equality end
For some make use of their talents
While others on pity depend

There's no shame for a man who is helpless
For him we've compassion and aid
But we haven't the time of the day for
One who no effort has made

You think we are harsh and brutal
Well let me tell you this
By the nature of life we must struggle
For we stagnate in comfort and bliss

Give us some men who will work
Who sincerely wish to earn
And we'll give you a stronger nation
While none of our needy shall yearn

Now there's how your laws have hurt us
Our respect and our national pride
For we live, not by your indulgence
But by our own spirit inside

We insist you keep yourself simple
And keep your morality high
As we all see in you an example
Of the ideas for which we would die

I wrote this in the early sixties, before our nation's dedication to the principle of "Government of the people, by the government, for big business." had reached its current state of perfection.

Fred Gohlke

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 20:26:40 +0100

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 20:03:49 +0100

That'd be two different poems competing for my first prize...

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

AND
I THANK YOU GOD FOR MOST THIS AMAZING DAY
By e.e.cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 09:16:46 +0100

Mon r�ve familier - Paul Verlain
Original -
Je fais souvent ce r�ve �trange et p�n�trant
D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime
Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout � fait la m�me
Ni tout � fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.
Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur, transparent
Pour elle seule, h�las ! cesse d'�tre un probl�me
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front bl�me,
Elle seule les sait rafra�chir, en pleurant.
Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse ? - Je l'ignore.
Son nom ? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore
Comme ceux des aim�s que la Vie exila.
Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a
L'inflexion des voix ch�res qui se sont tues.

Best Translation I've found in English....

Oft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite dwell
The same,--and loves me well, and knows me as I am.

For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam
To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable
To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel
My grief, cooling my brow with her tears' gentle stream.

Is she of favor dark or fair?--I do not know.
Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow
Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost.

Her eyes are like the statues',--mild and grave and wide;
And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost
Of other voices,--well-loved voices that have died.

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 01:48:30 +0100

Robert Bly's Translation
Lying On A White Stone

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day,

on some day I can already remember.

I will die in Paris--and I don't step aside--
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down

these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on

wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself

with all the road ahead of me, alone.

César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him

although he never does anything to them;

they beat him hard with a stick and hard also

with a rope. These are the witnesses:

the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,

the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 01:36:57 +0100

yesterday's favorite poem was Dover Beach
today I would say my favorite is
Piedra Negra Sobre una piedra Blanca

By Cesar Vallejo

Me morir� en Par�s con aguacero,
un d�a del cual tengo ya el recuerdo.
Me morir� en Par�s -y no me corro-
tal vez un jueves, como es hoy, de oto�o.

Jueves ser�, porque hoy, jueves, que proso
estos versos, los h�meros me he puesto
a la mala y, jam�s como hoy, me he vuelto,
con todo mi camino, a verme solo.

C�sar Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban
todos sin que �l les haga nada;
le daban duro con un palo y duro

tambi�n con una soga; son testigos
los d�as jueves y los huesos h�meros,
la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos...

Translation of Vallejo's poem
Black Stone of a White Stone

I will die in Paris with heavy shower,
a day of which I have the memory already.
I will die in Paris - and I do not run myself
perhaps Thursday, as is today, of autumn.

Thursday will be, because today, Thursday, that proso
these verses, the h�meros I have put myself
to the bad one and, never like today, I have become,
yet my way, to see me single.

Caesar Vallejo is dead, beat to him
all without he does nothing to them;
they gave him hard with a hard wood and

also with a rope; they are witnesses
the h�meros days Thursday and bones,
the solitude, rain, the ways

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 23:21:50 +0100

Cats and Compassion

[hopefully without the scrambled "]

Have you heard the one about Dorothy and her cats?

Dorothy was about your age when her tiny orange and calico cat named Peachez met with an early demise.

You see, little Peachez, barely a year old, got too big for her breeches, and snuck out Dorothy%u2019s front door.

Nobody knew except Rikki, the deer dog who lived next door.

Rikki could not resist his nature to hunt, and Peachez was most exotic fare, for in this neighborhood, cats lived inside.

Little defenseless Peachez never had a chance, for Rikki bit right through the neck of that tiny orange and calico cat.

Oh, how Dorothy mourned; oh, how she grieved; after a week, her mother could take it no more, and told her:

Girl, you need a new kitty!

Dorothy agreed.

"Then, I will call the cat league and see what they have in stock, okay, Dorothy?"

"Okay, okay, do it for me, please."

"Happily," her mom replied, as she dialed the animal league.

Dorothy could not believe it when she heard her mother say, "Hi, have you got any kitties that need a home?"

Dorothy exploded, "No, not just any kitty, I know exactly what I want. I want a pure white cat with blue eyes the color of the summer sky, and I%u2019ll call him Bob."

"Okay, okay. Did you hear all that, lady from the animal league?"

"Yes, I did, and, ah--good luck with it. I have a lot of cats that could be Bob; some have pure white fur, but not a one has blue eyes."

"Okay, thanks, we will continue on," Dorothy%u2019s mom sighed, as she hung up the phone.

"Girl, I have to pick up the dry cleaning next to the veterinarian%u2019s office. Come with me now, and maybe someone there will be able to help you find your Bob with blue eyes and white fur on."

For the first time since Peachez demise, Dorothy smiled when she said, "Okay, okay."

Dorothy and her mom stood in line at the vet%u2019s office for an interminable time before a doe-eyed brunette, as thin as a French-cut string bean, noticed them and inquired, "Hi, can I help you?"

Dorothy replied, "I am looking for the cat of my dreams; he has pure white fur and eyes the color of the summer sky, and his name is Bob."

"Well, this is most numinous. You see, I have a five-year-old cat back in storage that needs a home.

"He is very sad, for he has been in a cage for almost seven months.

"He has licked off all his hair, and he pouts a lot.

"You see, it was Thanksgiving week when his first family dropped him off.

"They didn%u2019t love him. They tossed him away.

"They wanted the doctor to give him a shot, to put him to sleep. But I said, 'No way! I%u2019ll put that cat in storage, and one day, someone will come in here and take him away.'"

Dorothy%u2019s mom interrupted. "There must be a reason that family tossed that cat away."

The doe-eyed string bean replied, "Sister, let me tell you, this cat is no more neurotic than any other cat I have known.

"I will not lie to you, for he is indeed one neurotic cat, who never was a beauty.

"But he did have white fur when he came in here, and his eyes are still as blue as a summer sky.

"He is most definitely OC; you see, he licks himself a lot, and so, is now as bald as a bat.

"Oh, by the way, he whines like a banshee and paces about.

"You see, after his upsetting Thanksgiving holiday, the vet fixed him for Christmas, and no doubt you can imagine why he is naturally still quite upset about that.

"Oh, by the way, he has claws, and since he is too old for anymore surgery, they must stay.

"But, sister, I assure you, he%u2019s no more or less neurotic than any other cat around.

"Follow me into the back room, and you will see that he really is a cool cat; you should take him away."

"I think Dorothy wants a blue-eyed baby kitty, not one so worn-out," Dorothy%u2019s mother pleaded, looking hopefully at her daughter.

"I don%u2019t care how old he is, as long as he is my Bob," Dorothy shouted over the cacophony of barking and yelping, as the doe-eyed string bean stopped in front of the center cage and announced,

"Surely, I told you--this cat has always been called Bob."

And with that, she turned, and with one smooth motion, unlatched the cage and pulled out a long scrawny cat, with a few patches of white fur, but mostly skin showing.

His enormous blue eyes, the color of the summer sky, looked into Dorothy%u2019s, and he moaned like a baby in pain;

Dorothy proclaimed, "He%u2019s the one!"

Dorothy took him home on her shoulder as her mom drove the Crossfire, and Bob never moved a muscle, nor made a sound. Dorothy%u2019s mom thought, This won%u2019t be so bad, right?

As soon as Dorothy put Bob down in her room, he wailed and moaned, and Dorothy did not know what to do, until her mom told her:

"He%u2019s just like a baby, and you may have to walk the floors holding him all night.

"Welcome to motherhood."

Dorothy gleefully picked Bob back up and carried him around on her shoulder, just like you would a little baby.

Every single time she put Bob down, he would whine, kvetch, and pace all around, and would stare at her with his blue eyes the color of a summer sky.

Dorothy swore she heard him say, "Sister, I%u2019ve got the blues bad, and I can%u2019t calm down unless you carry me around."

The very next night, the bombs hit Baghdad.

All night, Dorothy walked the floors with Bob, the blue-eyed cat on her shoulder, and a heart breaking, breaking, breaking for all the innocents caught up in the crossfire.

She knew she was connected.

You are too.

In the 11th century, Hildegard of Bingen knew:

God responds speedily whenever the blood of innocence is being shed.

Of this the angel choirs are singing and re-echoing their praise.

And yet at the loss of innocence clouds are weeping.

Bob, the blue eyed cat, has now calmed down. He doesn%u2019t want to be held, and he never makes a sound.

His hair has grown back, pure white and coarse as grit.

Into his summer sky blue eyes, clouds of cataracts have moved in.

He moves slowly, slowly, slowly.

Bob tucks his front legs under his chest and gently bows as he gets down.

What a contemplative Bob has become, for deliberate movement is prayer.

A new kitty has moved into Dorothy%u2019s house, too. A black and white long%u2013haired, green-eyed feline named Oreo.

Dorothy found her when she was only a week old and abandoned by her cat mom, who left the litter and never returned.

Dorothy fed the baby kitty every three hours for three weeks with an eyedropper, and kept her warm.

Oreo has now grown big and strong, and likes to play, but sometimes can be a pain.

Bob always treats her gently, even when she bites his tail; he either plays or he walks away.

-excerpted "KEEP HOPE ALIVE"

Eileen Fleming, Reporter and Editor WAWA:
http://www.wearewideawake.org/

Author "Keep Hope Alive" and "Memoirs of a Nice Irish American Girl's Life in Occupied Territory"

Producer "30 Minutes With Vanunu" and "13 Minutes with Vanunu"

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 23:10:19 +0100

CATS AND COMPASSION

Have you heard the one about Dorothy and her cats?

Dorothy was about your age when her tiny orange and calico cat named Peachez met with an early demise.

You see, little Peachez, barely a year old, got too big for her breeches, and snuck out Dorothy%u2019s front door. Nobody knew except Rikki, the deer dog who lived next door.

Rikki could not resist his nature to hunt, and Peachez was most exotic fare, for in this neighborhood, cats lived inside. Little defenseless Peachez never had a chance, for Rikki bit right through the neck of that tiny orange and calico cat.

Oh, how Dorothy mourned; oh, how she grieved; after a week, her mother could take it no more, and told her, %u201CGirl, you need a new kitty!%u201D

Dorothy agreed.

%u201CThen, I will call the cat league and see what they have in stock, okay, Dorothy?%u201D

%u201COkay, okay, do it for me, please.%u201D

%u201CHappily,%u201D her mom replied, as she dialed the animal league.

Dorothy could not believe it when she heard her mother say, %u201CHi, have you got any kitties that need a home?%u201D

Dorothy exploded, %u201CNo, not just any kitty, I know exactly what I want. I want a pure white cat with blue eyes the color of the summer sky, and I%u2019ll call him Bob.%u201D

%u201COkay, okay. Did you hear all that, lady from the animal league?%u201D

%u201CYes, I did, and, ah--good luck with it. I have a lot of cats that could be Bob; some have pure white fur, but not a one has blue eyes.%u201D

%u201COkay, thanks, we will continue on,%u201D Dorothy%u2019s mom sighed, as she hung up the phone.

%u201CGirl, I have to pick up the dry cleaning next to the veterinarian%u2019s office. Come with me now, and maybe someone there will be able to help you find your Bob with blue eyes and white fur on.%u201D

For the first time since Peachez demise, Dorothy smiled when she said, %u201COkay, okay.%u201D

Dorothy and her mom stood in line at the vet%u2019s office for an interminable time before a doe-eyed brunette, as thin as a French-cut string bean, noticed them and inquired, %u201CHi, can I help you?%u201D

Dorothy replied, %u201CI am looking for the cat of my dreams; he has pure white fur and eyes the color of the summer sky, and his name is Bob.%u201D

%u201CWell, this is most numinous. You see, I have a five-year-old cat back in storage that needs a home. He is very sad, for he has been in a cage for almost seven months. He has licked off all his hair, and he pouts a lot.

%u201CYou see, it was Thanksgiving week when his first family dropped him off. They didn%u2019t love him. They tossed him away. They wanted the doctor to give him a shot, to put him to sleep. But I said, %u2018No way! I%u2019ll put that cat in storage, and one day, someone will come in here and take him away.%u201D%u2019

Dorothy%u2019s mom interrupted. %u201CThere must be a reason that family tossed that cat away.%u201D

The doe-eyed string bean replied, %u201CSister, let me tell you, this cat is no more neurotic than any other cat I have known.

"I will not lie to you, for he is indeed one neurotic cat, who never was a beauty. But he did have white fur when he came in here, and his eyes are still as blue as a summer sky. He is most definitely OC; you see, he licks himself a lot, and so, is now as bald as a bat.

%u201COh, by the way, he whines like a banshee and paces about. You see, after his upsetting Thanksgiving holiday, the vet fixed him for Christmas, and no doubt you can imagine why he is naturally still quite upset about that.

"Oh, by the way, he has claws, and since he is too old for surgery, they must stay. But, sister, I assure you, he%u2019s no more or less neurotic than any other cat around.

"Follow me into the back room, and you will see that he really is a cool cat; you should take him away.%u201D

%u201CI think Dorothy wants a blue-eyed baby kitty, not one so worn-out,%u201D Dorothy%u2019s mother pleaded, looking hopefully at her daughter.

%u201CI don%u2019t care how old he is, as long as he is my Bob,%u201D Dorothy shouted over the cacophony of barking and yelping, as the doe-eyed string bean stopped in front of the center cage and announced,

%u201CSurely, I told you--this cat has always been called Bob.%u201D

And with that, she turned, and with one smooth motion, unlatched the cage and pulled out a long scrawny cat, with a few patches of white fur, but mostly skin showing.

His enormous blue eyes, the color of the summer sky, looked into Dorothy%u2019s, and he moaned like a baby in pain; Dorothy proclaimed, %u201CHe%u2019s the one!%u201D

Dorothy took him home on her shoulder as her mom drove the Crossfire, and Bob never moved a muscle, nor made a sound. Dorothy%u2019s mom thought, This won%u2019t be so bad, right?

As soon as Dorothy put Bob down in her room, he wailed and moaned, and Dorothy did not know what to do, until her mom told her, %u201CHe%u2019s just like a baby, and you may have to walk the floors holding him all night. Welcome to motherhood.%u201D

Dorothy gleefully picked Bob back up and carried him around on her shoulder, just like you would a little baby.

Every single time she put Bob down, he would whine, kvetch, and pace all around, and would stare at her with his blue eyes the color of a summer sky.

Dorothy swore she heard him say, %u201CSister, I%u2019ve got the blues bad, and I can%u2019t calm down unless you carry me around.%u201D

The very next night, the bombs hit Baghdad.

All night, Dorothy walked the floors with Bob, the blue-eyed cat on her shoulder, and a heart breaking, breaking, breaking for all the innocents caught up in the crossfire. She knew she was connected. You are too.

In the 11th century, Hildegard of Bingen knew:

God responds speedily whenever the blood of innocence is being shed. Of this the angel choirs are singing and re-echoing their praise. And yet at the loss of innocence clouds are weeping.

Bob, the blue eyed cat, has now calmed down.

He doesn%u2019t want to be held, and he never makes a sound.

His hair has grown back, pure white and coarse as grit.

Into his summer sky blue eyes, clouds of cataracts have moved in.

He moves slowly, slowly, slowly. Bob tucks his front legs under his chest and gently bows as he gets down.

What a contemplative Bob has become, for deliberate movement is prayer.

A new kitty has moved into Dorothy%u2019s house, too. A black and white long%u2013haired, green-eyed feline named Oreo.

Dorothy found her when she was only a week old and abandoned by her cat mom, who left the litter and never returned.

Dorothy fed the baby kitty every three hours for three weeks with an eyedropper, and kept her warm.

Oreo has now grown big and strong, and likes to play, but sometimes can be a pain.

Bob always treats her gently, even when she bites his tail; he either plays or he walks away.

-Excerpted from "KEEP HOPE ALIVE"

Eileen Fleming, Reporter and Editor WAWA:
http://www.wearewideawake.org/
Author "Keep Hope Alive" and "Memoirs of a Nice Irish American 'Girl's' Life in Occupied Territory"
Producer "30 Minutes With Vanunu" and "13 Minutes with Vanunu"

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 20:41:49 +0100

THOSE WHO CARRY

Those who carry pianos
to the tenth floor
wardrobes and coffins
an old man witha bundle of timber limps beyond
the horizon

a woman with a hump of nettles
a madwoman pushing a pram
full of vodka bottles
they will all be lifted
like a gull's feathers, like a dry leaf
like an eggshell, a scrap of newspaper

Blessed are those who carry
for they shall be lifted

ANNA KAMIENSKA
Times Literary Supplement, October 1988

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 20:33:44 +0100

An Awakening

. . . life had the appeal of a West Texas jail

. . . %u2018til the siren of life dropped her ten-thousand veils

And the TRUTH that is me, no longer whimpered but WAILED!
Like a million volcanoes %u2018neath King Triton%u2019s mad gales!

Through the womb of a dream
. . . I redefined %u201Cme%u201D

I, an ARMY of armies
. . . a trembling leaf on a tree.

Faith not the issue . . . belief had now become ME
Far beyond definitions of a word called %u201Cfree%u201D

Beyond nightmares of Auschwitz,
Beyond precious Christ,

Beyond a mocking constipation,
I once referred to as %u201Clife.%u201D

Through my eyes ALL could see as creation breathed ME.
I was everywhere and nowhere . . . in between matter%u2019s seams.

I was young and old,
meek yet BOLD,
Walkin%u2019 paths so far past
the tiny roads we%u2019d been sold.

No preacher preached it . . .no president decreed it

. . . but if your soul had a hunger

. . . this is the trough where you%u2019d feed it.

Deep inside we all see it.

In simple truth we all be it.

. . . So be it . . .

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 20:32:35 +0100

Flames

Smokey the Bear heads
Into the autumn woods
With a red can of gasoline
And a box of wooden matches

His ranger's hat is cocked
At a disturbing angle.
His brown fur gleams
Under the high sun
As his paws, the size of catcher's mitts
Crackle through the trees, into the distance

He is sick of dispensing
Warnings to the careless,
The half wit campers
The dumbbell hikers

He's going to show them
How a professional does it.

Billy Collins submitted by Loose Change, tcbmag.com

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 10:03:49 +0100

The Gettysburg Address.

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 15:43:25 +0100

Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

- Dorothy Parker

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 06:16:53 +0100

"In a Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

---
I love the careful, dense economy of language.

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 18:31:04 +0100

The Editrix chimes in: I love "Requiem" by Anna Akhmatova and "The Horeshoe Finder" by Osip Mandelstam. Is that too dark of me?

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 15:07:57 +0100

Chef,

I believe you are thinking of "The Song of Hiawatha" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, written in 1855. I myself like seeing poetry-live. Poetry isn't poetry unless its jumped off the page and into the ears of an audience. So I can't really pick a favorite, but anyone that lives in New York would probably tell you to go see some poetry read at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.

Comment on: What is your favorite poem?

Bigthink — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 15:04:21 +0100

In all honesty, I know so little about poetry that I couldn't even name a favorite poem. I like the reading that Paul Muldoon has done on this site. I also remember loving the poem? story? "Hiawatha" by I think Longfellow.