Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Thursday, November 14, 2013



On Wan Wei's 'Reply to Chang Yin'

by James Thurgood

Editor's note: Wang Wei was a great 8th century poet of the Liang Dynasty in China, known for his evocation of nature. A Buddhist/Taoist comtemplative, he favoured rural retreats, from where he communicated with friends and contemporaries across China.
 
we aren’t told if Chang Yin did visit -
if Wang Wei really thought he might,
which I doubt: the invitation is too off-hand,
too wistful, as if turned down
more than once before                                  

anyway, should you make it
this far north, you’ve got a place to stay
- we’ll sit out under the maple trees
and talk about other Chinese poems
To a Physical Anthropologist

by James Thurgood
 
                   should you dig this jawbone up
                 and note a molar broken
             don’t declare he lived with pain
                      for so do all and
            its nature falls beyond your scope
- nor will you reckon the probing journey of
       this silver tongue long gone, which
            in keeping with the greater machine
      succumbed to danger’s charm, thus
as it teased a jagged fang, tearing then
      swelling such that in its eloquent course
it brushed said blade again
                bled, throbbed, and though warned
            took a thousand cuts, till
      by next afternoon, as said greater machine - that is
the man of whom said tongue was but a painful cog –
  found itself in class declaiming old Capulet -
      each thee and thou scrape of wound
          on demi-tooth - it would bark
                      at a thirteen-summered girl
               who durst allow a token relayed from Romeo
                                                       two rows over
                        by plump hand of cueless Nurse
           - this fool contraption with
       its broke-toothed jaw a too-much-moving part
                   would vow this gentle lady
              whose smile raised a sunken heart
           would hang, beg or starve in the streets

                  you who dig this jawbone up
                         figure which grain or nut
               broke a tooth - the rest
                      is one – your Verona too
             will know ancient grudge, new mutiny
                crossed love

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

A Touch Closer

by James Thurgood                   
                            
                    so where she asks
               in this coffee-clutch of poets
           and other strangers is home

                  muscles move with memory:
                                           
                  Atlantic breakers my first salt kiss of life
              red island grimed in bloody knees
        green dreams of pastures
   my four ghostly fathers
         their own dreams cleared
                            their stories fenceposts fallen
                    uprooted stumps their prayers -             
                my grandfather
       shouting sweaty, swearing machines
           through red clouds of whinnying snorting dust
   round a treed hollow
            as to honour the homemade house
       that birthed my grandmother
            whose air of baked bread
                    fed morning’s ravens
             - my uncle yanking
      a familytree of potatoes
                    from sighing earth

             the hardknock city
    I strayed with no lunchbucket
                                  six-pack streets that
                          wormed and layered my brain
           till ages off I sleepwalk their maze
                                                    toward the border
                                                                                     
                                              and prairies
                       that embraced me
       a Saulteaux voice calling
                         our mother died - your mother
                and others I thought had more time
          but gone this way or that –
                               for when you turn
              you can’t even see how far you’ve come
                              in this endless country
                      where it’s so easy to push forward
                                  so hard to go back

                         I just shake my head
                 but that’s not right either
         so open my hand to this table, stool
                         this dark daughter of northern bush
                   fathered by long-gone logging camps
                                                    mothered by city streets
                                     her flesh pierced and leatherclad –
                                                   her civil questions
                                   drawing me a touch closer

Monday, November 11, 2013

To a Cricket

by James Thurgood

shy house-guest, don’t stop
because I’ve entered the room:
we’re alone, and like you
I love the old tunes

if I sit still and listen,
will you play more

Sunday, November 10, 2013

The new song of old Littlejohn

by James Thurgood
               old Littlejon showed up
        where the young gathered
                - he’d carve boats from junk
                                                              and sing
               before he got beat up in an alley
                                                     and disappeared

                                            I’d sit at his table
                   - let others shove off laughing -
                                      to hear his throat piping
                          wet rasp of hemp rope on wood gunwale
                fly-buzz and blade’s whisper to fish belly
                        with fresh-baked breath view-hallooing heroes’ names
                                     like corbies cawing nightly death
                              gasp of soil to delving spade
scythe’s hiss to hay-fall
                               as snakes and mice skidaddle
             footfall scrunch in snow-apple pie-crust
                             or whetstone’s growl and scratch against axe
                 cry of tree-trunk at steel’s sharp thrust
        slap and jingle of harness and hame
                     as Percheron shoulders shrug in reply
             to a cornball chorus of quack and moo
                                                     from Old MacDonald’s hey-day
                 banshee moans and howls shivering owls
in jackpines hear through shivaree
                     as Farmer Dell takes his wife one snowlit night
                           as voyageur took the St. Lawrence
                              to delightful deadly depths of fur country
                                    with lunge and plunge of paddle
                                 while in mind’s backcountry
                          babes cried and lived, giggled and died
                                         to oath-filled lullabies                 
                                  with endless gurgling of thin stew
                              cackling of eternal flame in Quebec stoves
                                      and the Christmas complaint of outhouse door
                           barking of dogs with gun-barrel blue stains
                                    in their mad maws or guns warm as dogs
                               by their masters’ sides in prairie snow
                      and chug of trains lugging boys
                                               back east to other wars
                                their ink whispering to diaries and letters
                                      punctuated with lipstick and tears
- chink of coins on merchants’ counters
            sibilance of tellers’ shuffling bills like
                                    milliner’s unfolding fabric
                     clink of needles knitting counterpoint to
                                                                   cricket concertos
                                           for a season’s catalogue of mail-order evenings
                          with plagues of snores nightly quilting the continent
                    with campfire hallelujah,
                       with Sunday’s blessing of Monday’s nightmares      
               with ranting of the walking wounded in the demented streets
                    or too-bitter rooming houses of boom-and-bust towns
                          where the rinky-dink songs are always new
                                 and the old carve toy boats
                                       to carry landlocked songs
                                                                                back to open sea

Friday, November 8, 2013

Haiku’s Accra

by Epifania Amoo-Adar

Sun rays fill a
sad heart evaporating
into mists of hope.

Forget me not, my
dwindling passion, before
bitter winds return.

Palm nut tree, sway me
in the rhythms of your
tender beat of love.

Sea breeze rides the waves,
cresting, whites up the rocks,
hard surface of pain.

Mellow year ended
in tropical balms; so pure,
yet rude, its allure.



Thursday, November 7, 2013

Free to Write

by Lina Al-Sharif


Universal verse
Written with ink of blood
And chants of loving life
Ornamented with thrones of freedom
Roses spread on shrouds and cradles
Rhymed by bullets defied with screams
“It’s peaceful, peaceful, peaceful…”
Figures of hope, of love, of salvation
fill the beat with the rise of a new generation
Chains breaking, the iron relenting,
cracking the tone with beautiful redemption
The tirades on screens 
of tyrants who lost their feet 
and chose to be 
the omitted part of 
a historic poetry
In universal verse, 
I, you, we, are one
our differences are metaphors united by love
Millions of lines 
made poems of and for 
death and life
anger, despair 
Night and day
 

But today, 
Revolutions 
sparked inspiration
inflamed passions 
and broke the fragile façade of fear
 

and I am no longer written 
I am no longer afraid to live 
I am no longer afraid to die 
I am free  to write….

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

There is no Beauty in Deceit

by Paula Hayden

there is no beauty in deceit
in lies told under cover of darkness
or blank-faced in open light for oft fleeting rewards
and there can be no forgiveness
Unpacking the Boxes

by Paula Hayden

I have put off unpacking the boxes
I know every single item in them
took my time wrapping the crystal
pondered over each souvenir
kept all the pictures of days happy
and not so happy
and have decided that I don’t need any of it
It is taking up space
anchoring me somehow in a place I am not
that was my life but
my life is not boxes or anything in them
I am living—free, happy

and boxless

In a Desert City

by Paula Hayden
 
purple stilettos sneak peeks
from underneath black
abayas blowing freely


Monday, November 4, 2013

Evocation

by Umeshkumar Radhakrishnan

Here I stand blank
            searching for words and
                        something else?

Come, Come, I call out to you.
Come and draw my paper blue.

No! What sin are you committing!
            You enslave the unwilling,
                        harass their souls.

            Thou art a sinner.
                        No sinning evermore.

A Sinner! Mistaken thou art.

            I invite them to glorify,
                        to make peace in me.
            Not to chain them,
                        but to tie life’s string to tune.

They arise in me
            or I make them arise.
For, the sole goal is
            pleasure to the painful heart
            and solace to the tattered soul.


Saturday, November 2, 2013

Celliloquy

by Kevin Pittman

"She speaks, yet she says nothing.
What of that? Her eye discourses: I will answer it."
                              Romeo and Juliette, The Balcony Scene

:-)

wat soft
ting-ting thru
ths cel chimes
?
its her
east n 6 hrs on
b low soft moon

in qtar im sik wit sun
n no ting-ting
is nutng said
:-( 
 
moon!

all d perls in ths sea
are no purl like she
who i to i
gabs wit ye
not me
:-/

I will answer it





Doha, 2010

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

A Medieval Poem

by Lillian M. Howell

Dead at the foot of the castle wall
Lay the King’s youngest son.

Black crows circled above him
Where is his golden crown?
No crown enters the gates of heaven
Even if you are son of a king,
Bad omen for the kingdom
Whispered all the King’s men.

Covered in black, weeping her pain

The Queen, his mother kneels
in front of the silent King.
Why did you send him
To war My Lord being our youngest son?
Never again will I see his smile
or caress his golden hair.
Bad omen for the kingdom
Whispered all the King’s men.

The day of his birth

Luana the witch, warned you about his fate.
You had no right to send him to war
being our youngest son.
He was no soldier,
He was an artist.
No wish of glory moved him.
Oh! Powerful Lord!
Lord of these lands!
What have you done to me?

Kingdoms and Glory

Will come and go,
You will become weak and old.
No man can stop the pace of time
Not even you My Lord!
For the rest of your life
I swear by God,
On your hands will lie
The blood and the death
of the Prince,
Our youngest son.


Time Immemorial

by Denise Kruizenga-Muro

How many like us
Has this place witnessed?
How many have lain down
Full only of each other
In this place
Where the old winter grass
Is dying
And the new spring sweetness springs?
How many have the hawks spied
Lying below entwined unaware?
None have lain here but you and I.
None have ever felt so full
Nor screamed so primal
Nor needed as much
Under the eye of March’s moon,
Spring’s sweet chaparral,
The witness immemorial.


Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The pain, the war is

By M. Hari Subbiah

The neighing of horses,
The clanging of bells on elephants
This is a mighty war,
Out hangs the blood’s scent.

The background is the sunrise,
The stage is the battleground,
The audience is the innocent citizens,
Who watch the drama when their hearts pound

Brave soldiers struggling everywhere,
The ground is stained red
The victorious are praised and given honours,
Ones who gave their best now lie dead.

The mourners say:
O, war! There is no need of you,
Let us all live in unity,
Innocent lives are saved,
Let us rewrite our fateful destiny.