poem-today

[poem-today]

A poem by Bill Knott

Poem

I want to commission a portrait of you but I have no money and don’t know any painters to do it for free. I don’t want the portrait for myself, no, it would go to you. I guess I’d like it if you thought of me each time you looked at it but probably after a while you would forget the circumstances of its installment and only glance at it from time to time as if it had been there always, an old heirloom or less, a thing kept not for any memories it stirs but simply because it has no practical use and therefore would take too much thought to throw away, too much effort. If it’s successful, that is— And though I have crammed everything into this portrait which does not exist, it remains unsatiated, stays compromise. A thousand campaigns of insightful rummage cannot glut it, satisfy its imperial essence, remote ethereal framing. I crave its emptiness, never-to- be-filledness. It blinks at me, idol of smithereens, filled with shadow-hush. Spacial justice, harmonic weight, pinned dream.

Bill Knott (1940-2014)

Image: Bill Knott (from the Bill Knott Archive)

More brief poems by Bill Knott are available here.

#bill knott #american poetry #poem #portrait

[poem-today]

A poem by George Szirtes

Meetings

The drowned return, the travellers come home, All is forgiven in that breathless cry. The statue weeps secure beneath her dome, Delightedly she wipes her stony eye.

It is the end of literature to meet With what was offered once and then withdrawn, To make up stories and to give the sweet Illusion that we’re only as alone                                                            

As we would wish. I wish now we had kissed Before you left me, but it is too late. I cannot find your ear or lip or breast. I’m going back to books. The rest can wait.

George Szirtes

Image: La mémoire by René Magritte

#george szirtes #english poetry #meetings

[poem-today]

A poem by Susan Mitchell

The Bear

Tonight the bear comes to the orchard and, balancing on her hind legs, dances under the apple trees, hanging onto their boughs, dragging their branches down to earth. Look again. It is not the bear but some afterimage of her like the car I once saw in the driveway after the last guest had gone. Snow pulls the apple boughs to the ground. Whatever moves in the orchard— heavy, lumbering—is clear as wind.

The bear is long gone. Drunk on apples, she banged over the trash cans that fall night, then skidded downstream. By now she must be logged in for the winter. Unless she is choosy. I imagine her as very choosy, sniffing at the huge logs, pawing them, trying each one on for size, but always coming out again.

Until tonight. Tonight sap freezes under her skin. Her breath leaves white apples in the air. As she walks she dozes, listening to the sound of axes chopping wood. Somewhere she can never catch up to trees are falling. Chips pile up like snow When she does find it finally, the log draws her in as easily as a forest, and for a while she continues to see, just ahead of her, the moon trapped like a salmon in the ice.

 

Susan Mitchell

#susan mitchell #american poetry #the bear

[poem-today]

A poem by Sir Walter Raleigh 

The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh  (1552–1618)

Raleigh's poem is a response to a poem by Christopher Marlowe entitled The Passionate Shepherd to his Love.

#sir walter raleigh #elizabethan poetry #christopher marlowe

[poem-today]

A poem by William Butler Yeats

A Dialogue Of Self And Soul

I My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair; Set all your mind upon the steep ascent, Upon the broken, crumbling battlement, Upon the breathless starlit air, Upon the star that marks the hidden pole; Fix every wandering thought upon That quarter where all thought is done: Who can distinguish darkness from the soul

My Self.  The consecrated blade upon my knees Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was, Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass Unspotted by the centuries; That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn From some court-lady's dress and round The wodden scabbard bound and wound Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war? Think of ancestral night that can, If but imagination scorn the earth And intellect is wandering To this and that and t'other thing, Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

My self. Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it Five hundred years ago, about it lie Flowers from I know not what embroidery — Heart's purple — and all these I set For emblems of the day against the tower Emblematical of the night, And claim as by a soldier's right A charter to commit the crime once more.

My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows And falls into the basin of the mind That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind, For intellect no longer knows Is from the Ought, or Knower from the Known —  That is to say, ascends to Heaven; Only the dead can be forgiven; But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.

II My Self. A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more? Endure that toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;

The finished man among his enemies? — How in the name of Heaven can he escape That defiling and disfigured shape The mirror of malicious eyes Casts upon his eyes until at last He thinks that shape must be his shape? And what's the good of an escape If honour find him in the wintry blast?

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch, A blind man battering blind men; Or into that most fecund ditch of all, The folly that man does Or must suffer, if he woos A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

I am content to follow to its source Every event in action or in thought; Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot! When such as I cast out remorse So great a sweetness flows into the breast We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blest.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

#w b yeats #irish poetry #self and soul #dialogue

[poem-today]

A poem by Kaveh Akbar

Pilgrim Bell

My savior has powers and he needs. To be convinced to use them. Up until now he has been. A no-call no-show. Curious menace. Like a hornet’s nest buzzing. On a plane’s wing. Savior. Younger than. I pretend to be. Almost everyone is. Younger than I pretend to be. I am a threat. Even in my joy. Like a cat who. Playing kills. A mouse and tongues. It back to life. The cat lives. Somewhere between wonder. And shame. I live in a great mosque. Built on top of a flagpole. Whatever happens happens. Loudly. All day I hammer the distance. Between earth and me. Into faith. Blue light pulls in through. The long crack in my wall. Braids. Into a net. The difference between. A real voice and the other kind. The way its air vibrates. Through you. The way air. Vibrates. The violence. In your middle ear.

Kaveh Akbar

#kaveh akbar #american poetry #pilgrim bell

[poem-today]

A poem by Marjorie Pickthall

The Sailor's Grave at Clo-oose, V.I.

Out of the winds' and the waves' riot,  Out of the loud foam,  He has put in to a great quiet  And a still home. 

Here he may lie at ease and wonder  Why the old ship waits,  And hark for the surge and the strong thunder  Of the full Straits, 

And look for the fishing fleet at morning,  Shadows like lost souls,  Slide through the fog where the seal's warning  Betrays the shoals, 

And watch for the deep-sea liner climbing  Out of the bright West,  With a salmon-sky and her wake shining  Like a tern's breast, — 

And never know he is done for ever  With the old sea's pride,  Borne from the fight and the full endeavour  On an ebb tide. 

Marjorie Pickthall (1883 - 1922)

Notes

Clo-oose, V.I. - An Indian village in an area adjacent to the mouth of the Cheewhat River on the west coast of southern Vancouver Island, British Columbia. (Image above.) Marjorie Pickthall lived there among the First Nations Ditidaht community in the last years of her life.

Straits - possibly the straits of Juan de Fuca, running for one hundred miles and separating Vancouver Island and the state of Washington.

#marjorie pickthall #canadian poetry #epitaph #sailor's grave #clo-oose

[poem-today]

A poem by John Thompson

Horse Chestnuts

I drive through              with a clean nail:              it goes

easy and true through the heart,                but only with force                              through the tough

undershell, breaking out                in a jagged, stiff,                              brown flower, crumbs

of yellow flesh spilling:

in the heel of my palm              the sharp bite                            of the nail-head,

as I thread these fruits on a string              to hang up in the sun.

John Thompson (1938 – 1976)

#john thompson #canadian poetry #horse chestnuts

[poem-today]

A poem by Damian Balassone

Song of the Seagull

Twilight-time, the MCG,  seagulls now are flying free, as old men clean the littered stands,  the seagulls spy the fertile land. The hordes have left in trams and trains, only corporate men remain, and while they sip their cold champagne the seagulls sing in joyful strains: ‘When you leave the footy ground, we fly in from coastal towns. What you have lost, we have found, listen to our screeching sound! Now don’t complain, or ask us why; this land is ours ’cos we can fly. Possessing not a shred of skill we feast until we’ve had our fill, then once again we’re homeward bound, returning where the breakers pound.’

Damian Balassone

Listen to Damian Balassone read his poem (at 7:00).

More poems by Damian Balassone are available on the Brief Poems blog.

#damian balassone #australian poetry #footy #australian football #song of the seagull

[poem-today]

Footy and Film - Brief Poems by Damian Balassone

Damian Balassone was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1972, the child of an Italian migrant family who had settled in the  working class suburb of Collingwood.  He graduated from Deakin University in 1994 and has worked variously as an itinerant fruit picker, a bean counter, and as a teacher.  His poems have appeared in a variety of Australian and international publications.  His first book Chime…

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#Asses Of Parnassus #Australian Poetry #Australian Rules Football #Damian Balassone #Epigrams #Eureka Street #Film #Footy #Hebrew Couplets #Light Poetry #literature #poem #Poems #poet #poetry

[poem-today]

A poem by Geoffrey Brock

Gray Communion

I still have conversations with my father. Sometimes we’re at the bottom of the ocean and he’s distracted by the lack of air. It’s hard to stay on topic when you’re busy turning the water into oxygen, or trying to. It’s also hard down there to hear with any clarity. It’s easy if not quite fair to blame it on the weather. Sometimes he’s standing at a teller’s window with me on his shoulders. Some egregious fault of hers has made him livid. He wants to close all his accounts—he claims that he has many. There is no oxygen inside the vault, I whisper to him. What I mean is money. Wounded, he shrinks beneath me. Says he knows. But says the teller looks like his ex-widow.Sometimes we’re in his dirty living room watching the Spurs, speaking chiefly in stats. (He moved to San Antonio for a woman who saved him, for a year or so. I have here his gray communion document, which states whoever eats this bread will live forever. I can’t imagine a more awful omen. Naturally she and God lost faith in him; he never spoke of it, but so I gather.) Last night we dined on a terrace by a lake. His breathing tubes kept slipping toward his mouth, hindering meal and colloquy alike. He tore them off and flung them down the stairs. After supper, we argued over stars, both of us smoking again, as in our youth. I still have conversations with my father.

Geoffrey Brock

From After (Paul Dry Books, 9th April 2024)

More poems and translations by Geoffrey Brock are available on the Poetry Foundation website.

More poems and translations by Geoffrey Brock are available through his website.

#geoffrey brock #american poetry #after #gray communion #father son relationship

[poem-today]

A poem by Edward Thomas

Lights Out

I have come to the borders of sleep,  The unfathomable deep  Forest where all must lose  Their way, however straight,  Or winding, soon or late;  They cannot choose.

Many a road and track  That, since the dawn's first crack,  Up to the forest brink,  Deceived the travellers,  Suddenly now blurs,  And in they sink.

Here love ends,  Despair, ambition ends,  All pleasure and all trouble,  Although most sweet or bitter,  Here ends in sleep that is sweeter  Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book  Or face of dearest look  That I would not turn from now  To go into the unknown  I must enter and leave alone  I know not how.

The tall forest towers;  Its cloudy foliage lowers  Ahead, shelf above shelf;  Its silence I hear and obey  That I may lose my way  And myself.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

Edward Thomas was killed at the Battle of Arras on 9th April, 1917.

#edward thomas #english poetry #world war 1 #lights out

[poem-today]

A poem by Jane Kenyon

Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer

We turned into the drive, and gravel flew up from the tires like sparks from a fire. So much to be done—the unpacking, the mail and papers … the grass needed mowing …. We climbed stiffly out of the car. The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled.

And then we noticed the pear tree, the limbs so heavy with fruit they nearly touched the ground. We went out to the meadow; our steps made black holes in the grass; and we each took a pear, and ate, and were grateful.

Jane Kenyon (1947–1995)

#jane kenyon #american poetry #pears

[poem-today]

A poem by Robinson Jeffers

Cremation

It nearly cancels my fear of death, my dearest said, When I think of cremation.  To rot in the earth Is a loathsome end, but to roar up in flame – besides, I am used to it, I have flamed with love or fury so often in my life, No wonder my body is tired, no wonder it is dying. We had a great joy of my body.  Scatter the ashes.

Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962)

#robinson jeffers #american poetry #cremation

[poem-today]

A poem by Bill Manhire

My Childhood in Ireland

I never climbed the hill or strolled to the end of the pier  to see what the walkers in rain  might be finding out there.

Nor did the book fall open where Maeve had secretly signed it. In fact, it never fell open. Not that I minded: the world

streamed away wherever the great ships were going. Far away there were ways beyond knowing.

I walked back to the house. My sister's new child was chained to her breast. She drifted inside a dark forest.

My father opined while the dog whined. The television did its best. While my father opined the dog licked itself.

Well, you manage to find what might make you happy.  I went on the Net. I wandered.  Asian bukkake.

Bill Manhire

#bill manhire #new zealand poet #new zealand poetry #childhood in ireland

[poem-today]

A poem by Marylin Hacker

Unsent Letter

Dear X,

Desire for you once filled a book, that had two continents, two deaths, a child wisecracking beyond her years in it, flash-styled wardrobes, some sex scenes, daybreaks, and the look of a lover leaving, seen from the back, black jacket, scarf, blonde hair a little wild in the rising wind that, hours ago, was mild. And I took a notebook out of my backpack, opened it on whatever surface was near, like Berryman, girl gone, began to write my shipwreck chronicle—all I could do. Now you’re a businesswoman, sixty-two (or something) with a wife. I’m sexless, “queer” politically. And when night falls, it’s night.

Marylin Hacker

#marylin hacker #american poetry #unsent letter #sonnet

[poem-today]

A poem by Sarah Barber

To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs

You give me the slip between garlic and lilies,    as if this is what comes of my unprotected    loves, of my hands in the sweet earth,    their willful miscegenation of the border bed    where you’re tucked in deep with tulips, too,    like just one more of their heart-freaks:    a fluke diamondine flake, a thin vein gone gold.    Being mine, you’ll grow up a girdled tree, girt    with a ringed-around root, nothing like    the fruitful vine of good wives—one of which    I’ll never be so, my not-love-knot, you may    as well come up instead like a kiss:    the one wind gives to rouse the Japanese maple,    October’s aerialist, its bright aureole    in the last late sun a red mouth, opening.

Sarah Barber

#sarah barber #american poetry #lost ring