Sad is the man who is asked for a story and can't come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap. Not the same story, Baba. A new one. The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world of stories, he can recall not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees the day this boy will go. Don't go! Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more! You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider. Let me tell it!
But the boy is packing his shirts, he is looking for his keys. Are you a god, the man screams, that I sit mute before you? Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story? It is an emotional rather than logical equation, an earthly rather than heavenly one, which posits that a boy's supplications and a father's love add up to silence.
Life of harmony, has soon gone past Visitors from the east, arrived all to fast Time of transition, was this going to last Concerns of the Sioux, we have to surpass
The land that was once theirs, is no more Freedom once had, is gone and nevermore Buffalo once hunted to sustain, is now a core Their spirit, they could not take, is forevermore
Overcoming obstacles, it was all about strive Storms and battles, they would always survive Mother Earth bequeathed, allowing them to thrive Taking only what was needed, surely glad to be alive
The Great Spirit allows all to believe Recognizing all living things, this has to be Every man and woman of the Sioux, has to agree The pride of the Native People, is there to conceive
The people of the Sioux will always be strong Giving thanks to Grandfather with dance and song A past is kept in order teach the young so that they belong Tradition of survival shall be taught, so that there will be no more wrong
It was taken some time ago. At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flecks blended with the paper;
then, as you scan it, you see in the left-hand corner a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree (balsam or spruce) emerging and, to the right, halfway up what ought to be a gentle slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake, and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where precisely, or to say how large or small I am: the effect of water on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough, eventually you will be able to see me.)
Dark Star Lyrics By: Robert Hunter Music By: Garcia, Hart, Kreutzmann, Lesh, McKernan, Weir Dark star crashes Pouring its light into ashes Reason tatters The forces tear loose from the axis Searchlight casting For faults in the clouds of delusion
Shall we go, you and I, while we can? Through the transitive nightfall of diamonds
Mirror shatters In formless reflections of matter Glass hand dissolving To ice petal flowers revolving Lady in velvet Recedes in the nights of goodbye
Shall we go, you and I, while we can Through the transitive nightfall of diamonds?
On the road I relish the speed of a horse's hoof. In the desert I admire the heavy load a camel carries. On the snow mountain that frightens the eagle I see the yak with its tongue stuck out jumping like a fierce tiger from the ravine!
Beneath the feet of those who struggle, there will always be a path!
Please do not to think too highly of the one who dives into the water - The necklaces of my ancestors were made from the coral deep in that sea!
Coffee & Dolls by April Bernard . It was a storefront for a small-time numbers runner, pretending to be some sort of grocery. Coffeemakers and Bustello cans populated the shelves, sparsely. Who was fooled. The boxes bleached in the sun, the old guys sat inside on summer lawn chairs, watching tv. The applause from the talk shows and game shows washed out the propped-open door like distant rain.
It closed for a few months. The slick sedan disappeared. One spring day, it reopened, this time a sign decorated the window: COFFEE & DOLLS. Yarn-haired, gingham-dressed floppy dolls lolled among the coffee cans. A mastiff puppy, the size and shape of a tipped-over fire hydrant, guarded as the sedan and the old guys returned.
I don't know about you, but I've been looking for a narrative in which suffering makes sense. I mean, the high wail of the woman holding her dead child, the wail that filled the street. I mean the sudden fatal blooms on golden skin. I mean the crack deaths, I mean the ice-cream truck that cruised the alphabets and sold crack to the same deedle-dee-dee tune as fudgesicles. I mean the raw scabs of the beaten mastiff, and many other things.
Listening to Myself Al Purdy From: Beyond Remembering - The collected poems of Al Purdy. 2000.
see myself staggering through deep snow lugging blocks of wood yesterday an old man almost falling from bodily weakness — look down on myself from above then front and both sides white hair — wrinkled face and hands it's really not very surprising that love spoken by my voice should be when I am listening ridiculous yet there it is a foolish old man with brain on fire stumbling through the snow
— the loss of love that comes to mean more than the love itself and how explain that? — a still pool in the forest that has ceased to reflect anything except the past — remains a sort of half-love that is akin to kindness and I am angry remembering remembering the song of flesh to flesh and bone to bone the loss is better
The words come Fluttering, thundering Returning from a journey They only give hints at, Tickling the imagination And caressing the heart; They arrive with no rules to hold them, And drift into place-- Read aloud, perhaps senseless, But held quietly, and they grow-- Into feelings envisioned, Into truths admitted, Into landscapes of us.
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death's laundry. The beautiful daughters Setting death's supper table. The neighbors playing Pinochle in the backyard Or just sitting on the steps Drinking beer. Death, Meanwhile, in a strange Part of town looking for Someone with a bad cough, But the address somehow wrong, Even death can't figure it out Among all the locked doors... And the rain beginning to fall. Long windy night ahead. Death with not even a newspaper To cover his head, not even A dime to call the one pining away, Undressing slowly, sleepily, And stretching naked On death's side of the bed.
History Of The Night . Throughout the course of the generations men constructed the night. At first she was blindness; thorns raking bare feet, fear of wolves. We shall never know who forged the word for the interval of shadow dividing the two twilights; we shall never know in what age it came to mean the starry hours. Others created the myth. They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates that spin our destiny, they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock who crows his own death. The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses; to Zeno, infinite words. She took shape from Latin hexameters and the terror of Pascal. Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland of his stricken soul. Now we feel her to be inexhaustible like an ancient wine and no one can gaze on her without vertigo and time has charged her with eternity.
And to think that she wouldn't exist except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
I sell dreams, cheap following my inclinations like a dog who sold his master I sell epochs, my body crosshatched with scars I sell time, diarrhetic penniless as fresh air I sell country, motherland disappears I sell space, earth vanishes I hold the universe in my hand and write you a love letter
I sell holidays, together with loneliness in ignorance of the world I sell everything: life, breath, death But tonight you must listen I'm going to kiss you seriously and turn over like a sunken boat You're the ocean the only thing I have left
Remember . "Remember the moon, know who she is. Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time. Remember sundawn and the giving away to night. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life, and her mother's and hers. ..... Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe.
A Kiss in Brussels . We stand here freezing in our winter coats, a kiss prevents my breath from showing white, my hand slows to a halt in mid caress, I want to let you go, but not tonight – my fingers in your hair, the evidence. Here for a second in this city park, we’re two cold lovers mouthing March, who kiss as though exchanging quotes.
My Country in Darkness by Eavan Boland . After the wolves and before the elms the bardic order ended in Ireland.
Only a few remained to continue a dead art in a dying land:
This is a man on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle. He has no comfort, no food and no future. He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by. His riddles and flatteries will have no reward. His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.
Reader of poems, lover of poetry— in case you thought this was a gentle art follow this man on a moonless night to the wretched bed he will have to make:
The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree and burns in the rain. This is its home, its last frail shelter. All of it— Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before— falters into cadence before he sleeps: He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.
All the huskies are eaten. There is no space left in the diary, And the beads of quick words scatter over his spouse's sepia-shaded face adding the date in question like a mole to her lovely cheek. Next, the snapshot of his sister. He doesn't spare his kin: what's been reached is the highest possible latitude! And, like the silk stocking of a burlesque half-nude queen, it climbs up his thigh: gangrene.
THOU hast made me, And shall thy worke decay? Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste, I runne to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday; I dare not move my dimme eyes any way, Despaire behind, and death before doth cast Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sinne in it, which it t'wards hell doth weigh; Onely thou art above, and when towards thee By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine; Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.
You have, in you, the leaves and flowers All that shines and all that’s sweet to see: Greater than the sun your face in splendour, Who sees you not can never worthy be. In this world there is no creature So pleasing or so full of beauty: And he is led, who holds love in terror, By your face, to desire such inwardly. Each woman who is with you pleases me, Through the love you show towards her: And I pray to her, of her courtesy, She who can do so best does you most honour. And shows great care for your sovereignty, For you are queen of all those who are there.