#poetry
From nowhere with love, on the -eenth of Marchember,
dear respectful my darling, doesn't matter
even who, for the face, speaking frankly,
is impossible to remember, not yours, and
no-one's best friend, sends his regards being on one
of the five continents, related to cow-boys;
I loved you more than angels and even Himself
and am further from you now than from them both;
late at night, in the sleeping valley, in its very pit,
twisting at night on the blank bed-sheet --
as not mentioned below at least, -- with a throb
I whip up the pillow by moaning "you"
from beyond the seas, its shores connecting
in the dark, with my body your body through
all it's features, as a crazy mirror, reflecting.
Ниоткуда с любовью, надцатого мартобря,
дорогой, уважаемый, милая, но не важно
даже кто, ибо черт лица, говоря
откровенно, не вспомнить уже, не ваш, но
и ничей верный друг вас приветствует с одного
из пяти континентов, держащегося на ковбоях.
Я любил тебя больше, чем ангелов и самого,
и поэтому дальше теперь
от тебя, чем от них обоих.
Далеко, поздно ночью, в долине, на самом дне,
в городке, занесенном снегом по ручку двери,
извиваясь ночью на простыне,
как не сказано ниже, по крайней мере,
я взбиваю подушку мычащим «ты»,
за горами, которым конца и края,
в темноте всем телом твои черты
как безумное зеркало повторяя.
1975-1976
This is my life!!!
THE NEW BATTERY SHOULD COME TOMORROW
by Ruth Bavetta
Got up this morning thinking about going to see my daughter.
Which led to thinking about the remote for the garage door opener
which had stopped working when I replaced the battery.
Which led to searching online for garage door repairmen. Which led to
wanting to check the remote again before I called a repairman.
Which led to getting dressed so I could go outside. Which led to
remembering to brush my teeth. Which led to discovering my Waterpik
wasn’t working. Which led to researching online to find out
what the problem could be. Which led to
scrabbling around to find the extra tips that came with the Waterpik
and figuring out which was which and how to replace the tip.
So with Waterpik repaired I went outside and tried again
to make the garage door opener work. Which led to
my discovering that the little red light in the remote wasn’t on.
Which led me to fiddle with the batteries again. Which led to
my discovering I had ordered the wrong battery for it. Which led to
a protracted Amazon session looking for the proper battery
and figuring out which were in stock and would come soon
and didn’t come only in a pack of fifty.
So now I’m exhausted and I’m not going anywhere.
from Rattle #83, Spring 2024
Ruth Bavetta: “I write at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Once, it was important to me to make sense of life. Now, I’m convinced that there is no sense-making. There is only what is and what has been. I am human, separate and mortal, and that’s where the poetry comes from. This poem is pretty much an accurate report of an actual morning a couple of years ago. This kind of thing happens with increasing frequency as we age. What can we do but laugh about it?”
https://www.rattle.com/the-new-battery-should-come-tomorrow-by-ruth-bavetta/
Patti Smith Sends Taylor Swift a Direct Message After Pop Star Name-Dropped Her in New Song
https://parade.com/news/patti-smith-sends-taylor-swift-direct-message-name-drop-tortured-poets
THE TUNER
by Colette Inez
for E.C.
Choose how the forest
was deprived of a tree.
Blight, wind, fire?
I once lost a cantankerous man,
who tuned pianos.
Tall, an oak to me,
he goaded music from the keys.
I almost see him biting on his pipe,
tamping down the London Dock.
Blown back leaves, birds, moths,
the gestures here.
Pendulum, tool box auctioned off.
Summer roars another blast of green.
“I like to see a piano perspire,”
he’d say to me, slamming the lid
of the Baldwin.
—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
Colette Inez: “A poem is born right here, somewhere in my heart, in my blood vessels, in my gut. It comes to the brain much later. I have to feel them actually pulsing in my body, and then when they get shaped, when the brain, the controller, the pilot, whoever one’s metaphor, however this metaphor can extend, takes over. I like to think that my brain is the lesser part of my poems and that my heart, in the best of my poems, is the one that rules.”
one of my older poems:
𝕊𝕖𝕝𝕓𝕤𝕥𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕣ä𝕥 ℤ𝕦𝕘𝕖𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕖𝕥 𝕁𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕗 ℍ𝕣𝕦𝕓ý, 𝕟𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕦𝕟𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕞 𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕖𝕟 𝔸𝕓𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕞 𝕊𝕒𝕞𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕘, 𝟙𝟚. 𝕁𝕦𝕟𝕚 𝟙𝟡𝟡𝟡
𝕎𝕚𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝔻𝕦 𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕥 𝕘𝕖𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝔹ö𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝔼𝕣𝕕𝕖! 𝔻𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕘𝕖𝕝ä𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕥 𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕚𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕝𝕟 ü𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕫𝕥𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕘𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕙𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕞 𝕊𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝕌𝕟𝕕 𝕟𝕦𝕟 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕣𝕓𝕥 𝕕𝕖𝕚𝕟 𝔾𝕖𝕤𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕥 𝕕𝕠𝕔𝕙 𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕚𝕟 𝕚𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕚𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕦𝕙𝕚𝕘𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕟 𝔽𝕝𝕦ß, 𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕤𝕤. 𝕀𝕤𝕥 𝕖𝕤 𝕕𝕒𝕤, 𝕨𝕚𝕣𝕜𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕕𝕒𝕤, 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕕𝕦 𝕨𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥!
𝚂𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝙳𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚏 𝙷𝚛𝚞𝚋ý, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟷𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟿
𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑! 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍!
TODAY: In 1802, William Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, see a “long belt” of daffodils, inspiring the former to pen “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.”
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud
AGAINST THE SOLAR ECLIPSE
by Alejandro Escudé
It’s a black swath that cuts across
A part of the country that’s a myth.
Does Ohio even exist? Not here,
Where the post office blends
With the sky and the cops drive
Black and white cars off freeway
Overpasses. In one photo, a man
Peers down at a brass contraption
Like some 21st century Galileo,
A pinprick on the sun shadowed
By that communist rock in the sky.
Or was it the other way around?
I can’t recall. It’s all mathematical
Gibberish, if you ask me. A train
Stopped the traffic the other day
And that was more real than the
Eclipse. The sun is like an orange
At the grocery store at age fifty.
Who still buys the citrusy orbs?
If fact, the supermarket aisles
Are too bright these days. I should
Wear those ISO glasses they all
Wore to observe the eclipse.
See what? Nature? Apocalypse?
Down on this planet, it’s light
Pandemonium. Hysteria denied.
I’ve had enough of branded news.
Music mimicking music. It’s called
The cosmos. That death-trap
Beyond the atmosphere. Boneless
Graveyard, aqueduct to nothingness.
Honestly, I’ll take God. He’s not
In fashion right now. But I prefer
The ambiguity of faith to ignorance,
Which is what you see in crowds,
Lawn chairs and binoculars, tents,
Motorhomes, a sheet afloat, the sun
Figured there, reflected, swallowed
By time’s stupid, arcing mouth.
—from Poets Respond
April 14, 2024
Alejandro Escudé: “Human beings, in my point of view, are absolute masters of denial and distraction. The eclipse was just another event that reminded me of how well society can turn its gaze up and away from real societal issues, personal problems, true miracles, thought, insight, love, in order to participate in one more pointless venture.”
https://www.rattle.com/against-the-solar-eclipse-by-alejandro-escude/
The Battered Inside
by Niels Hav
Translated from the Danish by Per Brask & Patrick Friesen
The battered inside of the cupboard under the kitchen sink
makes me happy. Here are two honest nails
hammered into the original boards that have been there
since the apartment block was built. It's like revisiting
forgotten members of our closest family.
At some point the boards were blue;
there is some leftover red
and a green pastel. The kitchen sink is new
and the counter has been raised ten centimeters. Probably
it's been renovated several times through the years.
The kitchen has remained current; there are new lamps,
electric stove, fridge and coffee maker.
But here under the sink a time warp has been allowed
its hidden existence. Here is the wash tub with the floor cloth,
the plunger and a forgotten bit of caustic soda.
Here the spider moves about undisturbed.
Maybe there's been kissing and dancing in this kitchen.
Probably there's been crying.
Happy people newly in love have prepared fragrant meals
and later cooked porridge while making sandwiches for lunch boxes.
Hungry children have stolen cookies. Laughter has resounded
in the stairwell and ropes have been skipped in the yard
while new cars were being parked outside. People moved in and out,
old ones died and were carried downstairs, newborn babies
were carried upstairs. Everything according to order—
my nameplate will also disappear from the door one day.
I get down on my knees in front of the kitchen sink
and respectfully greet the plunger, the spider
and the two honest nails.
COURAGE
by Ansuya Patel & Batya Weinbaum
When I wrote a check for fifty dollars,
that’s all I have I said to the taxi driver
who locked the doors of his black Mercedes.
He drove like a maniac down a dirt road.
Shall I drive, I asked. Don’t you trust me.
I’m not going to kill you, he yelled like
he was doing me a favour. This is where
you hang up faith, watch it somersault into air.
He placed a hand on my thigh. You don’t want
to touch me, I may have some awful disease.
His fist hit the steering wheel. Crazy bitch,
shut up. Give me all the money you have.
I swallowed my curses he unlocked the door,
I got out fast, fear he’d run me down. I walked
for what seemed miles. A car passed by
and stopped. You ok? I need a cab, I said.
Not around here. Get in, I’ll drop you. I talked
music, he said he was off to steal wheels.
He turned up the music to electro beats. My feet
tapped courage, I prayed all the way to neon lights.
Once home I picked up a pair of scissors, cut off
my hair, it fell like a curtain at the end of the show.
—from Rattle #83, Spring 2024
Tribute to Collaboration
Ansuya Patel & Batya Weinbaum: “We chose the theme courage. We both wrote a draft initially and used couplets to weave our experiences into one story. We had both been attacked by a stranger in a car many years ago. Writing in couplets allowed us to create the journey that changed us forever and remind us that courage has no gender. We have reclaimed our lives and the open road, proving that resilience is a formidable force in the face of adversity, and that no experience however dark can define the boundless potential within every individual.”
Eating Poetry
By Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52959/eating-poetry?mc_cid=d657a731c6
Alice Notley, The Art of Poetry No. 116
(I sure wish the Paris Review had a digital subscription version)
https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/8263/the-art-of-poetry-no-116-alice-notley
Ryan McCarty: “I’ve been so struck by all the people I hear talking about their plans to watch the solar eclipse. Everyone is traveling, planning, convening. Thirty-one million people are supposed to be traveling to get somewhere within range. I love cosmic phenomena, but I love the way people obsess about them even more. I find myself wondering exactly what they hope to see—what they imagine—and if there’s any chance that one of these hyped-up celestial flickers might just one day change everything while we’re all standing around staring, together. Add in the almost apocalyptic warnings that accompany these kinds of events – communications breakdowns, gas shortages, traffic pileups, snack shortages—and I can’t stop imagining. That’s where this poem started.”
WHAT WILL WE SEE WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT?
by Ryan McCarty
My neighbor, near me on the bus, moves his lips
while looking at his phone. They’re like two
little birds whispering to that tiny sunrise he holds.
He will finish, snap out, look up, and laugh with me
at the empty roads, I know it, because we’re speeding
reckless in the wide open streets. The whole
world flew south to find a place to watch
one unimaginably distant body come
between us and another even more
distant body. If we believe the old stories,
they’re men and women, our mother
dancing, shielding us, hiding our father’s glare.
If we believe the new stories, roads will turn
to parking lots and children will forget
the names of their families, wandering lost
in a sea of empty gas stations and dehydration.
If we believe only the story that something
inevitable is happening, we will marvel
at the precision, at our predictive powers,
at the blurred lines between chirping crickets
and the notifications ringing in our pants.
Or, instead, on the roads, in our yards, high
behind windows built for silence, ludicrous
in our magical glasses, could we just lose
the tale? Know what the end might look like?
In the momentary darkness, fumbling
for our offerings to coax the daytime back—
our multitools and battery-powered radios,
our spare cash and backup maps, will we breathe
in that chill air, when everything purples,
when the birds change key, when millions
of us look, not to the sky but left and right, and see
each other, gone out of our way to stand,
together, where the light disappears.
—from Poets Respond
April 7, 2024
https://www.rattle.com/what-will-we-see-when-the-lights-go-out-by-ryan-mccarty/
Some Things, Say The Wise Ones
By Mary Oliver
Some things, say the wise ones who know everything,
are not living. I say,
You live your life your way and leave me alone.
I have talked with the faint clouds in the sky when they
are afraid of being behind; I have said, Hurry, hurry!
and they have said, Thank you, we are hurrying.
About cows, and starfish, and roses there is no
argument. They die, after all.
But water is a question, so many living things in it,
but what is it itself, living or not? Oh, gleaming
generosity, how can they write you out?
As I think this I am sitting on the sand beside
the harbor. I am holding in my hand
small pieces of granite, pyrite, schist.
Each one, just now, so thoroughly asleep
Moving towards Home
By June Jordan
“Where is Abu Fadi,” she wailed.
“Who will bring me my loved one?”
—The New York Times, 9/20/1982
I do not wish to speak about the bulldozer and the
red dirt
not quite covering all of the arms and legs
Nor do I wish to speak about the nightlong screams
that reached
the observation posts where soldiers lounged about
Nor do I wish to speak about the woman who shoved
her baby
into the stranger’s hands before she was led away
Nor do I wish to speak about the father whose sons
were shot
through the head while they slit his own throat before
the eyes
of his wife
Nor do I wish to speak about the army that lit continuous
flares into the darkness so that the others could see
the backs of their victims lined against the wall
Nor do I wish to speak about the piled up bodies and
the stench
that will not float
Nor do I wish to speak about the nurse again and
again raped
before they murdered her on the hospital floor
Nor do I wish to speak about the rattling bullets that
did not
halt on that keening trajectory
Nor do I wish to speak about the pounding on the
doors and
the breaking of windows and the hauling of families into
the world of the dead
I do not wish to speak about the bulldozer and the
red dirt
not quite covering all of the arms and legs
because I do not wish to speak about unspeakable events
that must follow from those who dare
“to purify” a people
those who dare
“to exterminate” a people
those who dare
to describe human beings as “beasts with two legs”
those who dare
“to mop up”
“to tighten the noose”
“to step up the military pressure”
“to ring around” civilian streets with tanks
those who dare
to close the universities
to abolish the press
to kill the elected representatives
of the people who refuse to be purified
those are the ones from whom we must redeem
the words of our beginning
because I need to speak about home
I need to speak about living room
where the land is not bullied and beaten to
a tombstone
I need to speak about living room
where the talk will take place in my language
I need to speak about living room
where my children will grow without horror
I need to speak about living room where the men
of my family between the ages of six and sixty-five
are not
marched into a roundup that leads to the grave
I need to talk about living room
where I can sit without grief without wailing aloud
for my loved ones
where I must not ask where is Abu Fadi
because he will be there beside me
I need to talk about living room
because I need to talk about home
I was born a Black woman
and now
I am become a Palestinian
against the relentless laughter of evil
there is less and less living room
and where are my loved ones?
https://us12.campaign-archive.com/?e=58c6df03ad&u=c993b88231f5f84146565840e&id=8608edadd1