#poetry
I just learned there is a new Li-Young Lee book of poems out that I missed notice of in May!!
Li-Young Lee: Selections
Poems “descended from God”
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/162904/li-young-lee-selections?mc_cid=1300a55b19
Christophe Petchanatz
#Tintin #outsider #art #artbrut #experimental #comics #Klimperei #toymusic #noise #poetry
At the End, There is Always a House
by Sara Eliza Johnson
These days I move from room to room looking for a thing to
haunt. The filaments inside my teeth glow in the dark,
thirty-two beacons no one will see, except the mirror I
return to again and again, hoping for it to swallow me, to
find anything there but my face. Mirror is another word for
hunger. Hunger is another word for dead. Anyone would be
tired of hearing from me, the kind of woman — this repulsive
word — who'll never have a garden or greenhouse, only a
fridge crisper full of broccoli and kale and lettuce, all
rotting to sludge, bananas on the counter blackening like
frostbitten skin. I used to quarter an apple with such
perfection I could have been autopsying my own heart. The
thing is there's no way out of this house. Memory circles
like flies. Even the dead need to eat. Even the dead dream. I
left a note in the memory: You deserve so much more than
desire.
from the journal ALASKA QUARTERLY REVIEW
https://mailchi.mp/poems/todays-poem-at-the-end-there-is-always-a-house-sara-eliza-johnson?e=6ec42bce63
از جنگِ بی‌شکوه
احساسی اندک دارم
اما آن‌چه به تمامی درمی‌یابم
عشقی‌ست که آرزوی همه‌گان است.
از کشمکش‌های دائمی
احساسی اندک دارم
اما آن‌چه به تمامی درمی‌یابم
آرزویِ باهم بودن است.
از جنگ برای آن‌که فقط جانی به در بَرَم
احساسی اندک دارم
اما آن‌چه به تمامی دریافته‌ام
چیزی‌ست که در این بازیِ نهفته.
#Poetry #Farsi #AntiWar #Shamloo
✅ـ شاعر: مارگوت بیکل ـ از دفترِ #چیدنِسپیده‌دَم
✅- برگردانِ : #احمدشاملو ــ #محمدزرین‌بال
✅ـ مجموعه آثارِاحمدشاملو- دفتر دوم صفحه‌ی 539
✅ـ گرافیست: #بهزاد_شیشه‌گران
Maybe what a river loves most
about the banks that hold it—that appear to hold it—
is their willingness or resignation to being
mere context for the river’s progress
or retreat, depending.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/1604434/in-place-of-memory-belief
Disobedient Methods: On Li-Young Lee
Honoring one of the most influential lyric practitioners of our time.
BY Ocean Vuong
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/1600620/disobedient-methods-on-li-young-lee
Letter to the Corinthians
By Elizabeth Willis
When I was a child, my eye was older than an oak.
From the highest chair, I saw string beans move from my brother’s plate into my mother’s mouth when my father looked away. I watched my sister spit her peas behind the sink. A dog moved from the woods toward the kitchen door. The house unfolding like a book.
I read my father’s secret history of anger, my mother’s dissertation on subterfuge, their parlor of doubt, the kitchen of their discontent.
This was my host country and I its virus.
I witnessed a world that couldn’t be explained. Rhymed and unrhymed, its alien talk floated above a blanket of verse.
In time, I would adopt its pattern language. I would deliver its messages like a page. I would spy with my little eye. I would open and close like a camera.
In the stories of that planet, I would find no character resembling myself, so I would place myself outside them, in a poem.
When I was a child, I hated lace; I buried all the dolls.
I hid in the snow and thought about what it would mean: to disappear. A little ghost whispering help!, testing its alarms.
But when I was grown, I opened the box of broken dolls, and when it was dark, I held the tree by its branches and all the childish words rustled back into the woods, into the purple snow.
I knew there was a story larger than anything.
At the back of the lens, the end was already on fire.
English below:
Que cherches tu petit homme dans les songes de tes nuits glacées ?
Que cherches tu sinon toi même et ton âme argentée ?
Que cherches tu petit être dans la forêt enchantée ?
Que cherches tu sinon ton ombre mordorée ?
Peut être devras-tu finir par te laisser trouver ?
L.V
Image : l'étoile du matin/ Jean Ignace Isidore Granville
What are you looking for, little man, in the dreams of your icy nights?
What do you seek but yourself and your silver soul.
What are you looking for, little being, in the enchanted forest?
What are you looking for if not your golden shadow.
Perhaps in the end you'll have to let yourself be found?
L.V
#reve #rêve #inconscient #poesie #poetry #granville #etoiledumatin #surrealisme
End of Summer
BY Stanley Kunitz
An agitation of the air,
A perturbation of the light
Admonished me the unloved year
Would turn on its hinge that night.
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
Blue poured into summer blue,
A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
That part of my life was over.
Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54898/end-of-summer-56d235ce0824f?mc_cid=e9abfd2de4
Gotham Wanes
BY Bryan D. Dietrich
The mask? Because we were never ugly
enough. Because our ugliness was epic.
Because we were given to it, because
we were so misgiven. You wear one. I
wear one. Yes. Kings, Pharaohs had them
fabricated, poured out in gold and beaten.
Most wore them to the grave. In Mexico
the living wear them, not to scare the dead
away, but as invitation. They leave candy
on the mounds of those they mourn. New
Orleans? Women wear them in order
to bare everything else. Men wear them
in order to watch. I can remember, back
before it all grows grim, making one
out of the news, trying to paste it together.
I remember my mother helping me. I don’t
really remember my father. Something
like a face, like the man in the moon.
I understand we’re hardwired this way,
to make faces before anything else.
It’s why we see the Madonna in mold,
alien architecture in Martian crater creep.
We keep looking for those first faces, first
familia. Every culture, every eon. Witness
the oldest we know, his cave, his wall, one
hundred seventy centuries gone. They call
him Sorcerer. They call me Knight.
We have always lived in the dark.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/54986/gotham-wanes?mc_cid=612b74ec37
Trio
by Bruce Snider
a. Driving Home from the Night Shift, Our Mother
Listens to Hank Williams' "Lost Highway"
She cracks the window,
letting the cold air
slap her awake. Cranking
the radio, she sings
along as she leans
into the burn of Tiger
Balm, her shift,
like her body, a sharpening
of drill bits, the break
room doors. Soon,
she'll enter the house
before anyone is awake.
This is her time
when everything is still,
when she could be
anything—a thief,
a mouse. Alone,
she'll wipe coffee rings
from counters, scrub
sinks, floors. Love,
she'd tell you, is work, and work
is what remains
when she leans into
a sleep she can
almost taste, when
our father like the dawn
rises to slip
his arm around her waist.
b. My First Boyfriend and I Slow Dance to Jeff Buckley's
Cover of Hank Williams' "Lost Highway"
This new voice is the old
voice of wanting
what you already have.
It marks me like
pressed hands in wet
cement, leaves me
warm against a boy
in a dorm room
damp with the musk
of hair gel,
drugstore rubbers
and knock-off Calvin Klein.
This is not romance.
This is not a story
of easy need, though
there's cheap beer
on the dresser,
rumpled white sheets
on his unmade bed.
Anything could happen—
his mother could call,
his roommate
could walk in the door, or
we could flinch,
dropping down as we inch
into each other, the track
on repeat: Now, boys, don't
start your ramblin' round . . .
c. Encore: Months Before His Overdose, Hank Williams Sings "Cold,
Cold Heart" in 1952 on The Grand Ole Opry—YouTube, 2021
Here, as if brought to
life, the echo of some
lost world: this skinny
lightning-voiced angel
with his white cowboy
hat askew. Like death,
the Internet, I've read,
is a ghostly well,
ever-expanding grave-
yard of last breaths.
Is this, at last, what
we're meant to become—
Hank's blazing eyes,
soulful black windows?
He sings and sings,
Byzantium's golden bird.
Or is this Christ's after-
life, gates ajar? Now,
colorless, Hank strums
his phantom guitar.
He stares. He blinks
and grins. He feels no pain.
Strange beauty in the lie,
this screen between
what's twice alive but
dead, what never ends.
When he stops, I click
back: he sings again.
from the journal GEORGIA REVIEW
https://mailchi.mp/poems/todays-poem-trio-bruce-snider?e=6ec42bce63
I was talking to my wife about poetry tonight and she was going on about this guy and his sites. I bet those of you being creative with language would enjoy them a lot. Maybe even find benefit for your own work. Some ideas might even apply to visual arts and music.
@alistair@diasp.org @suseoddvibes@diaspora-fr.org @libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com to name a few.
Ancient Japanese noblewomen used poetry to guilt-trip their men 😂 https://youtube.com/shorts/M7C6U4oLqgM?si=wwVkmrAQEVW8TewA
Clever #poetry