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  1. TopTop #2851
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    A Buddhist Grace
    or What’s Wrong With This Picture?


    Somehow I never make it through this prayer:


    Potatoes, celery, carrots, onions,
    each tenderly coaxed
    from soft soil aerated by your hand.
    Thank you farmer for your work,
    I am connected to you
    through this fine stew
    unified by its good red burgundy stock.
    Thank you vintners and wine makers
    for your part in this symphony
    conducted with the tang of a bay leaf.


    Let’s see—allow me to consider what else
    for which to be thankful in my
    deep dish of pungent stew—
    —ah the succulence of fall-apart beef
    nurtured to morseled chunks by your hand,
    my cook, my uniter of all components.


    Thank you cattle for offering yourselves as sacrifice.
    Thank you slaughterhouse workers
    wading ankle-deep in blood.
    Thank you, those of you with the courage
    to impersonally slay.
    Thank you to the packers hanging carcasses on hooks.
    Thank you for the cutters
    who hew beef bodies
    as if they were so many grades
    and cuts of lumber.
    Thank you, all of you, for the intimate part
    you play in my meal and my life this day.


    - Ed Coletti
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  3. TopTop #2852

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Interesting poem! Just parenthetically and a bit synchronistically, my wife is currently reading MY YEAR OF MEATS by Ruth Ozeki, a zen teacher as well as author of several novels. This one is about a documentary film-maker's experience of the beef industry in America.
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  4. TopTop #2853
    kpage9's Avatar
    kpage9
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    One of my all-time favorite books--hilarious, poignant, fantastical and real.
    kathy

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by REALnothings: View Post
    Interesting poem! Just parenthetically and a bit synchronistically, my wife is currently reading MY YEAR OF MEATS by Ruth Ozeki, a zen teacher as well as author of several novels. This one is about a documentary film-maker's experience of the beef industry in America.
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  5. TopTop #2854
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    I Was Just Reading A Beautiful Book of Poetry


    and I glanced down
    at my hand holding that book
    and my hand—
    it had to have been my hand
    because I was the only one there
    and I was the one holding the book--
    my hand was all ripply
    with wrinkles.


    Not just a few wrinkles—
    dozens, hundreds of wrinkles
    more wrinkles than one would imagine
    could even fit on a hand
    and not even a whole hand
    no, just the space between wrist
    and thumb that was holding the book
    of poems in my hand
    the beautiful book of beautiful poems
    by Fran Claggett
    the beautiful wrinkled old poet
    on the cover.


    - Lilith Rogers
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  7. TopTop #2855
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Pay Heed to the Magic


    Don’t confuse it with illusion

    magicians’ mischief
    the sleight-of-hand that splays the deck of cards
    & begs you choose
    won’t listen to your longing.


    Peer under leaves instead
    in early morning light
    still drunk with dew.
    Trace the snail’s trail
    with your finger;
    see where it goes.


    Catch the eyes of elders
    eyes that laugh when mouths turn down
    in spite of themselves.
    They have seen the magic.
    Pay heed to wild mushrooms
    springing from a fairy ring.


    The world’s alive with synchronicity
    there for the taking.
    Take what you need
    or what you love.
    Leave breathless.


    - Sandra Anfang
    Last edited by Barry; 04-11-2016 at 02:39 PM.
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  9. TopTop #2856
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Belle Isle, 1949


    We stripped in the first warm spring night
    and ran down into the Detroit River
    to baptize ourselves in the brine
    of car parts, dead fish, stolen bicycles,
    melted snow. I remember going under
    hand in hand with a Polish highschool girl
    I’d never seen before, and the cries
    our breath made caught at the same time
    on the cold, and rising through the layers
    of darkness into the final moonless atmosphere
    that was this world, the girl breaking
    the surface after me and swimming out
    on the starless waters towards the lights
    of Jefferson Ave. and the stacks
    of the old stove factory unwinking.
    Turning at last to see no island at all
    but a perfect calm dark as far
    as there was sight, and then a light
    and another riding low out ahead
    to bring us home, ore boats maybe, or smokers
    walking alone. Back panting
    to the gray coarse beach we didn’t dare
    fall on, the damp piles of clothes,
    and dressing side by side in silence
    to go back where we came from.


    - Phillip Levine
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  11. TopTop #2857
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    From A Window

    Incurable and unbelieving
    in any truth but the truth of grieving,

    I saw a tree inside a tree
    rise kaleidoscopically

    as if the leaves had livelier ghosts.
    I pressed my face as close

    to the pane as I could get
    to watch that fitful, fluent spirit

    that seemed a single being undefined
    or countless beings of one mind

    haul its strange cohesion
    beyond the limits of my vision

    over the house heavenwards.
    Of course I knew those leaves were birds.

    Of course that old tree stood
    exactly as it had and would

    (but why should it seem fuller now?)
    and though a man's mind might endow

    even a tree with some excess
    of life to which a man seems witness,

    that life is not the life of men.
    And that is where the joy came in.

    - Christian Wiman
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  13. TopTop #2858
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Terza Rima


    In this great form, as Dante proved in Hell,
    There is no dreadful thing that can't be said
    In passing. Here, for instance, one could tell


    How our jeep skidded sideways toward the dead
    Enemy soldier with the staring eyes,
    Bumping a little as it struck his head,


    And then flew on, as if towards Paradise.


    - Richard Wilbur
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  15. TopTop #2859
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Song of a Second April


    April, this year, not otherwise
    Than April of a year ago,
    Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
    Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
    Hepaticas that pleased you so
    Are here again and butterflies.


    There rings a hammering all day,
    And shingles lie about the doors;
    In orchards near and far away
    The grey woodpecker taps and bores;
    The men are merry at their chores,
    And children earnest at their play.


    The larger streams run still and deep,
    Noisy and swift the small brooks run
    Among the mullein stalks the sheep
    Go up the hillside in the sun,
    Pensively -- only you are gone,
    You that alone I cared to keep.


    - Edna St. Vincent Millay
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  17. TopTop #2860
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Second Life


    My uncourageous life
    doesn’t want to go,
    doesn’t want to speak,
    doesn’t want to carry on,
    wants to make its way
    through stealth,
    wants to assume
    the strange and dubious honor
    of not being heard.
    My uncourageous life
    doesn’t want to move
    doesn’t even want to stir,
    wants to inhabit
    a difficult form
    of stillness,
    to pull everything
    into the silence
    where the throat strains
    but gives no voice.
    My uncourageous life
    wants to stop
    the whole world
    and keep it stopped
    not only for itself
    but for everyone
    and everything it knows,
    refusing to stir even a single inch
    until given an exact
    and final destination.
    This uncourageous
    second life wants to win
    some undeserved lottery
    so that it can finally
    bestow a just and final
    reward upon itself.
    No, this second life
    never wants to write
    or speak, or cook
    or set the table
    or welcome guests
    or sit up talking
    with a stranger
    who might accidentally
    set us traveling again.
    This second life
    doesn’t want
    to leave the door,
    doesn’t want
    to take any path
    that works its own
    sweet way
    through mountains,
    doesn’t want
    to follow
    the beckoning flow
    of a distant river
    nor meet
    the chance weather
    where a pass
    takes us
    from one discovered
    world
    to another.
    This second life
    just wants to lie down;
    close its eyes
    and tell God
    it has a headache.
    But my other life
    my first life,
    the life I admire
    and want to follow
    looks on and listens
    with some wonder,
    and even extends
    a reassuring hand
    for the one holding back,
    knowing there can be
    no real confrontation
    without the need
    to turn away
    and go back
    away from it all,
    to have things
    be different,
    and to close our eyes
    until they
    are different.
    No,
    this hidden life,
    this first courageous life,
    seems to speak
    from silence
    and in the language
    of a knowing,
    beautiful heartbreak,
    above all
    it seems to know
    well enough
    it will have
    to give back
    everything received
    in any form
    and even, sometimes,
    as it tells the story
    of the way ahead,
    laughs out loud
    in the knowledge.
    This first life seems
    sure and steadfast
    in knowing
    it will come across
    the help it needs
    at every crucial place
    and thus continually
    sharpens my sense
    of impending
    revelation.
    This first
    courageous life
    in fact, has already
    gone ahead
    has nowhere to go
    except
    out the door
    into the clear air
    of morning
    taking me with it,
    nothing to do
    except to breathe
    while it can,
    no way to travel
    but with that familiar
    pilgrim
    movement in the body,
    nothing to teach except
    to show me
    on the long road
    how we sometimes
    like to walk alone,
    open to the silent revelation,
    and then stop and gather
    and share everything
    as dark comes in,
    telling the story
    of a day’s accidental
    beauty.
    And perhaps
    most intriguingly
    and most poignantly
    and most fearfully of all
    and at the very end
    of the long road
    it has travelled,
    it wants to take me
    to a high place
    from which to see,
    with a view looking back
    on the way we took
    to get there,
    so it can have me
    understand myself
    as witness
    and thus
    bequeath me
    the way ahead,
    so it can teach me
    how to invent
    my own disappearance
    so it can lie down at the end
    and show me,
    even against my will,
    how to undo myself,
    how to surpass myself:
    how to find
    a way
    to die
    of generosity.
    - David Whyte
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  18. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  19. TopTop #2861
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Grief will come to you.
    Grip and cling all you want,
    It makes no difference.


    Catastrophe? It's just waiting to happen.
    Loss? You can be certain of it.


    Flow and swirl of the world.
    Carried along as if by a dark current.


    All you can do is keep swimming;
    All you can do is keep singing.


    - Gregory Orr
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  20. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  21. TopTop #2862
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Apocalypse


    We took what we could before the storm came.
    We were still speaking then, our words kinder –
    what to pack and how to leave this house behind,
    what about the computers and some clothes,
    a few toys for the kids, and
    who would drive?


    I remember the last look at the living room -
    its majestic fireplace, blonde wood mantle
    industrial bolts at each end, the alpine ceiling,
    eastward view of the mountain range.
    From the picture window, we saw the escalating chaos,
    plumes of smoke and hungry wild eyes.


    We moved from side to side
    frantic for pockets of air that would save us.
    But we were left without breath,
    no way to rebuild
    even when the ashes cooled.


    What did we know of the coming destruction?
    We took what we could.
    Why did we leave the children behind?


    - Jackie Huss Hallerberg
    Last edited by Barry; 04-18-2016 at 11:03 AM.
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  23. TopTop #2863
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Wren of the Heart

    In the fragile and crystalline beauty of the sweet summer morning
    The wren of the heart becomes visible.
    All that soft hopefulness that the world crushes
    Is unveiled briefly.

    What we have wanted and wished
    With childlike simplicity
    Flies out towards the simplicity
    Of the vulnerable early day.

    In that moment of silence
    The song of yearning
    Sings its single sweet note.

    - Jean Norelli
    Last edited by Barry; 04-19-2016 at 12:56 PM.
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  25. TopTop #2864
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Dear you: the lights here ask
    nothing, the white falling
    around my letters silent,
    unstoppable. I am writing this
    from the empty stomach of sleep


    where nothing but the cold
    wonders where you’re headed;
    nobody here peels heads sour
    and cheap as lemon, and only
    the car sings AM the whole


    night through. In the city,
    I have seen children half-
    bitten by wind. Even trains
    arrive without a soul
    to greet them; things do


    not need me here, this world
    dances on its own. Only bridges
    beg for me to make them
    famous, to learn what I had
    almost forgotten of flying,


    of soaring free, south,
    down. So long. Xs, Os.


    - Kevin Young
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  26. TopTop #2865
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Applying for a poetic license

    The line was surprisingly long
    The wait - nerve wracking
    List credentials:
    Classes, check
    Workshops, check
    MFA, check
    Conferences, check
    Long dark night of the soul, check

    Fill in: Quote the masters
    Fill in: quote the hacks
    And don’t do that. Ever.

    Multiple choice:
    How many coffee spoons would you need
    To measure your life?
    How big was your yawp
    For how many hours did you race naked screaming
    Down the foggy hills of San Francisco?

    Extra credit:
    Bad childhood?
    Lonely marriage?

    Did you get it all, the man behind me asked.
    All, I replied
    but at the front of the line
    The sign clicked over
    Like an old clock, new numbers
    The fee changed again
    & Today, too high
    For what remains
    In my account.

    - Catherine Bramkamp
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  27. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  28. TopTop #2866
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Passover


    Tell me: how is this night different

    From all other nights?
    How, tell me, is this Passover
    Different from other Passovers?
    Light the lamp, open the door wide
    So the pilgrim can come in,
    Gentile or Jew;
    Under the rags perhaps the prophet is concealed.
    Let him enter and sit down with us;
    Let him listen, drink, sing and celebrate Passover;
    Let him consume the bread of affliction,
    The Paschal Lamb, sweet mortar and bitter herbs.
    This is the night of differences
    In which you lean your elbow on the table,
    Since the forbidden becomes prescribed,
    Evil is translated into good.

    We will spend the night recounting
    Far-off events full of wonder,
    And because of all the wine
    The mountains will skip like rams.
    Tonight they exchange questions:
    The wise, the godless, the simple-minded and the child.
    And time reverses its course,
    Today flowing back into yesterday,
    Like a river enclosed at its mouth.
    Each of us has been a slave in Egypt,
    Soaked straw and clay with sweat,
    And crossed the sea dry-footed.
    You too, stranger.
    This year in fear and shame,
    Next year in virtue and in justice.

    - Primo Levi
    Last edited by Barry; 04-22-2016 at 01:32 PM.
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  30. TopTop #2867
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Passover Remembered

    Pack nothing.
    Bring only your determination to serve
    and your willingness to be free.

    Don't wait for the bread to ride.
    Take nourishment for the journey,
    but eat standing,
    be ready to move at a moment's notice.

    Do not hesitate to leave your old ways behind - fear, silence, submission.

    Only surrender to the need of the time;
    to love justice and walk humbly with your God.

    Do not take time to explain to the neighbors.
    Tell only a few trusted friends and family members.

    Then begin quickly, before you have time to sink back into the old ways.

    Set out in the dark.
    I will send fire to warm and encourage you.
    I will be with you in the fire
    and I will be with you in the cloud.

    You will learn to eat new food and find refuge in new places.
    I will give you dreams in the desert
    to guide you safely home to that place
    you have not yet seen.

    The stories you will tell one another around the fires in the dark
    will make you strong and wise.

    Outsiders will attack you and some who follow you,
    and at times you will get weary
    and turn on each other
    from fear and fatigue and blind forgetfulness.

    You have been preparing for this for hundreds of years.
    I am sending you into the wilderness to make a new way
    And to learn my ways more deeply.

    Some of you will be so changed
    by weathers and wanderings
    that even your closest friends
    will have to learn your features
    as though for the first time.
    Some of you will not change at all.

    Some will be abandoned by your dearest loves
    and misunderstood by those
    who have known you since birth
    and feel abandoned by you.

    Some will find new friendship
    in unlikely faces, and old friends
    as faithful, and true
    as the pillar of God's flame.

    Sing songs as you go,
    and hold close together.
    You may at times grow confused
    and lose your way.

    Continue to call each other
    By the names I’ve given you,
    To help you remember who you are.
    Touch each other and keep telling the stories.

    Make maps as you go,
    remembering the way back
    from before you were born.

    So you will be only the first
    of many waves of deliverance on these desert seas.
    It is the first of many beginnings
    your Paschaltide.
    Remain true to this mystery.

    Pass on the whole story.

    Do not go back.

    I am with you now
    and I am waiting for you.

    - Alla Renee Bozarth
    Last edited by Barry; 04-23-2016 at 03:27 PM.
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  32. TopTop #2868
    Roland Jacopetti's Avatar
    Roland Jacopetti
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    A perfect poem for these very difficult times.

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson: View Post
    Passover Remembered

    ...
    Last edited by Barry; 04-24-2016 at 11:17 AM.
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  33. TopTop #2869
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Our Mother


    Our Mother who here is,
    holy be all your names,
    here be your reign,
    your will is done,
    heaven takes care of itself.
    Give us our daily bread,
    and forgive us our trespasses
    a while longer until we learn
    not to trespass against one another.
    We make our own temptations
    and only we can free ourselves from evil.
    For yours is the reign,
    the power, and the glory
    for as long we exist to praise you.
    Amen.

    - Rafael Jesús González


    Madre Nuestra

    Madre nuestra que aquí eres,
    santos sean todos tus nombres,
    aquí es tu reino,
    se hace tu voluntad,
    el cielo se cuida de si mismo.
    Danos nuestro pan de cada día,
    y perdona nuestras ofensas
    un rato más hasta que aprendamos
    a no ofendernos unos a los otros.
    Hacemos nuestras propias tentaciones
    y sólo nosotros podremos librarnos del mal.
    Pues tuyo es el reino,
    y el poder y la gloria
    por cuanto existamos para alabarte.
    Amén.

    - Rafael Jesús González
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  34. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  35. TopTop #2870
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Dover Beach


    The sea is calm to-night.
    The tide is full,
    the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits;
    on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the Agaean,
    and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
    The Sea of Faith
    Was once, too, at the full,
    and round earth's shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world, which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.


    - Matthew Arnold
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  36. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  37. TopTop #2871
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Eagle Feather Fan
    The eagle is my power,
    And my fan is an eagle.
    It is strong and beautiful
    In my hand. And it is real.
    My fingers hold upon it
    As if the beaded handle
    Were the twist of bristlecone.
    The bones of my hand are fine
    And hollow; the fan bears them.
    My hand veers in the thin air
    Of the summits. All morning
    It scuds on the cold currents;
    All afternoon it circles
    To the singing, to the drums.


    - N. Scott Momaday
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  39. TopTop #2872
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Government
    Standing next to my old friend
    I sense that his soldiers have retreated.
    And mine?
    They're resting their guns on their shoulders,
    Talking quietly.
    "I'm hungry," one says.
    "Cheeseburger," says another.
    And they all decide to go and find some dinner.
    But the next day,
    negotiating the too narrow aisles at the Health and Harmony Food Store,
    when I say, "Excuse me" to the woman and her cart of organic chicken
    and green grapes,
    she pulls her cart not quite far back enough for me to pass,
    and a small mob in me begins to pick up the fruit to throw.
    So many kingdoms, and in each kingdom
    So many people:
    The disinherited son, the corrupt counselor, the courtesan, the fool.
    And so many gods arguing among themselves over toast,
    through the lunch salad,
    and on into the long hours of the mild spring afternoon.
    "I'm the god."
    "No, I'm the god."
    "No, I'm the god!"
    I can hardly hear myself over their muttering.
    How can I discipline my army?
    They're exhausted and want more money.
    How can I disarm when my enemies seem so intent?
    - Marie Howe
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  40. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  41. TopTop #2873
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    In Memory of W. B. Yeats
    I
    He disappeared in the dead of winter:

    The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
    And snow disfigured the public statues;
    The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
    What instruments we have agree
    The day of his death was a dark cold day.
    Far from his illness
    The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
    The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
    By mourning tongues
    The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
    But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
    An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
    The provinces of his body revolted,
    The squares of his mind were empty,
    Silence invaded the suburbs,
    The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
    Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
    And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
    To find his happiness in another kind of wood
    And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
    The words of a dead man
    Are modified in the guts of the living.
    But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
    When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the
    Bourse,
    And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly
    accustomed,
    And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his
    freedom,
    A few thousand will think of this day
    As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
    What instruments we have agree
    The day of his death was a dark cold day.

    II
    You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
    The parish of rich women, physical decay,
    Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
    Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
    For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
    In the valley of its making where executives
    Would never want to tamper, flows on south
    From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
    Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
    A way of happening, a mouth.




    III
    Earth, receive an honoured guest:
    William Yeats is laid to rest.
    Let the Irish vessel lie
    Emptied of its poetry.


    In the nightmare of the dark
    All the dogs of Europe bark,
    And the living nations wait,
    Each sequestered in its hate;


    Intellectual disgrace
    Stares from every human face,
    And the seas of pity lie
    Locked and frozen in each eye.


    Follow, poet, follow right
    To the bottom of the night,
    With your unconstraining voice
    Still persuade us to rejoice;


    With the farming of a verse
    Make a vineyard of the curse,
    Sing of human unsuccess
    In a rapture of distress;


    In the deserts of the heart
    Let the healing fountain start,
    In the prison of his days
    Teach the free man how to praise.


    - W. H. Auden
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  42. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  43. TopTop #2874
    Roland Jacopetti's Avatar
    Roland Jacopetti
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Yeats and Auden - - two of the truly greats.
    Last edited by Barry; 04-29-2016 at 12:33 PM.
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  44. TopTop #2875
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Hawks

    Surely, you too have longed for this --

    to pour yourself out
    on the rising circles of the air
    to ride, unthinking,
    on the flesh of emptiness.

    Can you claim, in your civilized life,
    that you have never leaned toward
    the headlong dive, the snap of bones,
    the chance to be so terrible,
    so free from evil, beyond choice?

    The air that they are riding
    is the same breath as your own.
    How could you not remember?
    That same swift stillness binds
    your cells in balance, rushes
    through the pulsing circles of your blood.

    Each breath proclaims it --
    the flash of feathers, the chance to rest
    on such a muscled quietness,
    to be in that fierce presence,
    wholly wind, wholly wild.

    - Lynn Ungar
    Last edited by Barry; 04-29-2016 at 12:17 PM.
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  45. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  46. TopTop #2876
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Buddha's Dogs


    I'm at a day-long meditation retreat, eight hours of watching

    my mind with my mind,
    and I already fell asleep twice and nearly fell out of my chair,
    and it's not even noon yet.

    In the morning session, I learned to count my thoughts, ten in
    one minute, and the longest
    was to leave and go to San Anselmo and shop, then find an
    outdoor cafe and order a glass

    of Sancerre, smoked trout with roasted potatoes and baby
    carrots and a bowl of gazpacho.
    But I stayed and learned to name my thoughts, so far they are:
    wanting, wanting, wanting,

    wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, judgment,
    sadness. Don't identify with your
    thoughts, the teacher says, you are not your personality, not your
    ego-identification,

    then he bangs the gong for lunch. Whoever, whatever I am is
    given instruction
    in the walking meditation and the eating meditation and walks
    outside with the other

    meditators, and we wobble across the lake like The Night of the
    Living Dead.
    I meditate slowly, falling over a few times because I kept my
    foot in the air too long,

    towards a bench, sit slowly down, and slowly eat my sandwich,
    noticing the bread,
    (sourdough), noticing the taste, (tuna, sourdough), noticing
    the smell, (sourdough, tuna),

    thanking the sourdough, the tuna, the ocean, the boat, the
    fisherman, the field, the grain,
    the farmer, the Saran Wrap that kept this food fresh for this
    body made of food and desire

    and the hope of getting through the rest of this day without
    dying of boredom.
    Sun then cloud then sun. I notice a maple leaf on my sandwich.
    It seems awfully large.

    Slowly brushing it away, I feel so sad I can hardly stand it, so I
    name my thoughts; they are:
    sadness about my mother, judgment about my father, wanting
    the child I never had.

    I notice I've been chasing the same thoughts like dogs around
    the same park most of my life,
    notice the leaf tumbling gold to the grass. The gong sounds,
    and back in the hall.

    I decide to try lying down meditation, and let myself sleep. The
    Buddha in my dream is me,
    surrounded by dogs wagging their tails, licking my hands.
    I wake up

    for the forgiveness meditation, the teacher saying, never put
    anyone out of your heart,
    and the heart opens and knows it won't last and will have to
    open again and again,

    chasing those dogs around and around in the sun then cloud
    then sun.


    - Susan Browne
    Last edited by Barry; 04-30-2016 at 01:40 PM.
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  47. Gratitude expressed by 6 members:

  48. TopTop #2877
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Surrealist May Day 1984

    The workers of the world have united only in going to work, like on any other day when the steelworkers are poured into vats of molten iron, the chemical workers are poisoned, and the auto workers are run over; but outdoors the air breathes the throb of spring's pulse.

    People who have not been out all winter have doffed their heavy clothing and carry banners in the street saying, 'Kindness, Please', silent hordes who have never spoken their hearts.

    Eagles drop good luck amulets all over the city from their talons. Sitting on a park bench, I try to follow out the lines of my palm into the future, but keep winding up in fog.

    There's another parade from the opposite side of town, a parade of heavy-breasted mothers chanting, 'We did our best! ' But following them are dwarves with crystal balls imploring them to search their hearts more deeply.

    Orangutans in tuxedos dine at the best restaurants in town, worship at chic liberal chapels, and drive cars on obsessed trails like vicious bloodhounds in order to make dentists' appointments on time.

    Hoboes are waking in the parks, beginning to walk. By the time they reach the classiest hotels, they too are magically dressed in tuxedos, and tap-dance in the lobbies. In comes a singing waiter with free horseduerves, crooning in a voice like Caruso, 'After this, you're on your own.'

    A conference of Surrealist painters is going to City Hall to confess that they never meant anything by their symbolism. They have voted to ask to be put in jail.

    Elvis Presley and James Dean types have run out of cigarettes in their t-shirt sleeves, gotten nervous, and gone to the Neurology floor of the Hospital to see if maybe an operation could make them like everybody else.

    From beyond the sea comes an invasion of the Armies of Compassion, about to disembark from their troop carriers on the river, bearing cannons of Love. Their waving banners read, 'Everybody is a Prophet' and 'Flowers Are Banners, Too'. They have wise smiles and deep eyes, and their onrush promises to radically alter the situation.


    - Max Reif
    Last edited by Barry; 05-01-2016 at 11:25 AM.
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  49. Gratitude expressed by:

  50. TopTop #2878
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Salt
    for my 5th great-grandmother, buried at sea in 1755, first name unknown

    I imagine cormorants, black against rinsed sky, fog
    a second skin, your hands on the ship's slick rail to steady
    yourself against the tide that day you fled. I imagine

    your leave-taking, rough unpainted door, hedgerow
    of hawthorn in bud, blue song-thrush eggs safe in their nest,
    left behind with your idle loom. Ulster's kings of commerce

    no longer trade in linen, raised the rent, pressed your life to the margins.
    Your family can only imagine freedom and plenty somewhere that is not home.
    A rough migration along the curve of the earth leaves the Irish Sea behind,

    your ears filled with wind, heaven past the horizon, just out of reach.
    I imagine ingots of light igniting the waves as smallpox ignites
    your cheeks, your fevered dreams of home, the hawthorn buds, open,

    their honeyed scent, a thrush's fluting song, while on this ship,
    three children, John, Jacob, Sarah, clutch their father's homespun shirt,
    bereft. I imagine a life, a death, your memory a whisper,

    nameless. No shroud save your linen apron. No Memento mori
    on lichened stone. The salt of fever and tears joins all the unnamed
    beneath the waves, your life just so much salt in the wound of the world.


    - Susan Lamont
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  51. Gratitude expressed by 6 members:

  52. TopTop #2879
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Gods of the Millennium


    The god of expectations made money like mad, made money like
    butter in a churn, poured it out like butter over popcorn,
    on the deserving and covetous alike. The god of expectations was
    blessed and applauded.

    And that was a good year.
    The god of approximations made the kingdom almost come.
    Granted, There were brush wars, small wars, minor contusions on
    the world map. There were bombings on high and sanctions
    against expendable children and a general mood of discontent
    and 'Get the bustards'.

    But still, by and large the sanctuaries were full and the
    preachers preached and the collections came in and the
    authorities sat straight in the front pews of the national
    cathedral. The president entered the bully pulpit to intone an
    infallible irrefutable doctrine of bloody tit for tat.

    And that was a good year.
    The god of contemplation made humans spin like spinning prayer
    wheels. Seated on a bed of gold, like a lotus in its native
    element, he intoned; you think therefore you are. Think, think.

    So they thought and thought and they were and were.
    And that was a good year.

    The god of Christians staggered up a hill, dragging a plank of
    wood heavy as a plowshare. Like a plowshare the plank made a
    furrow; from the furrow sprang armed warriors, redundant lives,
    talking skulls, disconsolate dragons, teeth on edge, followed
    by a multitude of martyrs, clothed in their blood. A girl
    named Cassandra brought up the rear, raving into the wind.

    That procession? It was of small moment and went all but
    unnoticed.

    Except for this; with regard to money, war, bully pulpits and
    prayer wheels - that was a very bad year.


    - Daniel Berrigan
    1922-2016
    Last edited by Barry; 05-03-2016 at 01:59 PM.
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  53. Gratitude expressed by 6 members:

  54. TopTop #2880
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Power of the Crone


    She enacts and teaches the truth —
    embracing the blessing of limitation
    she accepts Life’s new gift of freedom,
    she discovers her power to choose,
    to say a Positive No to the things
    she doesn’t want to do —

    She focuses on what matters most
    in her life, letting go
    of the excesses that drain her energies,
    she practices tender loving detachment
    as she discerns or confirms

    Where Home Is
    Where She Belongs
    What Her Heart’s Desire Is
    And What She Cherishes Most

    and embraces them
    and herself
    to the Full.

    - Alla Renee Bozarth
    Last edited by Barry; 05-04-2016 at 02:48 PM.
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