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Poetry Corner

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  • Re: Poetry Corner

    "Truro Bear" by Mary Oliver (b. September 10, 1935)

    The Truro Bear

    There’s a bear in the Truro woods.
    People have seen it - three or four,
    or two, or one. I think
    of the thickness of the serious woods
    around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds;
    I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles,
    the cranberry bogs. And the sky
    with its new moon, its familiar star-trails,
    burns down like a brand-new heaver,
    while everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides
    shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely
    a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly
    through the woods for years, learning to stay away
    from roads and houses. Common sense mutters:
    it can’t be true, it must be somebody’s
    runaway dog. But the seed
    has been planted, and when has happiness ever
    required much evidence to begin
    its leaf-green breathing?

    Warning by Jenny Joseph (born 7 May 1932)
    [this poem was the inspiration for the Red Hat Society]

    Warning

    When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
    With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
    And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
    And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

    I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
    And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
    And run my stick along the public railings
    And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

    I shall go out in the slippers in the rain
    And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
    And learn to spit.

    You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
    And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
    Or only bread and pickle for a week
    And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

    But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
    And pay our rent and not swear in the street
    And set a good example for the children.
    We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

    But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
    So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
    When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
    Between childhood, boyhood,
    adolescence
    & manhood (maturity) there
    should be sharp lines drawn w/
    Tests, deaths, feats, rites
    stories, songs & judgements

    - Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 22

    Comment


    • Re: Poetry Corner

      "Not Mine" by Czeslaw Milosz

      Not Mine

      All my life to pretend this world of theirs is mine
      And to know such pretending is disgraceful.
      But what can I do? Suppose I suddenly screamed
      And started to prophesy. No one would hear me.
      Their screens and microphones are not for that.
      Others like me wander the streets
      And talk to themselves. Sleep on benches in parks,
      Or on pavements in alleys. For there aren't enough prisons
      To lock up all the poor. I smile and keep quiet.
      They won't get me now.
      To feast with the chosen—that I do well.
      Between childhood, boyhood,
      adolescence
      & manhood (maturity) there
      should be sharp lines drawn w/
      Tests, deaths, feats, rites
      stories, songs & judgements

      - Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 22

      Comment


      • Re: Poetry Corner

        Coldness

        You wake up on the weekend
        And Dont want to get out of bed
        You look outside the window and see
        It is all black. You feel depressed inside
        Because you cant see the sun, you pray to God
        to have some peace for the day and then it's done
        Always trut God no matter what the situation is
        He will save you because he loves you and the rest is History.

        by: PepsiAddict.
        Positive vibes, positive taught

        Comment


        • Re: Poetry Corner

          Hadda Been Playing On the Jukebox (aka J.F.K.).



          Enjoy the videos and music you love, upload original content, and share it all with friends, family, and the world on YouTube.


          Written by Allen Ginsberg in 1975, performed by Rage Against the Machine.

          It had to be flashin' like the daily double
          It had to be playin' on TV
          It had to be loud mouthed on the comedy hour
          It had to be announced over loud speakers

          The CIA and the Mafia are in cahoots

          It had to be said in old ladies' language
          It had to be said in American headlines
          Kennedy stretched and smiled and got double crossed by lowlife goons and agents
          Rich bankers with criminal connections
          Dope pushers in CIA working with dope pushers from Cuba working with a
          big time syndicate from Tampa, Florida
          And it had to be said with a big mouth

          It had to be moaned over factory foghorns
          It had to be chattered on car radio news broadcasts
          It had to be screamed in the kitchen
          It had to be yelled in the basement where uncles were fighting

          It had to be howled on the streets by newsboys to bus conductors
          It had to be foghorned into New York harbor
          It had to echo onto hard hats
          It had to turn up the volume in university ballrooms

          It had to be written in library books, footnoted
          It had to be in the headlines of the Times and Le Monde
          It had to be barked on TV
          It had to be heard in alleys through ballroom doors

          It had to be played on wire services
          It had to be bells ringing
          Comedians stopped dead in the middle of a joke in Las Vegas

          It had to be FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover and Frank Costello syndicate
          mouthpiece meeting in Central Park, New York weekends,
          reported Time magazine

          It had to be the Mafia and the CIA together starting war on Cuba,
          Bay of Pigs and poison assassination headlines

          It had to be dope cops in the Mafia
          Who sold all their heroin in America

          It had to be the FBI and organized crime working together
          in cahoots against the commies

          It had to be ringing on multinational cash registers
          A world-wide laundry for organized criminal money

          It had to be the CIA and the Mafia and the FBI together
          They were bigger than Nixon
          And they were bigger than war

          It had to be a large room full of murder
          It had to be a mounted ass- a solid mass of rage
          A red hot pen
          A scream in the back of the throat

          It had to be a kid that can breathe
          It had to be in Rockefellers' mouth
          It had to be central intelligence, the family, allofthis, the agency Mafia
          It had to be organized crime

          One big set of gangs working together in cahoots

          Hitmen
          Murderers everywhere

          The secret
          The drunk
          The brutal
          The dirty rich

          On top of a slag heap of prisons
          Industrial cancer
          Plutonium smog
          Garbage cities

          Grandmas' bed soft from fathers' resentment

          It had to be the rulers
          They wanted law and order
          And they got rich on wanting protection for the status quo

          They wanted junkies
          They wanted Attica
          They wanted Kent State
          They wanted war in Indochina

          It had to be the CIA and the Mafia and the FBI

          Multinational capitalists
          Strong armed squads
          Private detective agencies for the rich
          And their armies and navies and their air force bombing planes

          It had to be capitalism
          The vortex of this rage
          This competition
          Man to man

          The horses head in a capitalists' bed
          The Cuban turf
          It rumbles in hitmen
          And gang wars across oceans

          Bombing Cambodia settled the score when Soviet pilots
          manned Egyptian fighter planes

          Chiles' red democracy
          Bumped off with White House pots and pans

          A warning to Mediterranean governments

          The secret police have been embraced for decades

          The NKPD and CIA keep each other's secrets
          The OGBU and DIA never hit their own
          The KGB and the FBI are one mind

          Brute force and full of money
          Brute force, world-wide, and full of money
          Brute force, world-wide, and full of money
          Brute force, world-wide, and full of money
          Brute force, world-wide, and full of money

          It had to be rich and it had to be powerful
          They had to murder in Indonesia 500000
          They had to murder in Indochina 2000000
          They had to murder in Czechoslovakia
          They had to murder in Chile
          They had to murder in Russia

          And they had to murder in America
          Between childhood, boyhood,
          adolescence
          & manhood (maturity) there
          should be sharp lines drawn w/
          Tests, deaths, feats, rites
          stories, songs & judgements

          - Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 22

          Comment


          • Re: Poetry Corner

            60 yard pass

            60 yard pass
            most people don't do very well and I get discouraged with
            their existence, it's such a waste: all those
            bodies, all those lives
            malfunctioning: lousy quarterbacks, bad waitresses, in-
            competent carwash boys and presidents, cowardly
            goal keepers
            inept
            garage mechanics
            bumbling tax accountants and
            so forth
            yet

            now and then

            I see a single performer doing something with a
            natural excellence

            it

            can be
            a waitress in some cheap cafe or a 3rd string
            quarterback
            coming off the bench with 24 seconds on the clock
            and completing that winning
            60 yard pass.

            which lets me believe that
            the possibility of the miracle is here with us
            almost every day

            and I'm glad that now and then
            some 3rd string quarterback
            shows me the truth of that belief
            whether it be in science, art, philosophy,
            medicine, politics and / or etc.

            else I'd shoot all the lights out of
            this xxxxing city
            right now.

            Bukowski, Charles. War All The Time (Poems 1981-1984), p.64.
            Between childhood, boyhood,
            adolescence
            & manhood (maturity) there
            should be sharp lines drawn w/
            Tests, deaths, feats, rites
            stories, songs & judgements

            - Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 22

            Comment


            • Re: Poetry Corner

              Life

              Be happy with what you have
              Because money & fancy cars wont last
              When you die they will go away
              But your soul will stay up or go astray
              Don't be happy with simple things in life
              Be focused on the soul of afterlife
              So when you thing you cant take life anymore
              Dont tell God I cant take it any more
              Step back focus on who gave you life
              Shine your light to everyone any say goodnight
              Positive vibes, positive taught

              Comment


              • Re: Poetry Corner

                Book of Bukowski's unreleased essays and stories released 14 years after his death in 1994.
                This article was originally on a blog post platform and may be missing photos, graphics or links.
                Between childhood, boyhood,
                adolescence
                & manhood (maturity) there
                should be sharp lines drawn w/
                Tests, deaths, feats, rites
                stories, songs & judgements

                - Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 22

                Comment


                • Re: Poetry Corner

                  Intersting artice about Czeslaw Milosz planning his death.
                  During A late night in Krakow, nonagenarian Nobel laureate Czeslaw Milosz was tipping back the vodka with Jerzy Illg, editor in chief at his Polish publishing house, Znak.


                  RETROSPECTIVE
                  Poet Czeslaw Milosz's last days
                  People who knew him describe how the poet made his preparations for death in Krakow
                  By Cynthia Haven, Special to The Times
                  October 5, 2008
                  KRAKóW, POLAND -- DURING A late night in Kraków, nonagenarian Nobel laureate Czeslaw Milosz was tipping back the vodka with Jerzy Illg, editor in chief at his Polish publishing house, Znak. Late in the evening, a touchy topic dropped on the table: Where would Milosz like to be buried?

                  Should his final resting place be with his mother, in a city near Gda{nacutel}sk? Illg dismissed the notion outright. "Who will light a candle for you there?" he asked.

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                  Should he be buried instead in his beloved homeland, Lithuania -- perhaps in Vilnius, the city of his youth?

                  Illg proposed the famous cemetery in the Salwator district of Kraków. Many poets and critics were buried on the hilltop graveyard. It would provide "good company and a good view."

                  When, sometime later, Illg told Bronislaw Maj about this conversation, the younger poet chided him. Milosz had been fishing for the obvious answer, the mollifying answer: Wawel, the ancient castle/cathedral complex at the very heart of Kraków. Poland's leading poets are honored there -- Norwid, Slowacki and, of course, the nation's ur-poet, Adam Mickiewicz, another Polish-speaking Lithuanian. "Of course it was a joke," Illg recalls, "but it has a deep truth."

                  This "deep truth" embraces the ambiguities left after the 2004 death of Milosz, who had one of the most contentious burials in recent memory. Demonstrations were preempted only by a personal message from Pope John Paul II. What a contrast with the poet's quiet decades in Berkeley as a professor. He had said, after receiving the 1980 Nobel Prize for literature, "I want to return to my quiet ways." Then why, 20 years later, did he move to Kraków, where he was treated like a rock star? The answer is many-stranded: Kraków was the culmination of a journey that was spiritual as well as geographical.

                  Kraków, as Illg's anecdote reminds us, was not Milosz's city. But according to Agnieszka Kosi{nacutel}ska, the poet's assistant for eight years, "The most important thing is that Kraków resembles Vilnius very much." Milosz was drawn to architecture, atmosphere and old friends. "These are the people with whom he had a thousand discussions, a thousand literary evenings," says Kosi{nacutel}ska.

                  Moreover, in 1993, he was given honorary citizenship in Kraków, with an apartment on Boguslawskiego, one block from Planty, the park that circles the city where the medieval walls used to stand.

                  On the surface, the dingy gray brick building where Milosz spent his final years doesn't seem like a great swap. His cottage on Grizzly Peak in Berkeley had abundant flowers, privacy, a stunning view and California weather.

                  But this was the home of his mother tongue. He wrote tirelessly, adhering to a rigorous schedule into his 90s. "Milosz is the only poet, as far as I know, who wrote all the time, continuously, for 80 years," says Joanna Zach, assistant professor at Jagiellonian University and author of "Milosz's Search for Self." Zach helped Milosz and his American wife, Carol, resettle. Carol remodeled the apartment so it had the homey feel of Grizzly Peak -- complete with an old TV, Milosz's Powerbook and the magnifying glass that accommodated his deteriorating eyesight.

                  Milosz returned to America only once. In the summer of 2002, he flew to San Francisco, where Carol was being treated for bone marrow cancer. "The real catastrophe was her sudden death," explains Aleksander Fiut, interlocutor for "Conversations With Czeslaw Milosz." "He was extremely depressed after her death. Before, he was able to laugh. After, sometimes he smiled."

                  When Znak published Milosz's final collection, "Druga Przestrze{nacutel}" ("Second Space") in 2002, the poet inscribed Illg's copy: "To the ferryman who takes Carol to the other shore."

                  Charon is a characteristically pagan nuance. Milosz found the Catholic Church's nationalistic trends repugnant, although he regularly attended St. Idzi's, an 11th century church at the foot of Wawel. According to Kosi{nacutel}ska, the last few years demonstrated his ars moriendi.

                  "He prepared himself as much as he could," she says. "Czeslaw really wanted to die. He prepared for the moment. He finished his eternal business."

                  Milosz's journey led him to a young Dominican priest named Father Zbigniew Krysiewicz, who describes their relationship this way: "We have met on a quite inexplicable ground which was his own way back to God. Somehow by accident, it was me who had accompanied him till the very end. . . . It is hard to say why."

                  One reason is self-evident: He was the priest at St. Idzi's, where English Masses were offered, and Carol preferred Mass in a language she could understand.

                  "This longing for God -- he had that quite strongly," says Krysiewicz. He was invited to the apartment on Boguslawskiego, where the poet grilled him provocatively, for Milosz was as famous for his doubts as for his certainties. Their conversations became a fixture: two or three hours once a week, sometimes once a month. What did they discuss? "Let's say you had an experience with a great fire once -- you have a vague memory of it," Krysiewicz recalls. "You have spent a lot of years trying to describe it, and read a lot of books describing it. What you remember is an echo of it. You search and look for someone who can testify about this fire -- that it is real -- who can testify beyond words, because we know that words are too weak."

                  Krysiewicz speaks reluctantly, haltingly; he was Milosz's confessor, after all, and performed last rites. "My position was to be in the shade, and remain in the shade," he says. "He went reconciled, certainly. But there are some things I can't tell you." He pauses. "He was a mystic, his poetry is mystical and metaphysical."

                  In 2006, Znak published a posthumous volume of Milosz's work, "Wiersze Ostatnie" ("Last Poems"). But other poems were in the making, even on his deathbed.

                  During his final bedridden months, Zach read Milosz's poems back to him; he was depressed and wanted inspiration -- the inspiration to write more poems. Andrzej Franaszek, cultural editor of the Polish weekly Tygodnik Powszechny, also read to him. Both recall the intensity of his intellectual life, even then.

                  Franaszek says that Milosz often reviewed his life, his conscience and his choices -- about his defection from Communist Poland in 1951, or his relationships with his first wife, Janina, and his two sons. "Maybe," he reflected, "I wasn't able to give them closeness, love."

                  Zach recalls one of her last meetings with Milosz in the hospital, the morning after a blood transfusion. "He felt he had experienced a revelation," she says. "He said, 'I know what I'm going to write about when I go home from the hospital.' And that day he started to dictate to me a poem. He never finished that poem. It was a poem about his experience in the hospital -- of compassion and how he experienced his body, and his contact with other people who were lying next to him -- touching to the very core of humanity."

                  Ultimately, Milosz was buried in neither Salwator or Wawel, but at Na Skalce (the church "on the rock"), final resting place of many distinguished Poles. Illg prophesies a posthumous relocation; it would not be unprecedented, he says.

                  Milosz's death has left a hole in Polish letters. But it's left, perhaps, a larger hole in the lives of those he knew.

                  "It sounds strange," says Franaszek, "but it was hard to imagine he was able to die. It seemed just natural that he is. He lives and lives and lives."

                  Illg echoed the same sentiments in a poem last year, "A Letter to Czeslaw Milosz":

                  For even after your phone remained silent

                  I would think, driving Dietla, that if I took a right turn

                  Into Sebastiana, then Boguslawskiego,

                  And rang the doorbell, I'd hear the tapping of your stick

                  And a question booming at the opening of the door:

                  So, Jerzy, what shall we drink tonight?

                  Cynthia Haven's research in Poland was sponsored by a Milena Jesenská Journalism Fellowship from Vienna's Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Her "Invisible Rope: Portraits of Czeslaw Milosz" is forthcoming.
                  Between childhood, boyhood,
                  adolescence
                  & manhood (maturity) there
                  should be sharp lines drawn w/
                  Tests, deaths, feats, rites
                  stories, songs & judgements

                  - Morrison, Jim. Wilderness, vol. 1, p. 22

                  Comment


                  • Re: Poetry Corner

                    My latest chef d’oeuvre:

                    Library of Congress
                    I digress
                    I confess
                    That she is a mess
                    But to stress
                    That I am not in duress
                    Intellectual caress
                    Mind I say that it's a knee press?

                    Comment


                    • Re: Poetry Corner

                      Insomniacs

                      We try to sleep
                      But we cant
                      We try to close our eyes
                      But we open them up instead
                      So if everything else fails my little insomniacs
                      Read a book, pass out & go to bed
                      Positive vibes, positive taught

                      Comment

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