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Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

read a good poem: the antilamentation

"regret nothing."

***

nyc, jan 2010.
photo © anita aguilar

***

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don't bother remembering any of it. Let's stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

read a good poem: april rain song

park ave. april 19, 2010.

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—

And I love the rain.

--langston hughes via the poetry foundation

read a good poem: on the origin of things

take off, 1956.
oil and enamel on canvas
helen frankenthaler
take off (detail) ...
taken at the metropolitan museum of art, dec 3, 2009
photo © anita aguilar

***


On The Origins Of Things

Everyone knows that the moon started out
as a renegade fragment of the sun, a solar
flare that fled that hellish furnace
and congealed into a flat frozen pond suspended
between the planets. But did you know
that anger began as music, played
too often and too loudly by drunken performers
at weddings and garden parties? Or that turtles
evolved from knuckles, ice from tears, and darkness
from misunderstanding? As for the dominant
thesis regarding the origin of love, I
abstain from comment, nor will I allow
myself to address the idea that dance
began as a kiss, that happiness was
an accidental import from Spain, that the ancient
game of jump-the-fire gave rise
to politics. But I will confess
that I began as an astronomer—a liking
for bright flashes, vast distances, unreachable things,
a hand stretched always toward the furthest limit—
and that my longing for you has not taken me
very far from that original desire
to inscribe a comet's orbit around the walls
of our city, to gently stroke the surface of the stars.

--by Troy Jollimore via poets.org, february 8, 2010

read a good poem: silence

at joseph leonard...jan 30, 2010
photo © anita aguilar



There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.

--billy collins, via the poetry foundation

read a good poem: chaplinesque

fdr drive. nov 21, 2010. © anita aguilar
***


the resonant, true (and not outrageous) thing i read yesterday about the wikileaks:

The quality of the conversation is determined by the level of trust.
(via david brooks)


i spent part of last evening, then, reading poems on the idea of trust.

but i eventually found my way here (not sure what it may mean to you, but hope you like it)

****

Chaplinesque

We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.

For we can still love the world, who find
A famished kitten on the step, and know
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow coverts.

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk
Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what innocence
And what surprise!

And yet these fine collapses are not lies
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on.

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.


--Hart Crane (via the poetry foundation)

read a good poem: waving goodbye

the lovely natalia vodianova in "brief encounter."
photographed by annie leibovitz for vogue, feb 2010 issue.

i have this thing about goodbyes-- not just the breakup goodbye or the big bon voyage.
sometimes the common ones get to me.

i'll go a few extra blocks out of my way to walk a friend to her subway stop or the bus station.

there have been times, after having friends over after a party or a visit, when i'm not quite ready to close the door. literally. i'll tiptoe out into the hallway, peek my head around the corner for a quick chat, until the elevator picks them up.

i've been known to stand a bit too long on the platform.

maybe hang on a little tighter and linger a little longer than i should.

i suppose i'm greedy for extra moments?

***

i read this poem for the first time many months ago and remembered it today.
"this small flag" leaves me on the brink every time, "when the space gets too large for words."

i hope you like it.

***

Waving Goodbye


Why, when we say goodbye
at the end of an evening, do we deny
we are saying it at all, as in We'll
be seeing you, or I'll call, or Stop in,
somebody's always at home? Meanwhile, our friends,
telling us the same things, go on disappearing
beyond the porch light into the space
which except for a moment here or there
is always between us, no matter what we do.
Waving goodbye, of course, is what happens
when the space gets too large
for words – a gesture so innocent
and lonely, it could make a person weep
for days. Think of the hundreds of unknown
voyagers in the old, fluttering newsreel
patting and stroking the growing distance
between their nameless ship and the port
they are leaving, as if to promise I'll always
remember, and just as urgently, Always
remember me. It is loneliness, too,
that makes the neighbor down the road lift
two fingers up from his steering wheel as he passes
day after day on his way to work in the hello
that turns into goodbye? What can our own raised
fingers do for him, locked in his masculine
purposes and speeding away inside the glass?
How can our waving wipe away the reflex
so deep in the woman next door to smile
and wave on her way into her house with the mail,
we'll never know if she is happy
or sad or lost? It can't. Yet in that moment
before she and all the others and we ourselves
turn back to our disparate lives, how
extraordinary it is that we make this small flag
with our hands to show the closeness we wish for
in spite of what pulls us apart again
and again: the porch light snapping off,
the car picking its way down the road through the dark.

-by Wesley McNair via
The Writer's Almanac, April 29, 2010.

read a good poem: yours & mine

fifth avenue, nyc. photo © anita aguilar


Through your lens the sequoia swallowed me
like a dryad. The camera flashed & forgot.
I, on the other hand, must practice my absent-
mindedness, memory being awkward as a touch
that goes unloved. Lately your eyes have shut
down to a shade more durable than skin’s. I know you
love distance, how it smooths. You choose an aerial view,
the city angled to abstraction, while I go for the close
exposures: poorly-mounted countenances along Broadway,
the pigweed cracking each hardscrabble backlot.
It’s a matter of perspective: yours is to love me
from a block away & mine is to praise the grain-
iness that weaves expressively: your face.

--alice fulton via poetry foundation.org

read a good poem: my sad self (excerpt)

trying to tilt-shift my way out of a photography rut...
may 8, 2010. photo by anita aguilar

To Frank O’Hara

Sometimes when my eyes are red
I go up on top of the RCA Building
and gaze at my world, Manhattan—
my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,
lofts, beds, coldwater flats
—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,
its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men
walking the size of specks of wool—
Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,
sun go down over New Jersey where I was born
& Paterson where I played with ants—
my later loves on 15th Street,
my greater loves of Lower East Side,
my once fabulous amours in the Bronx
faraway—
paths crossing in these hidden streets,
my history summed up, my absences
and ecstasies in Harlem—
—sun shining down on all I own
in one eyeblink to the horizon
in my last eternity—
matter is water.


--read the rest of allen ginsberg's poem at the poetryfoundation.org

read a good poem: new york

new york, madame,
is a monument to a city

it is
TA-DA
a gigantic pike
whose scales
bristled up stunned

and what used to be just smoke
found a fire that gave it birth

champagne foam
melted into metal
glass rivers
flowing upwards
and things you won't tell to a priest
you reveal to a cabdriver

even time is sold out
when to the public's "wow" and "shhh"
out of a black top hat
a tailed magician
is pulling new york out
by the ears of skyscrapers
- vakzhyna mort (translated by franz wright and elizabeth oehlkers wright)

***
***





photos © anita aguilar

read a good poem: bel canto

happy earth day.
from plaza cataluna, BA
. march 2010.



i've been guided toward new poets and poems lately, a few i like, but no single work leaped to mind to share for this occasion: earth day. i decided to consult the poetry foundation site, knowing i could be overwhelmed by the possibilities (have you seen it? you can search by poet, school, first line, category, keyword. i knew i'd need to be pretty specific or i'd be here all day. but what to look for: something about a tree? "earth"? something frost-y?).

i decided to search a broader theme and found this one almost immediately. it felt right...

it's a long one. and i'll be reading it slowly.

not sure what it may mean for you, but i hope you like it...

***

Bel Canto

The sun is high, the seaside air is sharp,
And salty light reveals the Mayan School.
The Irish hope their names are on the harp,
We see the sheep's advertisement for wool,
Boulders are here, to throw against a tarp,
From which comes bursting forth a puzzled mule.
Perceval seizes it and mounts it, then
The blood-dimmed tide recedes and then comes in again.

Fateful connections that we make to things
Whose functioning's oblivious to our lives!
How sidewise news of light from darkness springs,
How blue bees buzz from big blooms back to hives
And make the honey while the queen bee sings
Leadbelly in arrangements by Burl Ives—
How long ago I saw the misted pine trees
And hoped, no matter how, to get them into poetry!

Stendhal, at fifty, gazing as it happened
On Rome from the Janiculum, decided
That one way he could give his life a stipend
Was to suspend his being Amour's fighter
And get to know himself. Here he had ripened
Accomplished, loved, and lived, was a great writer
But never had explored in true detail
His childhood and his growing up. So he set sail

Composing La Vie de Henry Brulard
But in five hundred pages scarcely got
Beyond his seventeenth year, for it is hard
To take into account what happens here
And fit it all onto an index card.
Even one moment of it is too hot,
Complex and cannibalistically connected
To every other, which is what might be expected.

Sterne's hero has a greater problem, never
Getting much past his birth. I've had a third one.
My autobiography, if I should ever
Start out to write it, quickly seems a burden
An I-will-do-that-the-next-time endeavor.
Whatever life I do write's an absurd one
As if some crazy person with a knife
Cut up and made a jigsaw puzzle of a life.

In any case a life that's hardly possible
In the conditions that we really live in,
Where easy flying leaps to inaccessible
Mountainy places where love is a given
And misery, if there, infinitesimal,
Are quite the norm. Here none by pain is driven
That is not curable by the romanza
That's kept in readiness to finish any stanza.

Whatever, then, I see at this late stage of
My life I may or may not have stayed ignorant
Of that great book I've strained to write one page of
Yet always hoping my page was significant.
Be it or not, for me and for the ages
I leave it as it is. Yet as a figurant
Who has not stopped, I'm writing in addition
More lines to clarify my present disposition.

One person in a million finds out something
Perhaps each fifty years and that is knowledge.
Newton, Copernicus, Einstein are cunning.
The rest of us just rise and go to college
With no more hope to come home with the bunting
Than a stray dachshund going through the village.
However, what a treat our small successes
Of present and of past, at various addresses!

To be in all those places where I tarried
Too little or too late or bright and early
To love again the first woman I married
To marvel at such things as melancholy,
Sophistication, drums, a baby carriage,
A John Cage concert heard at Alice Tully—
How my desire when young to be a poet
Made me attentive and oblivious every moment!

Do you remember Oceanview the Fair?
The heights above the river? The canoes?
The place we beached them and the grass was bare?
Those days the sandbars gave our knees a truce?
The crooked line of pantry shelves, with pear
And cherry jam? And Pancho, with his noose?
Do you remember Full and Half and Empty?
Do you remember sorrow standing in the entry?

Do you remember thought, and talking plainly?
Michel and I went walking after Chartres
Cathedral had engaged our spirits mainly
By giving us an insight into Barthes.
Michel said he was capable of feigning
Renewed intentions of the soul's deep part,
Like this cathedral's artificial forces
That press a kind of artless thought into our faces.

And yet— The moor is dark beneath the moon.
The porcupine turns over on its belly
And new conceptions rap at the cocoon.
Civilization, dealing with us fairly,
For once, releases its Erectheion
Of understanding, which consoles us, nearly.
Later we study certain characteristics
That may give us a better chance with the statistics.

How much I'd like to live the whole thing over,
But making some corrections as I go!
To be a better husband and a father,
Be with my babies on a sled in snow.
By twenty I'd have understood my mother
And by compassion found a way to know
What separates the what-I-started-out-as
From what-I-sometimes-wished-I-was-when-in-the-mountains.

To be once more the one who what was worthy
Of courtship courted—it was quite as stressful
As trying to, er, as they say, give birth to
A poem and as often unsuccessful,
But it was nice to be sublime and flirty
With radiant girls, and, in some strange way, restful.
I could be everything I wasn't usually—
And then to get somebody else to feel it mutually!

In poems the same problem or a similar.
Desire of course not only to do old things
But things unheard of yet by nuns or visitors
And of the melancholy finch be co-finch
In singing songs with such a broad parameter
That seamstresses would stare, forget to sew things,
Astronauts quit the sky, athletes the stadium
To hear them, and the rest of what they hear be tedium.

Such wild desires, I think it's recognizable
Are part and parcel of the Human Image
And in a way, I'd say, no less predictable
Than Popeye's feelings for a can of spinach.
Yet if we're set on course by the Invisible,
All pre-determined, what about the language
That teases me each morning with its leanings
Toward the Unprogrammed Altitudes beyond its meanings?

Are you, O particles, O atoms, nominatives
Like Percevals and Stendhals, set in motion
By some Ordaining Will that is definitive?
Is this invading chill and high emotion,
This tendency to know one is regenerative,
Is this, all, tidal take-home like the ocean?
Be what you may, my thanks for your society
Through the long life I've had, your jokes and your variety,

The warmth you've shown in giving me a temperature
That I can live with, and the strength you've shared with me
In arms and legs—and for your part in literature,
What can I say? It is as if life stared at me
And kissed my lips and left it as a signature.
Thank you for that, and thank you for preparing me
For love itself, and friendship, its co-agent.
Thank you for being this, and for its inspiration.

-Kenneth Koch, via the poetry foundation

read a good poem: winter trees

bryant park, nyc. feb 19, 2010.
photo © anita aguilar


ok--the last of the winter trees for this year. i promise.

***

Winter Trees


All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
-William Carlos Williams via the poetry foundation

read a good poem: the snow man


from the yard...






from the car...


The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
--Wallace Stevens, via the poetry foundation

photos © anita aguilar

read a good poem (and wait 'til next year)

jed jacobsohn/getty images, via yahoo!sports.

my buzz left the building after that onside kick.

***

Losing the Game

On the face of this midfielder,
a saint’s passion.

Sweat brilliantines his hair
flat as a seal pup’s fur.

Thorns rake one knee, and fatigue
is a train whistle that never quits.

In his mind, the falcon of defeat
slips off its own hood

and sails into the vapory cold December,
hangs like a crucifixion over the field,

then slants down the wide thermal
of his shame. Today 2 + 2 is algebra,

and nothing will transmute
his base metal to gold leaf.

When crowd and players have gone,
he watches the sun set

under a tumultuous bruise of sky,
below the empty grin of the bleachers,

deep into the valley,
a ghastly, yellow bile draining out.

--Diane Ackerman via the poetry foundation

read a good poem: the diner

11am at joseph leonard. nyc.

The Diner, by Richard Jones

The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffeepot
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Waley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
“It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,”
she says, “that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love.”
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat,
lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
by Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.

(via the poetry foundation)

photo © anita aguilar

hot/curry

curry. (beef.)
bayard street, nyc.
photo © anita aguilar

Take this curry, this fine-tuned

balance of humors, coconut liquor thinned
by broth, sour pulp of tamarind

cut through by salt, set off by fragrant
galangal, ginger, basil, cilantro, mint,

the warp and woof of texture, aubergines
that barely hold their shape, snap beans

heaped on jasmine, basmati rice
—it’s a lie, all of it—pretext—artifice

—ornament—sugar-coating—for . . .

***

read the full poem by craig arnold on slate...

read a good poem: we real cool

gin and sin martini. photo © anita aguilar for piym/phoebeworks.


this week's episode of party in your mouth celebrates prohibition remembrance day, with a recipe for a gin and sin martini. i'm not a gin girl, but i like this drink.

you can view the episode and print the recipe (party in your apt!) here.

i thought it would be easy to find a nifty, boozy verse--maybe a little dorothy parker--to suit the theme. but of all the "gin" poems i read tonight, this is the only one i was truly interested in. it has nothing to do with what we, at piym, were celebrating. but i hope you like it.

***

We Real Cool

The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.


--by gwendolyn brooks
via the poetry foundation.org

***

if you'd like to hear gwendolyn brooks herself recite the poem (and offer a little backstory), here's an audio clip, recorded at the guggenheim museum in 1983, courtesy of the academy of american poets.

read a good poem: a hymn to the night

Edvard Munch
On the Waves of Love (W. 81)


i wish that my trip to buenos aires were one and not seventy days away.

but who wants really to bring a troubled mind on a trip.

pack all this up now?
loneliness follows
better to stay home

wrestle it all out.


travel light

see clear

i can hear the advice

have your nails painted

buy a nice dress

drink a bottle of wine (my favorite)
those sweet nothings, no thanks
(been here and there before)

i know how to stay busy and distracted and amused


what i really want

to know how to live fully in this quiet

so a single heartbeat

(so loud and fast tonight)

and these soft, girly breaths
do not unsettle.

***


i couldn't sleep last night. my usual trick (
tv) has not worked well recently. after a couple of hours of excruciating nothing, i finally picked up a book that had been given to me as i gift years ago, which i'd forgotten about--my books have so many little hiding places...
prayers at 3am.
the timing was right-on.

the first 3 poems that i read were the ones marked with tattered post-it notes.

here's a line from each:
i fell asleep thinking of him

let my head stop thinking. let me sleep in your arms.

we are such stuff that dreams are made of


whose sad heart picked these? the one who gave this to me?

or was it me? when and why?


i read others, over again and sometimes aloud.
all of a sudden i was weeping
, reciting though tears.
then just as quickly, i stopped.
i turned out the lights, pulled the covers over me and finally...

***
here's one:


once, when I poured out bitter tears, when my hope dissolved in pain and scattered, and i was standing alone at the barren hill which hid the shape of my life in its narrow dark space--alone, as no one could be more alone, driven my unspeakable anxiety--strengthless, with just one thought left of need.--As i looked around for help, could not look forwards and not backwards, and hung on fleeting, extinguished life with infinite craving:--then came from blue distances--from the peaks of my old blessedness, a twilight spectacle--and with one stroke my birth's bond ripped--Light's chains. There the earthly splendor fled and sadness with it--misery flowed into a new, unplumbed world--You, Night-inspiration, heaven's sleep, came over me--the region lifted slowly up; over the region my released and newborn spirit floated. The hill became a cloud of dust--through the cloud i saw the transfigured features of my beloved. In her eyes rested the forever--I took her hands, and my tears were a glittering and unrippable bond. On her neck I wept overjoyed tears at the new life.--It was the first and the only dream--and just since then I've felt an unchangeable, eternal faith in the heaven of Night and its Light, the beloved.

-novalis
, 1772-1801.
translated from
german by dick higgins.

lovely, yes?


more to come, i think.
hope you like but don't need them.