Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Oriole





Poems, Series 2 by Emily Dickinson

III. Nature
XIII. The Oriole.

One of the ones that Midas touched,
Who failed to touch us all,
Was that confiding prodigal,
The blissful oriole.

So drunk, he disavows it
With badinage divine;
So dazzling, we mistake him
For an alighting mine.

A pleader, a dissembler,
An epicure, a thief, --
Betimes an oratorio,
An ecstasy in chief;

The Jesuit of orchards,
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire attar
For his decamping wants.

The splendor of a Burmah,
The meteor of birds,
Departing like a pageant
Of ballads and of bards.

I never thought that Jason sought
For any golden fleece;
But then I am a rural man,
With thoughts that make for peace.

But if there were a Jason,
Tradition suffer me
Behold his lost emolument
Upon the apple-tree.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Frankie and Dawn

Frankie Is Savoy




Frankie is Savoy
Savoy

Behold!
Frankie is Savoy. The bond
Of silence is upon him.
Old
And deep with memories, of slights and scorn,
And trampled on, yet all untamed;
All aged now, yet unbowed, --
The master of the young dance's prime,
Whose rhythms still laugh at Time,
And lifts to heaven the joy of movement,
Rests satisfied upon his fame.

Who shall say:
I taught swing to fly;
And fought abroad to preserve a freedom
I did not have at home,
Give it all up for family and community,
Then returned to teach the world to swing?

Yea, voices mutter about idle comparisons;
Singing of fast feet and celluloid fame,
New-born and known but yesterday.

--"Rhythm in Exile", Eshu Obatala

--tm--



Friday, April 17, 2009

The Moving Finger Writes; and, Having Writ












The Moving Finger Writes; and, Having Writ

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it

-- Omar Khayyam

Tuesday, April 14, 2009





The Rainbow
To Olga
Blue as the sea's depth

when it is tranquil
Green as the countryside
in the raining season
Orange as the sunset
in autumn
Violet as a crimson reflection
over the blue ocean
Magenta as the bougainvilleas

that adorn our gardens
Ochre as the erosive earth
of the plains
Brown as the humid earth
of the fertile tropic
Pink as conjunction
of sun and moon
Grey as a morning without sun

on a rainy day
Yellow as a tender sun
on a spring day
White as the color
of the full moon
Black as night
without moon and without stars
Red as fire
that consumes everything

- Rufino Tamayo

Monday, April 13, 2009

Say What









The Waking Year





IV. The Waking Year.


A lady red upon the hill
Her annual secret keeps;
A lady white within the field
In placid lily sleeps!


The tidy breezes with their brooms
Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!
Prithee, my pretty housewives!
Who may expected be?

The neighbors do not yet suspect!
The woods exchange a smile--
Orchard, and buttercup, and bird--

In such a little while!

And yet how still the landscape stands,
How nonchalant the wood,
As if the resurrection
Were nothing very odd!



Dickinson, Emily. 1896. Poems. Book III.

Poems by Emily Dickinson


Saturday, April 11, 2009

Two Cups



Autumn Leaves

The autumn leaves are falling like rain.



Although my neighbors are all barbarians,



And you, you are a thousand miles away,



There are always two cups at my table.

T'ang Dynasty poem


Thursday, April 09, 2009

Joy




Joy

Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
I have seen them
Live long and laugh loud,
Sent on singing, singing,
Smashed to the heart
Under the ribs
With a terrible love.
Joy always,
Joy everywhere--
Let joy kill you!
Keep away from the little deaths.

Carl Sandburg


Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Instantes (Moments)





Instantes (Instants)


If I were able to live my life anew,
In the next I would try to commit more errors.
I would not try to be so perfect, I would relax more.
I would be more foolish than I've been,
In fact, I would take few things seriously.
I would be less hygienic.
I would run more risks,
take more vacations,
contemplate more sunsets,
climb more mountains, swim more rivers.
I would go to more places where I've never been,
I would eat more ice cream and fewer beans,
I would have more real problems and less imaginary ones.




I was one of those people that lived sensibly
and prolifically each minute of his life;
Of course I had moments of happiness.
If I could go back I would try
to have only good moments.

Because if you didn't know, of that is life made:
only of moments; Don't lose the now.

I was one of those that never
went anywhere without a thermometer,
a hot-water bottle,
an umbrella, and a parachute;
If I could live again, I would travel lighter.

If I could live again,
I would begin to walk barefoot from the beginning of spring
and I would continue barefoot until autumn ends.
I would take more cart rides,
contemplate more dawns,
and play with more children,
If I had another life ahead of me.

But already you see, I am 85,
and I know that I am dying.

Jorge Luis Borges

Friday, April 03, 2009

Red Maples Waging Peace




WAGE PEACE
by Judyth Hill


"Wage peace with your breath.
Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of redwing blackbirds.

Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.
Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.
Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.
Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.
Make soup. Play music, learn the word for thank you in three languages.
Learn to knit, and make a hat.
Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,

imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.

Swim for the other side.
Wage peace.
Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious.
Have a cup of tea and rejoice.
Act as if armistice has already arrived.
Don't wait another minute."

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

No More Cliches





No More Clichés

Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To you manufacture fantasy.

But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.

This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.

This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.

Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.

From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.

Octavio Paz