The venerable California poet Gary Snyder has penned an ode of sorts to his Mac laptop. Why not?
Category Archives: poetry
Looking
Looking, by W.D. Snodgrass:
The Young Dead Soldiers
The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.by Archibald MacLeish
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough(1913) Ezra Pound
“Make it new.”
White Space, by Sharon Bryan
more puzzling
Poetry Daily: Intake Interview, by Franz Wright
I found this poem very interesting. It appears to float on the surface for a moment, then plunge.
This Poem …
… touched me.
word spillage
Poetry is the overflowing of the Soul.
Well, that’s a nice thought, delicate and succinct. But it’s not really like that for me. Sometimes it’s been a bit of an overflowing of the emotions, but rarely. Mostly, it’s been an excavation of the mind. The soul shows up to consult on paleontology.
a good poem
Today’s poem on Poetry Daily is really interesting. If you like poems that take you new places in your imagination, you’ll like this.
“You show off your net strung between trees
for capturing sunlight, your ponds and goldfish.”
Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
A little something for those who have been contemplating the economy today.
Write a poem. Get the girl | Salon
I don’t care for poetry much either except for my own, of course. (Have you seen mine? Did I forget to send you a copy of ‘God’s Hand Shadows on My Bedroom Wall’?) And that’s the real message of Poetry Month, not that you should go back and reread the one about the cherry tree wearing white for Eastertide or the plums in the icebox so sweet and so cold — no, no, no — it’s the month when you should write a poem and see how powerful this can be in winning the favor of women.”
Funny stuff! You gotta love Garrison Keillor. Great sense of humor, and he can write, which is a little strange.
I haven’t had much to say about National Poetry Month this year. So it goes.
unarmed
Poets are soldiers that liberate words from the steadfast possession of definition.
– Eli Khamarov
Phoo. I guess that makes me a conscientious objector.
Metaphor 