[Sven2]

As at the Far Edge of Circling

As at the far edge of circling the country,
facing suddenly the other ocean,
the boundless edge of what I had wanted
to know, I stepped
into my answers' shadow ocean,

the tightening curl of the corners
of outdated old paperbacks, breakers,
a crumble surf of tiny dry triangles around
my ankles sinking in my stand

taken that the horizon written
by the spin of my compass is that this is
is not enough a point to turn around on,

is like a skin that falls short of edge
as a rug, that covers a no longer
natural spot, no longer existent
to live on from, the map of my person
come to the end of, but not done.

That country crossed was what I could imagine,
and that little spit of answer is the shadow—
not the ocean which casts it— that I step next
into to be cleansed of question.

But not of seeking ...it as
if simplified for the seeking,
come to its end at this body.

--Ed Roberson

[Sven2]

Of What is Real

I like to lie with you wordless
on black cloud rooft beach
in late june 5 o'clock tempest
on clump weed bed with sand
fitting your contours like tailor made

and I like to wash my summer brown face
in north cold hudson rapids
with octagon soap
knees niched in steamy rocks
where last night's frog stared
at our buddhist sleep

but most of all I like to see
the morning happen . . .

I like to go down vertical mountains
where lanny goshkitch
meditated
crashing poplars
sap sticky arms flailing
as thermosed green tea
anoints sneakers
and blood soakt brow I taste and love
myself a split second

and I like to feel my own full scrotum
as I horizon the whole crisp linen earth
in my beatitude waiting miguel-like
in maskt fantasy for christ-like
you—
whoever you are

but most of all I like to see
the morning happen . . .

I like to look at books howl
haikus of the seasons
of the mind
that I might know the knowing
and the simplest to think of all of us
taking turns at catching each other
in the rye

and I like to taste cold absinthe
on hot hung sunday mornings
discussing orgies symposiums
and sounds with hoary headed poets
in upstairs jazz club
in Japan

but most of all I like to see
the morning happen when k and ike still sleep
and only the denver night riders hum contrasts
to orient jazzy feather beasts
in the dewy garden of real earth
where I can sink my naked feet
cool

--Richard Tagett

[Sven2]

Perhaps the World Ends Here


The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

--By Joy Harjo

[Sven2]

I know people that read this thread, some are aspiring poets, so here is a poem for them with interesting phrase reversal, rather playfully executed, the evidence of writing as a game.

The River


I felt both pleasure and a shiver
as we undressed on the slippery bank
and then plunged into the wild river.

I waded in; she entered as a diver.
Watching her pale flanks slice the dark
I felt both pleasure and a shiver.

Was this a source of the lake we sought, giver
of itself to that vast, blue expanse?
We'd learn by plunging into the wild river

and letting the current take us wherever
it willed. I had that yielding to thank
for how I felt both pleasure and a shiver.

But what she felt and saw I'll never
know: separate bodies taking the same risk
by plunging together into the wild river.

Later, past the rapids, we paused to consider
if chance or destiny had brought us here;
whether it was more than pleasure and a shiver
we'd found by plunging into the wild river.

--Gregory Orr

[Sven2]

Black Mane


Do you hear him, how he's asking?
Say something to him.
Let him feel your presence.

When he paws the ground, lies down, and rolls luxuriously,
when he stands up, shakes the dust off, and snorts vigorously,
do not stand in his shadow.
Go to him. Grasp his mane,
like the handle of a coffin, and climb on.
Don't worry, he will be patient with you.
He sees you laid bare riding him,
following his head like a lovesick pupil.
He knows you will not raise your crop to him.
He feels your flesh twitching against his.

At last you have what you longed for,
as if man on a horse constituted a single creature,
like a man on a high rock
at the edge of a field.
But now the creature leaps about the field,
the self is not a lonely figure in the sun.
The days when you lay his reins in a loop on his withers
and stand beside him, groping his neck,
if he lays back his ears and bares his teeth,
do not feel unworthy.
Body & soul cannot always
be alive together.

Walk, trot, stop, turn—these are only words
and yet he obeys them, obedient and calm.
His surrender is not a servile thing.
His power is born not of muscle and blood,
but of a self, like a monument
excavated in the sun.
Feel how your soul burns hard
and is changed by him?
See how he fears and respects you
without fact or reason?
See him looking straight ahead
as if it were Hadrian on his back?
Rub molasses on his bit
and he'll fling his heels in a capriole.

When your body sorrows into his,
it is as if a bolt were pushed into place,
metal hitting metal, like wisdom.
And his body, bridled and saddled, conveying yours,
brings nothing like grace or redemption,
those taming biblical things,
but like a wave, like a loud chord, like a masterpiece
of oiled canvas, it brings a pulsing, an incessant ravening,
like a robin pouncing at a worm, that nurses
the individuated being, like a tight bud,
into something unsparing while blooming,
and electric, like a paddock fence,
making all that is contained within it
aware of all that is not,
as ash in an urn
must remember the flesh it once was.

-- Henri Cole

[wavewatcher]

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

ee cummings

[wavewatcher]

The strong shore is my beloved
And I am his sweetheart.
We are at last united by love, and
Then the moon draws me from him.
I go to him in haste and depart
Reluctantly, with many
Little farewells.

I steal swiftly from behind the
Blue horizon to cast the silver of
My foam upon the gold of his sand, and
We blend in melted brilliance.

I quench his thirst and submerge his
Heart; he softens my voice and subdues
My temper.
At dawn I recite the rules of love upon
His ears, and he embraces me longingly.
At eventide I sing to him the song of
Hope, and then print smooth kisses upon
His face; I am swift and fearful, but he
Is quiet, patient, and thoughtful. His
Broad bosom soothes my restlessness.

As the tide comes we caress each other,
When it withdraws, I drop to his feet in
Prayer.

Many times have I danced around mermaids
As they rose from the depths and rested
Upon my crest to watch the stars;
Many times have I heard lovers complain
of the smallness, and I helped them to sigh.

Many times have I stolen gems from the
Depths and presented them to my beloved
Shore. He takes in silence, but still
I give for he welcomes me ever.

In the heaviness of night, when all
Creatures seek the ghost of Slumber, I
Sit up, singing at one time and sighing
At another. I am awake always.

Alas! Sleeplessness has weakened me!
But I am a lover, and the truth of love
Is strong.
I may weary, but I shall never die.
Kahlil Gibran

[Water Lily]

Love E.E. Cummings Maggy, Milly, Molly, and May... Nice wavewatcher..... Sven2 I know this poem is long, but............. :-\



Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go—
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
'Margaret! Margaret!'
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain—
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
'Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret.'
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little grey church on the windy shore;
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;
She said: 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little grey church on the shore today.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.'
I said: 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!'
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?
'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say;
Come,' I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town;
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little grey church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.'
But, ah, she gave me never a look,
For her eyes we sealed to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings: 'O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun!'
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the shuttle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children;
Come children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows coldly;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl,
Singing: 'Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea.'

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear fall the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hillside—
And then come back down.
Singing: 'There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.'

Matthew Arnold

[Water Lily]

Here's a poem, off course for the season and, not like much poetry that is posted here. But, I love afican american poetry and I like this one...

Slim Greer in Hell     
by Sterling A. Brown 


I

Slim Greer went to heaven;
  St. Peter said, "Slim,
You been a right good boy."
  An' he winked at him.

     "You been travelin' rascal
       In yo'day.
     You kin roam once mo';
       Den you come to stay.

"Put dese wings on yo' shoulders,
  An' save yo' feet."
Slim grin, and he speak up,
  "Thankye, Pete."

     Den Peter say, "Go
       To Hell an' see,
     All dat is doing, and
       Report to me.

"Be sure to remember
  How everything go."
Slim say, "I be seein' yuh
  On de late watch, bo."

     Slim got to cavortin'
       Swell as you choose,
     Like Lindy in de Spirit
       Of St. Louis Blues.

He flew an' he flew,
  Till at last he hit
A hangar wid de sign readin'
  DIS IS IT.

     Den he parked his wings,
       An' strolled aroun',
     Gittin' used to his feet
       On de solid ground.

II

Big bloodhound came aroarin'
  Like Niagry Falls,
Sicked on by white devils
  In overhalls.

Now Slim warn't scared
  Cross my heart, it's a fac',
An de dog went on a bayin'
  Some po' devil's track.

     Den Slim saw a mansion
     An' walked right in;
     De Devil looked up
     Wid a sickly grin.

"Suttingly didn't look
  Fo' you, Mr. Greer,
How it happens you comes
  To visit here?"

     Slim say---"Oh, jes' thought
       I'd drop by a spell."
     "Feel at home, seh, an' here's
     De keys to hell."

Den he took Slim around
  An' showed him people
Rasin' hell as high as
  De first Church Steeple.

     Lots of folks fightin'
       At de roulette wheel,
     Like old Rampart Street,
       Or leastwise Beale.

Showed him bawdy houses
  An' cabarets,
Slim thought of New Orleans
  An' Memphis days.

     Each devil was busy
       Wid a devlish broad,
     An' Slim cried, "Lawdy,
       Lawd, Lawd, Lawd."

Took him in a room
  Where Slim see
De preacher wid a brownskin
  On each knee.

     Showed him giant stills,
       Going everywhere,
     Wid a passel of devils
       Stretched dead drunk there.

Den he took him to de furnace
  Dat some devils was firing,
Hot as Hell, an' Slim start
  A mean presspirin'.

     White devils with pitchforks
       Threw black devils on,
     Slim thought he'd better
       Be gittin' along.

An' he says---"Dis makes
  Me think of home---
Vicksburg, Little Rock, Jackson,
  Waco and Rome."

     Den de devil gave Slim
       De big Ha-Ha;
     An' turned into a cracker,
       Wid a sheriff's star.

Slim ran fo' his wings,
  Lit out from de groun'
Hauled it back to St. Peter,
  Safety boun'.
III

     St. Peter said, "Well,
       You got back quick.
     How's de devil?  An' what's
       His latest trick?"

An' Slim Say, "Peter,
  I really cain't tell,
The place was Dixie
  That I took for hell."

     Then Peter say, "you must
       Be crazy, I vow,
     Where'n hell dja think Hell was,
       Anyhow?

"Git on back to de yearth,
  Cause I got de fear,
You'se a leetle too dumb,
  Fo' to stay up here. . ."

[Sven2]

Lovely poems, and at last - some variety, (I know, I was putting everyone to sleep with my "impressionistic" taste! :o )
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, Mz.Lily and Wavewatcher.

Ahem, wavewatcher, what shorter version of your screen name is preferable to you?
Oh, no, I recall one such personality, and his "Brownie, doing a heck of a job", I rescind the question, wavewatcher, you are who you call yourself!!!!!

[Water Lily]

 :D I like wavewatcher,  I chose my name, from my gggmother, her Indian name was waterlily weddle...?really? I've spent sometime on Ancestry.com.... but her white name was Rebbecca...  >:(///........Oh, and not to drop names..but, E.E Cummings was my 10Th cousin on my mother's > fathers > mother > side. of course 6 times removed......ha ha, and must add I descend down and am related to Pocahontas, through Rebbecca, and oh....there's more, but I won't stop the poetry thread over my very interesting family!! ;)

[wavewatcher]

Great poetry Mz Waterlilly! and Sven, your poetry never makes me sleepy! I told you I would come back, dear Sven, so I decided to re-emerge with some ocean poetry. I always felt that the ocean (off of Imperial Beach) deserved a Best-Supporting Actor Emmy for it's role in our beloved show.(especially in that haunting, final scene)

[OceanFlower]

Sometime During Eternity ...

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti b. 1919 Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Sometime during eternity
                                                       some guys show up   
and one of them
                      who shows up real late
                                                       is a kind of carpenter   
      from some square-type place
                                              like Galilee
          and he starts wailing
                                          and claiming he is hip
            to who made heaven
                                       and earth
                                                      and that the cat
                   who really laid it on us
                                                 is his Dad


          And moreover
             he adds
                         It's all writ down
                                              on some scroll-type parchments   
          which some henchmen
                  leave lying around the Dead Sea somewheres   
                a long time ago
                                       and which you won't even find   
         for a coupla thousand years or so
                                                 or at least for
      nineteen hundred and fortyseven
                                                      of them
                            to be exact
                                             and even then
         nobody really believes them
                                                   or me
                                                            for that matter
          You're hot
                         they tell him
          And they cool him


          They stretch him on the Tree to cool


                         And everybody after that
                                                               is always making models   
                                          of this Tree
                                                          with Him hung up   
          and always crooning His name
                                     and calling Him to come down   
                                 and sit in
                                                 on their combo
                           as if he is the king cat
                                                            who's got to blow   
                      or they can't quite make it


                      Only he don't come down
                                                         from His Tree
          Him just hang there
                                       on His Tree
          looking real Petered out
                                          and real cool
                                                             and also
                   according to a roundup
                                                    of late world news   
             from the usual unreliable sources
                                                               real dead
8)

[Water Lily]

Letting Go
By Fay Zwicky


Tell the truth of experience
they say they also
say you must let
go learn to let go
let your children
go

and they go
and you stay
letting them go
because you are obedient and
respect everyone's freedom
to go and you stay

and you want to tell the truth
because you are yours truly
its obedient servant
but you can't because
you're feeling what you're not
supposed to feel you have
let them go and go and

you can't say what you feel
because they might read
this poem and feel guilty

and some post-modern hack
will back them up
and make you feel guilty
and stop feeling which is
post-modern and what
you're meant to feel

so you don't write a poem
you line up words in prose
inside a journal trapped
like a scorpion in a locked
drawer to be opened by
your children let go
after lived life and all the time
a great wave bursting
howls and rears and

you have to let go
or you're gone you're
gone gasping you
let go
till the next wave
towers crumbles
shreds you to lace—

When you wake
your spine is twisted
like a sea-bird
inspecting the sky,
stripped by lightning.

[Sven2]

I love it!
Everything - the stuttering, as if in a breathless and lost chase, the tie of "go" and "gone" - us, them, time, towers crumbling - I love this poem, thank you, Mz.Lily, now - more, please.