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Sparrow [Mar. 1st, 2012|07:40 pm]
american_poetry

stitched_up_mew

Fly away, 

Silently singing

Freedom searching 

Take flight on wings 

Made of stardust and cloud

Escape the dirty, taunting man

Let your aspirations be your guide into the unknown 

Let your sorrow keep you adrift 

Oh, sweet sparrow, whose voice haunts my soul 

Why do you touch the ground 

When you could live amongst clouds instead?

Are humans more fun to watch

Are they more fun to tease?

With their heads in the clouds 

And meager thoughts flying about

Like deformed children

They grow into monsters 

And they take

Never giving 

Are you disgusted by our useless 

Ideas?

The fire or touching the sun

The lips pressed to windows

Eyes searching for answers 

Where there are no questions

 Yes, we must seem so silly to you

And cruel as well

Is it wrong to you that we blind you 

Ad make you sing?

I’m sure you must not mind much, 

For it takes a willing subject to be caught 

By unskilled men’s hands

But sparrow 

If I could

I’d leave with you 

And leave this disserted  no mans land

To forever be in your grace

Sparrow,

Goodbye until we meet again

I will always look to you as a friend 

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(no subject) [Apr. 18th, 2006|11:25 pm]
american_poetry
floppydisco
I managed to find the poem I asked for in this post, I simply went and asked my lecturer to copy it for me. and she admitted not really having heard of Harvey Shapiro as being a poet. I can't understand how a good poem like this can go unnoticed and unfound (I lost my faith in google.com). Anyway, here it is, read and judge.

 

The Heart

In the midst of words your wordless image
Marches through the precincts of my night
And all the structures of my language lie undone:
The bright cathedrals clatter, and the moon -
Topped spires break their stalks.
Sprawled before that raid, I watch the towns
Go under. And in the waiting dark, I loose
Like marbles spinning from a child
The crazed and hooded creatures of the heart.

-Harvey Shapiro


crossposted to greatpoems community

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(no subject) [Apr. 12th, 2006|10:20 pm]
american_poetry

handfulofrain
Our Friendship
(David Lehman)

We have a name for it
in the South:
asshole buddies.
It means we've known
each other so long
it doesn't matter
that he's an asshole
in my opinion
or I'm an asshole
in his opinion
or whatever
And I want you to know
I'm not from the South
and you're not my buddy
and it doesn't matter
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David Lehmen is my new favorite poet... [Apr. 12th, 2006|10:12 pm]
american_poetry

handfulofrain
When A Woman Loves A Man
(David Lehman)

When she says Margarita she means Daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one-ten in the morning,
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water ruching over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era."
"That's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the Martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes
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help [Apr. 8th, 2006|11:30 pm]
american_poetry
floppydisco

Hello,

There is this poem that I came upon in one of my poetry exams and I liked it quite a lot, its name is "The Heart" and it's by Harvey Shapiro. Unfortunately I can't seem to be finding it anywhere (google is not being helpful at all), so I was wondering if any of you know/have it?

I remember the last three lines,

"And in the waiting dark,
I loose Like marbles spinning from a child,
The crazed and hooded creatures of the heart."

I'd really appreciate if you could send it to me.
Thanks.


cross posted to great_poems community.


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(no subject) [Oct. 18th, 2005|10:24 am]
american_poetry

scarletshape
Sylvia Plath - Edge

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
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(no subject) [Oct. 12th, 2005|02:36 am]
american_poetry

mernessa
Does anyone know if/where "Sailing Home from Rapallo" by Robert Lowell can be found online?
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Robert Bly [Oct. 9th, 2005|02:59 am]
american_poetry
bay_state_magi
After Drinking All Night With a Friend, We Go Out in a Boat at Dawn to See Who Can Write the Best Poem

These pines, these fall oaks, these rocks,
This water dark and touched by wind—
I am like you, you dark boat,
Drifting over water fed by cool springs.

Beneath the waters, since I was a boy,
I have dreamt of strange and dark treasures,
Not of gold or strange stones, but the true
Gift, beneath the pale lakes of Minnesota.

This morning also, drifting in the dawn wind,
I sense my hands, and my shoes, and this ink—
Drifting, as all of the body drifts,
Above the clouds of the flesh and the stone.

A few friendships, a few dawns, a few glimpses of grass,
A few oars weathered by the snow and the heat,
So we drift toward shore, over cold waters,
No longer caring if we drift or go straight.
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Pound [Sep. 29th, 2005|08:10 pm]
american_poetry
bay_state_magi
Ballad of the Goodly Fere

By Ezra Pound

Simon Zelotes speaking after the Crucifixion.
Fere=Mate, Companion.

Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.

When they came wi' a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
"First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Or I'll see ye damned," says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?" says he.

Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine
When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere
But a man o' men was he.

I ha' seen him drive a hundred men
Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.

They'll no' get him a' in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.

If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere
They are fools to the last degree.
"I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree."

"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."

A son of God was the Goodly Fere
That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men.
I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails
And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
But never a cry cried he.

I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea,

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.

I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
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Elizabeth Bishop [Sep. 24th, 2005|09:34 pm]
american_poetry
bay_state_magi
Florida

By Elizabeth Bishop

The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters,
and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons,
dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks
like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass.
The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white,
and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale
every time in a tantrum.
Tanagers embarrassed by their flashiness,
and pelicans whose delight it is to clown;
who coast for fun on the strong tidal currents
in and out among the mangrove islands
and stand on the sand-bars drying their damp gold wings
on sun-lit evenings.
Enormous turtles, helpless and mild,
die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches,
and their large white skulls with round eye-sockets
twice the size of a man's.
The palm trees clatter in the stiff breeze
like the bills of the pelicans. The tropical rain comes down
to freshen the tide-looped strings of fading shells:
Job's Tear, the Chinese Alphabet, the scarce Junonia,
parti-colored pectins and Ladies' Ears,
arranged as on a gray rag of rotted calico,
the buried Indian Princess's skirt;
with these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line
is delicately ornamented.

Thirty or more buzzards are drifting down, down, down,
over something they have spotted in the swamp,
in circles like stirred-up flakes of sediment
sinking through water.
Smoke from woods-fires filters fine blue solvents.
On stumps and dead trees the charring is like black velvet.
The mosquitoes
go hunting to the tune of their ferocious obbligatos.
After dark, the fireflies map the heavens in the marsh
until the moon rises.
Cold white, not bright, the moonlight is coarse-meshed,
and the careless, corrupt state is all black specks
too far apart, and ugly whites; the poorest
post-card of itself.
After dark, the pools seem to have slipped away.
The alligator, who has five distinct calls:
friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning--
whimpers and speaks in the throat
of the Indian Princess.
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