Poetry

[Anthony H]

Phyllis -- Ow!!! That's painful. 

Here's one I like from Gallway Kinnell.

Prayer

Whatever happens. Whatever

What is is is what

I want. Only that. But that.

[John K]

To do this one justice requires a screenshot.

[Phyllis G]

Anthony, I wasn't aiming for you. Your comment just reminded me of that poem.

Here's another from Billy Collins.

Dharma

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her doghouse

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance----

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

following only her wet nose,

the twin portals of her steady breathing,

followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside

every morning

and eat all his food

what a model of self-containment sh would be,

what a paragon of earthly detachment.

If only she were not so eager

for a rub behind the ears,

so acrobatic in her welcomes,

if only I were not her god.

[Jennifer R]

This is one is from a time before machine translation and will stay there.

Du tappst die falschen Tisten

O unberachenbere Schreibmischane,

was bist du für ein winderluches Tier?

Du tauschst die Bachstuben günz nach Vergnagen

und schröbst so scheinen Unsinn aufs Papier!

Du tappst die falschen Tisten, luber Bieb!

O sige mar, was kann da ich dafür?

(Joseph Guggenmoos)

[Anthony H]

Phyliss: I didn't think that was for me at all. I was speaking for all poets dead and alive.

I won't say which of those categories I fall into.

[Mary W]

Anthony, that's lovely.  Thank you for sharing.

[Virginia F]

---

John K wrote:

I made an art thread here once, and then a Jazz thread. So perhaps a poetry thread would balance all that. Here's one of my favorite poems from probably my favorite poet -- he really doesn't need an introduction, but he and I have the same initials.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

---

I've always been fond of Ogden Nash - don't judge me (unless you really need to).

ETA: If anyone is interested: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogden_Nash

I Didn't Go To Church Today

I didn't go to church today,
I trust the Lord to understand.
The surf was swirling blue and white,
The children swirling on the sand.
He knows, He knows how brief my stay,
How brief this spell of summer weather,
He knows when I am said and done
We'll have plenty of time together.

A Flea And A Fly In A Flue

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "let us flee!"
"Let us fly!" said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

A Drink With Something In It (first verse only)

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth—
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

And one of his most famous one-liners:

Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.

[Amanda L]

I'm going to have to use Google translate on some of these. (J/K)

[Reinier B]

Poems are a bit like paintings. Impossible to choose a favourite.

[John K]

These are song lyrics and I will be posting the song itself in my Jazz thread tomorrow, but it's also wonderful poetry by that incomparable Brazilian genius, Tom (Antonio Carlos) Jobim.

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow

The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find

A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale

A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night

A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud

Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain

A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road

A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.