Category Archives: Monday Night Poetry

Monday Night Poetry

Fancy

Do you know what

the truth is,

what’s rightly

or wrongly said,

what is wiseness,

or rightness, what 

wrong, or well-

done if it is,

or is not, done.

I thought.

I thought and 

thought and thought.

In a place 

I was sitting,

and there 

it was, a little

faint thing

hardly felt, a

kind of small

nothing.

–Robert Creely

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Monday Night Poetry

A Marriage

The first retainer

he gave to her

was a golden

wedding ring.

 

The second–late at night

he woke up,

leaned over on an elbow,

and kissed her.

 

The third and the last–

he died with

and gave up loving

and lived with her.

–Robert Creeley

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Monday Night Poetry

Double dose to make up for the holiday vacation…enjoy

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After Thoughts

When he kissed my nipple

          I felt elbow bone thrill–

When lips touched my belly

          Tickle ran up to my ear

When he took my cock head to tongue

          a tremor shrunk sphincter, joy

                    shuddered my reins

I breathed deep sighing ahhh!

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Mirror looking, combing

         grey glistening beard

Were I found sharp eyed

         attractive to the young?

Bad magic or something–

Foolish magic most likely

–Allen Ginsberg

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Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

          Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

          And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

          The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beward the Jubjub bird, and shun

          The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

          Long time the manxome foe he sought–

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

          And stood awhile in thought.

And as uffish thought he stood,

          The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

          And burbled as it came!

One, two!  One, two!  And through and through

          The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

          He went galumphing back.

“And has thou slain the Jabberwock?

       Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!”

          He chortled in his job.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

          Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mmimsy were the borogoves,

          And the mome raths outgrabe.

–Lewis Carroll

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Monday Night Poetry

Song of Myself #48

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s own self is,

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his funeral drest in his shroud,

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod counfounds the learning of all times,

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe,

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.

And I say to Mankind, Be not curious about God,

For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,

(no array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,

Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,

I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by God’s name,

And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe‘er I go,

Others will punctually come for ever and ever

–Walt Whitman

 

*Emphasis added by me in the hopes that the line will burrow its way into your heart the way it has mine.  If I could work that line into my next tattoo in a discreet and cool way I’m totally going to.  That is all.*

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Monday Night Poetry

 

Are You Drinking?

 

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook

 

out again

 

I will write from bed

 

as I did last

 

year.

 

will see the doctor,

 

Monday.

 

“yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

 

aches and my back

 

hurts.”

 

“are you drinking?” he will ask.

 

“are you getting your

 

exercise, your

 

vitamins?”

 

I think that I am just ill

 

with life, the same stale yet

 

fluctuating

 

factors.

 

even at the track

 

I watch the horses run by

 

and it seems

 

meaningless.

 

I leave early after buying tickets on the

 

remaining races.

 

“taking off?”  asks the motel

 

clerk.

 

“yes, it’s boring,”

 

I tell him.

 

“if you think it’s boring

 

out there,” he tells me, “you oughta be back here.”

 

so here I am

 

propped against my pillows

 

again

 

just an old guy

 

just an old writer

 

with a yellow

 

notebook.

 

something is

 

walking across the

 

floor

 

toward

 

me

 

oh, it’s just

 

my cat

 

this

 

 time.

–Charles Bukowski

 

 

 

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I just finished The Two Towers, and I must say I’m not sure how I feel about Frodo’s death-that-isn’t-really-death.  Poor Samwise Gangee (who is my favorite character, like a quarter inch above Aragorn) was completely distraught and convinced his master was actually dead, and I must say, despite knowing that Elijah Wood appears in all three movies, that I was a bit distressed myself.  Once Sam learns that Frodo is simply stunned, not dead, however, I got kind of pissed off.  How dare Tolkien play with my emotions in such a way!  I’m a loyal reader, not some crazy groupie you tell lies to so she’ll get off your dick! Also, how dare you put poor Sam through that!  He’s so loyal, and funny, and wise, and you made him think he was going to have to finish the quest on his own!  How rude!  More than my anger on my own behalf and on behalf of Sam, however, I was kind of annoyed as a reader.  It’s a bit of a lazy way to inject some pathos into your story to make the reader think that a major, beloved character, is dead, never to return.  It’s even lazier to kill that character off, and then decide that they aren’t really dead because you need them to wrap up some plotlines.   And it’s kind of overused, as well—Rahvin kills Aviendha and Mat, but their deaths are undone by Rand; Harry Potter dies at the hand of Voldemort but comes back thanks to his own selflessness; Sleeping “I’ve-Got-More-Looks-Than-Brains” Beauty and Snow “I’m-Too-Beautiful-To-Die” White both appear to be dead at the apex of their stories, only to be revived by a kiss from a beautiful prince.  Even Jesus isn’t really dead, and we all know that’s The Greatest Story Ever Sold.  Give me a break, get some new material.  Like most things, however, a good thinking session on the elliptical gave me pause.  Because while I think it’s overused, and sometimes seems like a blatant manipulation of my emotions as a reader (ahem, Wheel of Time); I sometimes like it.  Obviously the Bible and various fairy tales wouldn’t be the same without them.  I think Harry’s Jesusesque sacrifice and subsequent awakening was a perfect beginning of the end for Rowling’s series.  Now, in fairness to Tolkien, I haven’t finished Return of the King yet, so I may still change my mind on his laziness/intentions as a writer in regards to Frodo’s fake death.  I might have to post an apology to Tolkien in a few days when I officially finish the series.  But for right now, he has a lot of work to do to impress me in Frodo’s case. 

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Monday Night Poetry

To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever a man were lov’d by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy with a man,

Compare with me, ye woman, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold

Or all the riches that the East does hold.

My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can in no way repay.

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

That while we live, in love let’s so persever

That when we live no more, may we live ever.

-Anne Bradstreet

 

For my friend who’s struggling through grad school with Anne by her side 🙂

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Monday Night Poetry

Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea

 

A man came slowly from the setting sun,

To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun,

And said, ‘I am that swinehard whom you bid

Go watch the road between the wood and tide,

But now I have no need to watch it more.’

 

Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,

And raising arms all raddled with the dye,

Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.

 

That swinehard stared upon her face and said,

‘No man alive, no man among the dead,

Has won the hold his cars of battle bring.’

 

‘But if your master comes home triumphing

Why must you belnch and shake from foot to crown?’

 

Thereon he shook the more and cast him down

Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word:

‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.’

 

‘You dare me to my face,’ and thereupon

She smote with raddled fish, and where her son

Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet,

And cried with angry voice, ‘It is not meet

To idle life away, a common herd.’

 

‘I have long waited, mother, for that word:

But wherefore now?”

                                    ‘There is a man to die;

You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’

 

‘Whether under its daylight or its stars

My father stands amid his battle-cars.’”

 

“But you have grown to be the taller man.’

 

‘Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun

My father stands.’

                                ‘Aged, worn out with wars

On foot, on horseback or in battle-cars.’

 

‘I only ask what way my journey lies,

For He who made you bitter made you wise.’

 

‘The Red Branch camp in a great company

Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea.

Go there, and light a camp-fire at wood’s rim;

But tell your name and lineage to him

Whose blade compels, and wait till they have found

Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’

 

Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt,

And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt,

Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes,

Even as Spring upon the ancient skies,

And pondered on the glory of his days;

And all around the harp-string told his praise,

And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings,

With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.

 

At last Cuchulain spake, ‘Some man has made

His evening fire amid the leafy shade.

I have often heard him singing to and fro,

I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow.

Seek out what man he is.’

 

                                           One went and came.

‘He bade me let all know he gives his name

At the sword-point, and waits till we have found

Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’

 

Chuchulain cried, ‘I am the only man

Of all this host so bound from childhood on.’

 

After short fighting in the leafy shade,

He spake to the young man, ‘Is there no maid

Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,

Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,

That you have come and dared me to my face?’

 

‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place.’

 

‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head

That I loved once.’

                                Again the fighting sped,

But now the war-rage in Cuchulain woke,

And through the new blades guard that old blade broke,

And pierced him.

                             ‘Speak before your breath is done’

 

‘Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’

 

‘I put you from your pain.  I can do no more.’

 

While day its burden on to evening bore,

With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;

Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid,

And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed;

In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.

Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men,

Rank his Druids round him ten by ten,

Spake thus: ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood

For three days more in dreadful quietude,

And then arise, and raving slay us all.

Chaunt in his ear delusions magical,

That he may fight the horses of the sea.’

The Druids took them to their mystery,

And chaunted for three days.

                                                Cuchulain stirred,

Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard

The cars of battle and his down name cried;

And fought with the invulnerable tide.

 

–W.B. Yeats

 

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