Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Love after Love" by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, at your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

by Derek Walcott

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Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "The Gift" by Andrew M. Bell

for Thomas and Ryan

When we are cosmic dust
blowing through the universe
and memories of us fade
like colours in a Polaroid
you can pick up your guitar and know
your parents gave you a gift
no one could take away

by Andrew M. Bell

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POET'S NOTE: The poet would like to acknowledge The Press, Christchurch, in whose pages this poem first appeared.

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Hunger" by Jack Gilbert

Digging into the apple
with my thumbs.

Scraping out the clogged nails

and digging deeper.

Refusing the moon color.

Refusing the smell and memories.

Digging in with the sweet juice

running along my hands unpleasantly.

Refusing the sweetness.

Turning my hands to gouge out chunks.

Feeling the juice sticky

on my wrists. The skin itching.

Getting to the wooden part.

Getting to the seeds.

Going on.

Not taking anyone's word for it.

Getting beyond the seeds.

by Jack Gilbert

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Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Memory of a poem by August Kleinzahler" by Anna Livesey

There were two people (one in a blue dress).
They stood outside the ring the crowd made

around some spectacle

and spoke to each other.

It is not in the poem, but I think she folded her hands

in the skirt of her blue dress,

running the fabric between her fingers.

l think he touched her wrist, bare and white

in the light reflected from the spectacle.

They were behind the backs of several thousand people,

none of whom noticed them. Her wrist

looked very fine as it rose from the blue material.

Seeing the wrist, he was sorry for what he had said.

He said something else to her instead and she replied, quietly.

They made a small crowd of their own.

by Anna Livesey

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Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Tuesday Poem: Untitled by Yoshida Kenko

Blossoms are scattered by the wind
and the wind cares nothing,
but the blossoms of the heart
no wind can touch.

by Yoshida Kenko

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Photograph Credit: Leon Petrosyan 

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Places Becoming Lonely" by Andrew M. Bell

Not a name on a marquee,
but a firmament in which a star could shine

this solid Earth, dependable unless we forget
the hard lessons of gravity

understated, not showy, he knew the places
his eyes could take the audience

there are more of us now and they say
we are more visually literate

and the images multiply daily
and yet there are more

places becoming lonely

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "The United Fruit Co." by Pablo Neruda

When the trumpet sounded, everything
on earth was prepared

and Jehovah distributed the world

to Coca Cola Inc., Anaconda,

Ford Motors and other entities:

The Fruit Company Inc.

reserved the juiciest for itself,

the central coast of my land,

the sweet waist of America.

It re-baptized the lands

"Banana Republics"

and on the sleeping dead,

on the restless heroes

who'd conquered greatness,

liberty and flags,

it founded a comic opera:

it alienated free wills,

gave crowns of Caesar as gifts,

unsheathed jealousy, attracted

the dictatorship of the flies,

Trujillo flies, Tachos flies,

Carias flies, Martinez flies,

Ubico flies, flies soppy

with humble blood and marmelade,

drunken flies that buzz

around common graves,

circus flies, learned flies

adept at tyranny.

The Company disembarks

among the blood-thirsty flies,

brim-filling their boats that slide

with the coffee and fruit treasure

of our submerged lands like trays.

Meanwhile, along the sugared up

abysms of the ports,

indians fall over, buried

in the morning mist:

a body rolls, a thing

without a name, a fallen number,

a bunch of dead fruit

spills into the pile of rot.

by Pablo Neruda

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