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Thread: Wikileaks and Poetry

  1. #181
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    Mar 2008
    Here is a poem called, "Here and After". The poem can be seen as text on the screen.

    But.....the poem is illustrated by the great German choreographer Pina Bausch in the movie, "Pina", in 2011, by the great German director, Wim Wenders. And the music is wonderful.

    I couldn't resist showing it to you. So just click on -

  2. #182
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    Mar 2008
    Take the -

    The Low Road

    If the power comes on after a count of five, it means a swan hit the line.

    In a pub at the end of the Scottish north, light matters.

    Far from long sunsets over the San Andreas Fault & Soda Lake

    I have imposed Solitary Confinement with single malt.

    Some here remember Odin, god of bad weather,

    Philosophy as commonplace as eating coastal cheddar, meat pie.

    Sheep fleck landscape, wool & lunch on the hoof.

    The suicide rate is low, even among magicians & poets,

    Anomie almost unheard of, life is so hard

    Like the ground, Bifrost Bridge lifting everyone's spirits.

    Mirrored over the bar in amber & brown, fifty-nine reasons to keep drinking.

    - Jo Sarzotti.

  3. #183
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    Mar 2008
    While here it is Autumn, there it is a musical -

    Spring, Finally

    on Stenton. Sunlight
    scat-sings along the wet fence.
    The city's echo on the red sky
    mugging in pooled rain
    below two long measures
    of birds on a power pole—
    syncopated eighths, the opening
    of "Satisfaction" in E.
    Not-human and unreadable
    simulacra—that blurred
    mare on the Dixon estate,
    a prima donna on a dark stage—
    repeat through the tree breaks
    in my side mirror then retreat
    in the rearview. At the light
    Stenton dead-ends at Butler
    and on the power lines
    swallows are quarter notes
    against the blotted blue-black west:
    A magnificat on the horizon,
    Palestrina dotting the hills,
    a dark road before me.

    - J. T. Barbarese.

  4. #184
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    Mar 2008
    Last night in Oz it was -

    A Winter Night

    The storm puts its mouth to the house
    and blows to get a tone.
    I toss and turn, my closed eyes
    reading the storm's text.

    The child's eyes grow wide in the dark
    and the storm howls for him.
    Both love the swinging lamps;
    both are halfway towards speech.

    The storm has the hands and wings of a child.
    Far away, travellers run for cover.
    The house feels its own constellation of nails
    holding the walls together.

    The night is calm in our rooms,
    where the echoes of all footsteps rest
    like sunken leaves in a pond,
    but the night outside is wild.

    A darker storm stands over the world.
    It puts its mouth to our soul
    and blows to get a tone. We are afraid
    the storm will blow us empty.

    (Text of the poem in the original Swedish)

    - Tomas Tranströmer.

  5. #185
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    Mar 2008
    It's winter here, but there it is -


    Summer. And the sinking lights of summer.
    And the sinking city lights of summer
    Dancing down the long hips of the Hudson.

    Dancing down the long hips of the Hudson.
    Shrinking, enchanting with outrageous calm.
    Until from just under, wood pikes peek out:

    First like goose bumps, then like bones through skin.
    Look down: MORTON STREET, carved into the ground.
    And these stumps, tricked out with seagull scarecrows,

    Still wait here for their ship: like that wet bruise
    Lake Avernus still waits for Dante's soul,
    Checking the reflection of every star

    Trapped in its dim circles, and whispering
    Per me si va ne la città dolente
    To see if, from the memory, one flinches.

    - Rowan Ricardo Phillips.

  6. #186
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    Mar 2008
    We watch the -


    All the tiny abandoned halts along the Irwell
    have been re-opened, their clocks
    set ticking. And everyone
    is here—
    but not yet everyone:
    across the bridge, past the terraced cottages

    a last couple appear, he in khaki,
    she in a red print dress, her blond hair
    rolled immaculately.

    There is a whistle in the valley.
    Huffs of smoke move this way across the fields
    like dropped clouds
    and they start to run, holding hands
    or try to run in her impossible heels
    down the steep street, back

    to where the others are already waiting
    on the platform.
    It happens so quickly

    that the parting is over
    before they know it is a parting.

    The whistle comes again
    and a shiver,
    the ground trembling in anticipation.

    - Caroline Price.

  7. #187
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    Mar 2008
    The cabbage tells us when -

    Winter Arrives in Beijing

    All October the old acrobat of autumn,
    An ace slipped up its sleeve.
    Then, suddenly, on a single day,
    By tradition, by government decree,
    The season unleashes one basic need:
    The scent of cabbage, millions of heads.
    We see them everywhere, on the backs
    Of pick-ups, horse-drawn wagons.
    The full measure of spring's
    Hundreds of pounds of them.
    So desire, so love is born of hunger.
    Now we know what we'll eat
    This January: Stacked like firewood
    Along the hutongs, lining tiled roofs
    And courtyards. Come winter,
    Almost gray by then,
    We'll wash the coal dust off of them.
    But today the passion, the rush
    To bring them in. As if it feared
    To miss its chance, the season
    Seizes the moment, and in an instant,
    In passing, bears down on us.
    We look up from our work, we go out
    On the street to mark the quick of it:
    One man spread-eagle on a load
    Of cabbage, smiling back
    As the traffic floats him past.
    What's pressing, what's to come,
    As if he knew our place among
    The last long-shadowed warmth of the sun.

    - Stephen Haven.

  8. #188
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    Mar 2008
    Please -

    Letter from a Mental Hospital

    From the heart of an old box of letters
    I lift a small water-stained envelope.
    Inside, a note card as thin and brittle as a frozen leaf
    bears a message written fifty years ago
    by a woman who shares my name.

    She delivers no greeting, no sorry to have been away so long.
    She leaves no record of visitors, rationed cigarettes,
    group art, or the barren iceberg of treatment.

    I imagine her listening to the ping of the radiator
    on a snowy morning, seated in her nightgown and socks
    by an open window. A bell rings in the hallway
    but she doesn't move toward her robe or her slippers or her brush.

    I see myself sitting beside her, reaching
    toward her dull pencil to place my fingers over hers,
    hand on hand, gliding over the words, moving
    like two skaters on a lake tracing the solitary line—
    Please come get me.

    - Kim Lozano.

  9. #189
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    Mar 2008
    And now a -


    Scarecrows grow scarce
    since we no longer till fields.

    Funereal figures
    standing in the midst of harvest,

    they flapped wildly in the wind
    though never moved.

    They wore the old clothes
    of the dead men of the household

    with sometimes a cap or a hat
    which would often blow off.

    Crossed staves in a field,
    a home-made crucifixion,

    or the gaunt autumnal brother
    of the rotund snowman.


    But I forgot the shrewdness
    of the carrion crow. Before
    the crop was gathered in
    I swear I saw more than one
    of those jagged black birds
    happily settle on the arm
    of that structure meant to warn.

    - John Montague.

  10. #190
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    Mar 2008
    A paper chase -

    Papyrus Fragment Egerton 2

    A little crowd, and the question came from him walking:
    he spoke of a thing shut within its place ...
    set there below invisibly ... its heaviness
    past measuring ...

    like Ives's Unanswered Question, all a-hang,
    haze and mass of anti-matter, or of anti-question.

    For the record says they were puzzled.
    And that his next act was to stand on Jordan bank
    extending his right hand, filling it,
    sower to the river.

    The verb for what happened next has gone downstream.
    Before them, though, it became present and put forth
    oodles of fruit whether figs, oranges, or olives
    a gap now hides, and whether
    the sudden orchard rooted, trunks browing water,
    or bobbed and stilted away. But their joy,
    that is recorded.

    A question had gone unanswered. Or else that answered it,
    everything enormous met with the lightest touch,
    non sequitur.

    Indeed it does not follow:
    to cloud, swimming unfloored depth
    apeiron the root of rebels.

    Or it does, though as an iron check to explosion
    sensing what pins one gazeless region to the other.

    If it all floated away they must have followed
    clamoring: a Winter's Tale, the statue swaying, breathing.
    Sower. River. Fruit. And under them,
    the ponder press of the enclosed thing, of the enciphered
    megaton seed.

    - John Peck.

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