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  1. #31
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    If you liked the poem, "Red Herring", you can see the poet on Facebook at - http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?...00000208870339

    Perhaps you might like to leave the poet an appreciative comment?

  2. #32
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    Hacked last night and revealed today -

    Trouble

    That is what the Odyssey means.
    Love can leave you nowhere in New Mexico
    raising peacocks for the rest of your life.
    The seriously happy heart is a problem.
    Not the easy excitement, but summer
    in the Mediterranean mixed with
    the rain and bitter cold of February
    on the Riviera, everything on fire
    in the violent winds. The pregnant heart
    is driven to hopes that are the wrong
    size for this world. Love is always
    disturbing in the heavenly kingdom.
    Eden cannot manage so much ambition.
    The kids ran from all over the piazza
    yelling and pointing and jeering
    at the young Saint Chrysostom
    standing dazed in the church doorway
    with the shining around his mouth
    where the Madonna had kissed him.

    - Jack Gilbert

  3. #33
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    If you like Jack's poem, you might like to see him by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rzf_wMN4GXA

  4. #34
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    From the Gulag in 1920 to Central in 2012 -

    The Necklace

    Take, from my palms, for joy, for ease,
    A little honey, a little sun,
    That we may obey Persephone's bees.

    You can't untie a boat unmoored.
    Fur-shod shadows can't be heard,
    Nor terror, in this life, mastered.

    Love, what's left for us, and of us, is this
    Living remnant, loving revenant, brief kiss
    Like a bee flying completed dying hiveless

    To find in the forest's heart a home,
    Night's never-ending hum,
    Thriving on meadowsweet, mint, and time.

    Take, for all that is good, for all that is gone,
    That it may lie rough and real against your collarbone,
    This string of bees, that once turned honey into sun.

    (NOVEMBER 1920)

    - Osip Mandelstam
    translated from the Russian by Christian Wiman

  5. #35
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    Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938) was born and raised in St. Petersburg, and died in the Gulag Archipelago, but still he sends us, "The Necklace", via his translator.

    Even in the Communist death camps, poetry kept their spirits alive.

    If you would like to see the translator, Christian Wiman, click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVRUPPV6ddI

  6. #36
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    Hacked last night and released by Wikileaks, Poetry Section, today -

    The Room on Naxos

    In that room on Naxos,
    the hotel room in the
    little one-street har-
    bor town we walked a
    mile or two from to
    the perfect mile-long
    beach with only a few
    Germans Gerhard and
    Ulrike and the wiz-
    ened woman archeolo-
    gist with her much
    younger lover and
    that sweet taverna
    just for us the daz-
    zling beach where we
    swam nude and where
    I tried to lift you
    out of the water like
    a goddess doing beau-
    tifully until the wa-
    ter wasn't under you
    —in that lamplit bed-
    room (or was it on the
    ferry was it later?)
    when I tried to tell
    you it had been won-
    derful but it was
    over you didn't hear
    me didn't understand
    what I was saying and
    I kept on going so as
    not to hurt you and
    then fell in love a-
    gain: Where would we
    be now if you had
    heard me if our is-
    land time had been a
    sun-dazed moment not
    the prelude to a long
    long story rife with
    declarations and ad-
    missions one or the
    other of us didn't
    hear?

    - Jonathan Galassi.

  7. #37
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    If you liked, "The Room on Naxos", you might like to see the poet, Jonathan Galassi, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QreFPkzxau4

    And if we can overcome our shyness, we can ring USA (212) 274-0343 and ask for the poet, Jonathan Galassi, to say we enjoyed his poem, but we just wanted to hear the sound of his voice.

  8. #38
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    The Goose and the Poet

    If we like pâté de foie gras, we should never meet the goose. And in the same vein, if we like a poem, we should never meet the poet.
    Last edited by Mole; 03-30-2012 at 07:12 PM.

  9. #39
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    Hacked last night and released by Wikileaks, Poetry Section, today -

    A Colored Girl Will Slice You
    If You Talk Wrong about Motown


    The men and women who coupled, causing us, first
    arrived confounded. Surrounded by teetering towers
    of no, not now, and you shoulda known better, they
    cowered and built little boxes of Northern home,
    crammed themselves inside, feasted on the familiar
    of fat skin and the unskimmed, made gods of doors.
    When we came—the same insistent bloody and question
    we would have been down South—they clutched us,
    plumped us on government cereal drenched in Carnation,
    slathered our hair, faces, our fat wiggling arms and legs
    with Vaseline. We shined like the new things we were.
    The city squared its teeth, smiled oil, smelled the sour
    each hour left at the corner of our mouths. Our parents
    threw darts at the day. They romanced shut factories,
    waged hot battle with skittering roaches and vermin,
    lumbered after hunches. Their newborn children grew
    like streetlights. We grew like insurance payments.
    We grew like resentment. And since no tall sweet gum
    thrived to offer its shouldered shade, no front porch
    lesson spun wide to craft our wrong or righteous,

    our parents loosed us into the crumble, into the glass,
    into the hips of a new city. They trusted exploded
    summer hydrants, scarlet licorice whips, and crumbling
    rocks of government cheese to conjure a sort of joy,
    trusted joy to school us in the woeful limits of jukeboxes
    and moonwash. Freshly dunked in church water, slapped
    away from double negatives and country ways, we were
    orphans of the North Star, dutifully sacrificed, our young
    bodies arranged on sharp slabs of boulevard. We learned
    what we needed, not from our parents and their rumored
    South, but from the gospel seeping through the sad gap
    in Mary Wells's grin. Smokey slow-sketched pictures
    of our husbands, their future skins flooded with white light,
    their voices all remorse and atmospheric coo. Little Stevie
    squeezed his eyes shut on the soul notes, replacing his
    dark with ours. Diana was the bone our mamas coveted,
    the flow of slip silver they knew was buried deep beneath
    their rollicking heft. Every lyric, growled or sweet from
    perfect brown throats, was instruction: Sit pert, pout, and
    seamed silk. Then watch him beg. Every spun line was
    consolation: You're such a good girl. If he has not arrived,
    he will. Every wall of horn, every slick choreographed
    swivel, threaded us with the rhythm of the mildly wild.
    We slept with transistor radios, worked the two silver knobs,
    one tiny earbud blocking out the roar of our parents' tardy
    attempts to retrieve us. Instead, we snuggled with the Temps,
    lined up five pretty men across. And damned if they didn't
    begin every one of their songs with the same word: Girl.

    - Patricia Smith.

  10. #40
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    If you would like to see the poet, Patricia Smith, click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sf-UCBxZlFs

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