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  1. #41
    Lay the coin on my tongue SilkRoad's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Victor View Post
    In the olden days they would deliver a fresh poem with the milk every day. Then they stopped delivering the milk and the poems dried up as well. Until the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section, started delivering a fresh poem every day to Typology Central, Arts and Entertainment forum, Wikileaks and Poetry thread.

    Our motto is 'put on a fresh face every day', for we have noticed that if we go for two days without reading a poem, it shows on our face. So put on a new face every day in the Wikileaks and Poetry thread.
    Hang on - I thought you thought that poetry was meaningless? Is that not essentially what you said in the recent poetry thread?
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  2. #42
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    Quote Originally Posted by SilkRoad View Post
    Hang on - I thought you thought that poetry was meaningless? Is that not essentially what you said in the recent poetry thread?
    Perhaps you have caught me out, dear Silkroad - you have caught me in my own contradictions - you have succeeded in embarrassing me in public.

    My feeling is that you are acting out your animus towards me. And I think your animus is more interesting than my contradictions or even my embarrassement. But that leaves the question - why do you want to embarrass me in public?

    Is it because I have embarrassed you? Or is it that I have hurt you emotionally? Or is it just that I remind you of someone you hate?

    Can we dig down a bit to find your passionate desire to hurt me?

    And perhaps we might explore whether you have a passionate desire to hurt others as well.

    And I can only conclude you desire to hurt others because you have been hurt yourself.

    In fact your desire to hurt is an inchoate cry from part of yourself that has remain hidden from others and even from yourself.

    So perhaps now is the time to bring your hurt out into the open at Central.

  3. #43
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    Hacked on Sunday and released on Monday by the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section -

    The Poor

    The poor are many
    and so—
    impossible to forget.

    No doubt,
    as day breaks,
    they see the buildings
    where they wish
    they could live with their children.

    They
    can steady the coffin
    of a constellation on their shoulders.
    They can wreck
    the air like furious birds,
    blocking out the sun.

    But not knowing these gifts,
    they enter and exit through mirrors of blood,
    walking and dying slowly.

    And so,
    one cannot forget them.

    - Roberto Sosa
    translated from the Spanish by Spencer Reece.

  4. #44
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    If you would like to see Spencer Reece, click on - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/spencer-reece

    No wonder he is translating the Spanish.

  5. #45
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    Sent in by anonymous last night from Echelon (Signals Intelligence), redacted early this morning, and revealed today -

    Sahar al-Beitounia

    She lives in Beitounia
    And her name is Sahar
    Her name is the hour
    Between sunrise and morning.

    Her bougainvillea
    Overlooks Beitounia
    Where a mango-bright bedspread
    Hangs over the railing
    Lit by first light
    That reflects from a wall.

    Not the wall of a house
    Or her family's orchard.
    She can see the graffiti
    Ich bin ein Berliner

    Marwân had orchards
    Al-zaytûn wa-l-'inab
    Olive trees, grapevines,
    Where they went out to work
    Between sunrise and morning.

    She is bint Marwân
    (and also bint Su'âd).
    She is ukht Târiq,
    Ukht Mahmûd, ukht Asmâ.

    When jeeps and bulldozers
    Converged on Beitounia
    A hundred and twenty
    All walked out at midday
    Were chased back with tear gas
    And rubberized bullets.

    Seventeen thousand dunnams
    Of orchards and wheatfields
    With a wall thrust between them
    And the doors of Beitounia.

    Her name is Sahar
    At dawn in Beitounia
    Where the first light reflects
    On the wall of a prison.

    Ismuhâ Sahar
    Bayn al-fajr wa-l-subh
    —her name is Sahar
    between sunrise and morning.

    - Marilyn Hacker.

  6. #46
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    If we like the poem, "Sahar al-Beitounia", by Marilyn Hacker, we can hear her voice by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3hGOw4ho2A

  7. #47
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    Lodged by anonynous from Langley last night, and released today -

    Nulla Dies Sine Linea
    On my birthday

    A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his
    one joke. And now, nearer, a murder

    answers, chortling from the pale hill's brow.
    From under my lashes' wings they stretch

    clawed feet. There the unflappable years
    perch and stare. When I squint, when I

    grin, my new old face nearly hops
    off my old new face. Considering what's flown,

    what might yet fly, I lean my chin
    on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.

    - V. Penelope Pelizzon.

  8. #48
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    If you like the poem, "Nulla Dies Sine Linea", (Not a Day Without a Line) and would like to see and hear the poet, V. Penelope Pelizzon, you might click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7EbLHdEx0A

  9. #49
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    Sent by anonymous and released today -

    Apples

    Grey branches, dull thuds.
    Apples falling in late November, and we
    gather them with frozen hands.

    Am I wrong?

    or did you say something,
    not tearing your eyes from the ground?

    Something like "evil will triumph,"
    you said quietly.
    As if the tundra's beyond us. As if we're gathering stones in our skirts.

    - Anzhelina Polonskaya,
    translated from the Russian by Andrew Wachtel.

  10. #50
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    Purloined last night and released today -

    X

    straight lines only
    no curve or arc
    to double back

    no circle in sight
    from which silence might slip
    like the strap of a dress
    off a shoulder
    one summer field

    a shape
    signifying nothing
    but a puzzle of itself
    made in the box of morning
    untangled over years

    from each and every corner of which
    is visible white space
    as if here and now
    were equal lines
    fused the way lovers are fused
    for as long as it takes
    to pass through the eye of love
    to recover, to egress.

    Brushstroked husband
    and brushstroked wife
    finding in skewered union
    a defence of loneliness

    sectioning in four equal parts,
    as if it were a family,
    that safe place
    once being
    full of itself
    now cornered, quartered, hinged

    on a mark that closes on
    common darkness
    the heart of which is silence, certainly,
    a need expressed in what distends
    beyond what will not be
    acknowledged
    what will not be
    allowed

    the length and breadth of days
    that bleed into other days

    on which occurs
    an ardent solitude—

    windows opening and closing the one sky.

    I may begin to fold myself
    along four even lines
    into the centre of those days

    to learn how a life may come to rest
    on the absence of a life

    as crosshairs train on a blank page

    as arrows turn in on themselves

    as the blades of a bedroom ceiling fan
    come to

    a perfectly obvious stop.

    - Vona Groarke.

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