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  1. #71
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem, "Tulips", below, and who wouldn't, you can see the poet, A.E.Stallings by clicking on -

    or by clicking on -

  2. #72
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    Mar 2008

    Cool Our Pimpernel

    You know, I wonder who anonymous is. Perhaps it's the Scarlet Pimpernel - they seek him here, they seek him there, they seek him everywhere. But perhaps we can't find him because he is a her. Or perhaps we can't see him because he is closer to home - perhaps he or she is right under our noses.

    I mean just look at the poems they send us. They all, without exception, fit perfectly into a short post. This can't be a coincidence. The odds are too great for it to be a coincidence. No, these poems are being sent to us anonymously by someone familiar with ins and outs of Central - someone who knows just the right size post to send. I can only conclude that anonymous is one of us. I have no idea who it is - except perhaps you know who. But what a cunning beast - our very own Pimpernel.

  3. #73
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    Mar 2008
    Last night they hacked a German language poet, and today we give you the English translation -

    New Jersey Journey

    Spent two hours at the end of December
    on the Garden State Highway
    In the ancient Ford's trunk
    nothing but my heart grown
    heavier year by year

    A protracted catastrophe:
    the constant river of traffic
    the endless business of overtaking
    vicious eye-contact
    with total strangers
    in the adjacent lane

    Driven by yearning
    for its prehistoric brothers
    a Jumbo climbs out of Newark
    airport over marshes and lagoons
    a giant smoking
    mountain of rubbish
    and the countless lights
    of the refineries

    Mile after mile of stunted trees
    telegraph poles fields of blueberries
    a Siberian countryside
    colonized then run to seed
    with moribund supermarkets
    abandoned poultry farms
    haunted by millions and millions
    of breakfast eggs
    harboring the undeciphered sighs
    of an entire nation

    Near the retirement town of Lakehurst
    a safari park soundless
    under its coat of frost
    cemeteries as spacious
    as the world war killing fields
    funeral parlors dubious
    antique shops and a bus station
    for last trips
    to Atlantic City

    In the twilight of the settlement itself
    ten square miles of faintly
    luminous bungalows
    lawns dwarf-conifers
    Christmas decorations
    Santa Rudolph the Reindeer
    and in front of one of the houses
    my uncle feeding the songbirds

    Drinking schnapps
    he later tells me
    of the conquest of New York
    Drinking schnapps I consider
    the ramifications of our calamity
    and the meaning of the picture
    that shows him, my uncle
    as a tinsmith's assistant in '23
    on the new copper roof
    of the Augsburg synagogue
    those were the days

    Next day we drive out to the coast
    Seaside Park Avenue at noon
    the boardwalks deserted
    boarded up diners
    Alpine-style summerhouses
    with circulating draughts
    yachts rattling in the cold
    the sub-urban migration of dunes

    With the brown house-high waves
    in the background my uncle
    leaning forward into the wind
    snapped me again
    with his Polaroid

    Do we really die
    only once

    - W. G. Sebald
    translated from the German by Iain Galbraith.

  4. #74
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem below, you can see and hear the poet W.G.Sebald by clicking -

  5. #75
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    Mar 2008
    Hacked last night and released today -

    Decoration Day

    On Decoration Day the folks
    would gather to chop weeds and vines
    and trim the brush around the edge
    of burial ground, set tombstones straight
    and burn a wasp or hornet nest,
    eat dinner on the ground and tell
    again the stories of those now
    below the earth. It was a time
    of fellowship, renewing ties
    with close and distant kin, to show
    respect for those who came before.
    One special task was filling graves
    sunk in, and also heaping dirt
    on all the graves, re-mounding them
    in ritual symbolic of
    exhuming and reburial,
    cementing bonds between the living
    and those gone on, with sweat and gift
    of fresher clay and coat of white
    crushed stones as bright as heaven's salt.

    - Robert Morgan.

  6. #76
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem, "Decoration Day", you might like to see the poet, Robert Morgan, by clicking on -

  7. #77
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    Mar 2008
    Hacked last night and released today, but we wonder, should we go on RT?

    Chalk-Circle Compass

    First comes conscience—
    care about the circle,
    guilt about the oblong
    or the wobble.

    Then comes the innocent
    to the board to parse the arc,
    sketch the wedge,
    to breathe onto the slate

    as if wholesomeness could set
    it free, as one would pat
    a bubble from a baby after milk.
    A rustic udder,

    an orb with fingers,
    is a poor example
    of geometry. Only
    if one were teaching awe

    would one approve the hand-drawn
    this arm's-length wooden compass
    cannot give to the world.

    Only if circumference went feral
    or was, originally, a wild thing,
    would you try your rough unaided hand
    at a ring worth teaching.

    But you could draw them both, teach
    love for unmatching eyes
    on the blackboard—one bearing
    personality's squint,

    the other seeing so well through history
    it never fills with history's litter,
    the sterling circle,
    the one whose tearless shape

    hurts the child enough
    to—long after the examination—
    stay somewhat ideal
    in her, in him, like

    just what it is, a ripple.

    - Sandra McPherson.

  8. #78
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    Mar 2008
    We all wonder who anonymous is, but we know it is not Bradley Manning because he has been held in military prison for 865 odd days without a charge being laid to squeeze him to make a false confession implicating Julian Assange. But still anonymous keeps sending us these poems -

    Since Then

    Outside the high windows of what was once
    our kitchen—before that, a weaver's room—now a study—
    the breeze-bent lilacs continue to wave and sway;

    the weeping willow grazes buffalo grass;
    the copper roses blaze and extinguish,
    blaze and extinguish and blaze . . .

    but the peacock that appeared one afternoon
    strutting up and down the back garden's brick path
    hasn't been seen again, and was not—

    unlike the five tawny owlets
    perched for weeks on a beam of the kitchen portale—
    digitally photographed, turned into a screen saver.

    Almost everything's been put on automatic pay
    but on some cloudless nights
    I find my doormat's openwork rubber

    enstarred with a cellophane sheen—
    the moon's monthly bill,
    still in your name.

    - Carol Moldaw.

  9. #79
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem below, "Since Then", you might like to meet the poet, Carol Moldaw, by clicking on

  10. #80
    Join Date
    Mar 2012
    5w6 sx/so



    HAND in hand! and lip to lip!

    Oh, be faithful, maiden dear!
    Fare thee well! thy lover's ship

    Past full many a rock must steers
    But should he the haven see,

    When the storm has ceased to break,
    And be happy, reft of thee,--

    May the Gods fierce vengeance take!

    Boldly dared is well nigh won!

    Half my task is solved aright;
    Ev'ry star's to me a sun,

    Only cowards deem it night.
    Stood I idly by thy side,

    Sorrow still would sadden me;
    But when seas our paths divide,

    Gladly toil I,--toil for thee!

    Now the valley I perceive,

    Where together we will go,
    And the streamlet watch each eve,

    Gliding peacefully below
    Oh, the poplars on yon spot!

    Oh, the beech trees in yon grove!
    And behind we'll build a cot,

    Where to taste the joys of love!

    Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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