Poetry

[JonSRB77]

Classic Japanese Haiku

Japanese Haiku, translated by Peter Beilenson [1955], from Peter Pauper Press book

https://www.sacred-texts.com/shi/jh/jh02.htm

Includes this one by Basho:

Must Springtime Fade?
Then Cry All Birds
And Fishes Cold Pale Eyes Pour Tears

[JonSRB77]

Classic Chinese Poetry...

http://www.chinese-poems.com/

[Rosalba]

Classic Chinese Poetry...

http://www.chinese-poems.com/

This is my absolutely favourite (translated) Chinese poem:

https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/I_built_my_hut_in_a_zone_of_human_habitation

[foxandpeng]

I don't often read the Diner. This evening has been an exception. Good to see there is a poetry thread, though 😁

I am a huge reader of poetry following one of my undergrads majoring in poetry. Dissertation on Ted Hughes and the Metaphysical, one of the finest British poets, IMO.

Reading this now...


The Horses

I climbed through woods in the hour—before—dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost—making stillness,

Not a leaf, not a bird—
A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood
Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.
But the valleys were draining the darkness

Till the moorline– blackening dregs of the brightening grey –
Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses:

Huge in the dense grey –ten together –
Megalith—still. They breathed, making no move,
With draped manes and tilted hind—hooves,
Making no sound.

I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.
Grey silent fragments
Of a grey still world.

I listened in emptiness on the moor—ridge.
The curlew's tear turned its edge on the silence.
Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red erupted

Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,
Shook the gulf open, showed blue,

And the big planets hanging—
I turned
Stumbling in a fever of a dream, down towards
The dark woods, from the kindling tops,

And came the horses.
There, still they stood,
But now steaming, and glistening under the flow of light,

Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind—hooves
Stirring under a thaw while all around them

The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.
Not one snorted or stamped,

Their hung heads patient as the horizons,
High over valleys, in the red levelling rays—

In din of the crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place

Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.

[KevinP]

I've done a few poetry readings (of others' work) on YouTube. Here's one of e.e.cummings.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwflO_IRLPQ

The shirt I'm wearing has symbolic meaning. It symbolises that it was laundry day.

[foxandpeng]

I've done a few poetry readings (of others' work) on YouTube. Here's one of e.e.cummings.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwflO_IRLPQ

The shirt I'm wearing has symbolic meaning. It symbolises that it was laundry day.

Ah, niiice. You read well. Love your other videos, btw! We share some similar tastes 👍

[KevinP]

Well thanks for the kind words!

I'm near positive that in posting the following four links, I will have shared every poem I've done a video for.

Langston Hughes, 'Kids who Die'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQo86jQW9Aw

Delmore Schwartz, 'Calmly We Walk through this April's Day'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HxKv15mSlA

Maya Angelou, 'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0JutSJZhD4

Nikki Giovanni 'For Saundra'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwa3GmL88z8

[LKB]

I've done a few poetry readings (of others' work) on YouTube. Here's one of e.e.cummings.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwflO_IRLPQ

The shirt I'm wearing has symbolic meaning. It symbolises that it was laundry day.

Hey, I'm wearing the same shirt...

[Karl Henning]

he wrote it and he called it a poem
he wrote a poem about the things he sees
the hair of the person sitting before
the toes of the shoes of the person sitting behind
both black and with its own particular shine
the black cat crouched beneath the rose-bush
the cat running from the sound of his voice
the green of the leaf
the red of the single blossom
the green of the tag at the black cat's neck
the sound of the tag in the collar as the black cat runs
the black of the laptop of the person sitting beside
the gentle black of his suit
the cut of the suit
the black of his hair
the black of his turban
the smell of the green leaf
the scent of the red blossom
the feeling in his ears as he walks into the silence of the small backyard
for there is a feeling
that is a special feeling
apart from the silence itself
and if he could get at that feeling why
he would write a poem
and the sky would weep
and the tears would be joy
and that black cat would wish it had stayed indoors
(nearly a poem)
9.iv.99

[LKB]

There once was a man from Nantucket...

( As an aside, check out the last movement of Haydn's Symphony No. 98 in B-Flat Major, a limerick if l ever heard one. )

[Sergeant Rock]

Here is one of mine. It's about seeing a former girlfriend (Marlene) at a Cleveland concert.       
The other girl (conceived in May) was another girlfriend who coincidentally was born on the same February day as Marlene. Two Pisces who still haunt my dreams.

        RED VELVET

     Must I always touch in the moment, a remembered moment,
        a remembered face?
                            -—Conrad Aiken, At a Concert of Music

   Was it the dress? that red velvet drama
   amid so much formal black?
   or the toss of mane, the flash of flesh
   by tailor riven cloth revealed
   with every forward step that turned
   so many heads that night at Severance
   towards you, whom the crowd discerned?

   Even Marlene, that spirit of summers past,
   stared with an almost sapphic interest
   (my entrance she hadn't noticed).
   The slit was provocative:
   from floor to high mid-thighs
   and centrally sliced for easy access,
   ocular or otherwise.

   When I saw Marlene in the main foyer,
   I left you to check your cape alone
   and approached her dazed: to meet like this,
   coincidental! after five eventful, and eternal, years.
   She only puzzled seconds, then...that smile!
   but quickly squelched to a look that meant she
   was annotating changes to her mental file.

   Almost at once she said "did you see the blonde
   in red velvet?" and we both watched, dazzled,
   as you, red velvet blonde, approached with Martin
   and Mister Murray's daughter. Quick introductions
   and quicker so longs, and you said "so that's Marlene"
   you weren't impressed. Well, denim and dark corduroy couldn't
   dazzle, but I saw through the rough cloth and she saw me.
   
   We took our seats high in the balcony
   while far below, Marlene, scruffy in jeans,
   sat front row center with a good view
   of the player's argyle taste in hosiery:
   a tasteless clash with Bruckner's last, black strife
   in delta minor, unfinished, a swan singing of faith fraying
   at the edge of life.

   But first Zukerman played Mendelssohn
   and his sugar sweet tones sang music redolent
   of summer birds and fairy tales romantic, half-remembered.
   Though we--married, lovers --sat side by side
   shoulders touching, though your hand possessive
   stroked my thigh, it was winter
   and I left you for another woman...The compulsive

   music moved me to a grove of green
   in bright summer shades, transported me
   to a time now only half-remembered
   and to another romance, another lover,
   and a love more lyrical than ours
   more Mendelssohnian.
   As earth cradled warmth and us, Marlene picked dancing flowers;

   near smiling mushrooms, in soft green moss, squirrels gossiped
   while birds fluttered Disney-like near, serenading love lyrics.
   But later, as we lay idyllic, side by side shoulders touching,
   her hand possessive stroking my thigh, I left her for another...
   for a child conceived in West Virginia prime,
   a child-woman of chestnut and blue,
   and a love, first love, as green as Appalachian springtime.

 "Alas, can I never have peace in the shining instant?
 ...all I can grasp is an earlier, more haunted moment
 and a happier place"
 At a concert of music my reverie died away
 as Mendelssohn died away
 and guilty, I avoided your eyes. Though you were my life,
 I left you that wintry eve, for two women, both conceived in May.

[foxandpeng]

Here is one of mine. It's about seeing a former girlfriend (Marlene) at a Cleveland concert.       
The other girl (conceived in May) was another girlfriend who coincidentally was born on the same February day as Marlene. Two Pisces who still haunt my dreams.

        RED VELVET

     Must I always touch in the moment, a remembered moment,
        a remembered face?
                            -—Conrad Aiken, At a Concert of Music

   Was it the dress? that red velvet drama
   amid so much formal black?
   or the toss of mane, the flash of flesh
   by tailor riven cloth revealed
   with every forward step that turned
   so many heads that night at Severance
   towards you, whom the crowd discerned?

   Even Marlene, that spirit of summers past,
   stared with an almost sapphic interest
   (my entrance she hadn't noticed).
   The slit was provocative:
   from floor to high mid-thighs
   and centrally sliced for easy access,
   ocular or otherwise.

   When I saw Marlene in the main foyer,
   I left you to check your cape alone
   and approached her dazed: to meet like this,
   coincidental! after five eventful, and eternal, years.
   She only puzzled seconds, then...that smile!
   but quickly squelched to a look that meant she
   was annotating changes to her mental file.

   Almost at once she said "did you see the blonde
   in red velvet?" and we both watched, dazzled,
   as you, red velvet blonde, approached with Martin
   and Mister Murray's daughter. Quick introductions
   and quicker so longs, and you said "so that's Marlene"
   you weren't impressed. Well, denim and dark corduroy couldn't
   dazzle, but I saw through the rough cloth and she saw me.
   
   We took our seats high in the balcony
   while far below, Marlene, scruffy in jeans,
   sat front row center with a good view
   of the player's argyle taste in hosiery:
   a tasteless clash with Bruckner's last, black strife
   in delta minor, unfinished, a swan singing of faith fraying
   at the edge of life.

   But first Zukerman played Mendelssohn
   and his sugar sweet tones sang music redolent
   of summer birds and fairy tales romantic, half-remembered.
   Though we--married, lovers --sat side by side
   shoulders touching, though your hand possessive
   stroked my thigh, it was winter
   and I left you for another woman...The compulsive

   music moved me to a grove of green
   in bright summer shades, transported me
   to a time now only half-remembered
   and to another romance, another lover,
   and a love more lyrical than ours
   more Mendelssohnian.
   As earth cradled warmth and us, Marlene picked dancing flowers;

   near smiling mushrooms, in soft green moss, squirrels gossiped
   while birds fluttered Disney-like near, serenading love lyrics.
   But later, as we lay idyllic, side by side shoulders touching,
   her hand possessive stroking my thigh, I left her for another...
   for a child conceived in West Virginia prime,
   a child-woman of chestnut and blue,
   and a love, first love, as green as Appalachian springtime.

 "Alas, can I never have peace in the shining instant?
 ...all I can grasp is an earlier, more haunted moment
 and a happier place"
 At a concert of music my reverie died away
 as Mendelssohn died away
 and guilty, I avoided your eyes. Though you were my life,
 I left you that wintry eve, for two women, both conceived in May.

Bud. WTF? I like this very much.

[Sergeant Rock]

Bud. WTF? I like this very much.

Thank you...but your using WTF? is confusing. What do you mean by it?

Sarge

[Karl Henning]

Here is one of mine. It's about seeing a former girlfriend (Marlene) at a Cleveland concert.       
The other girl (conceived in May) was another girlfriend who coincidentally was born on the same February day as Marlene. Two Pisces who still haunt my dreams.

        RED VELVET

    Must I always touch in the moment, a remembered moment,
        a remembered face?
                         -—Conrad Aiken, At a Concert of Music

 Was it the dress? that red velvet drama
 amid so much formal black?
 or the toss of mane, the flash of flesh
 by tailor riven cloth revealed
 with every forward step that turned
 so many heads that night at Severance
 towards you, whom the crowd discerned?

 Even Marlene, that spirit of summers past,
 stared with an almost sapphic interest
 (my entrance she hadn't noticed).
 The slit was provocative:
 from floor to high mid-thighs
 and centrally sliced for easy access,
 ocular or otherwise.

 When I saw Marlene in the main foyer,
 I left you to check your cape alone
 and approached her dazed: to meet like this,
 coincidental! after five eventful, and eternal, years.
 She only puzzled seconds, then...that smile!
 but quickly squelched to a look that meant she
 was annotating changes to her mental file.

 Almost at once she said "did you see the blonde
 in red velvet?" and we both watched, dazzled,
 as you, red velvet blonde, approached with Martin
 and Mister Murray's daughter. Quick introductions
 and quicker so longs, and you said "so that's Marlene"
 you weren't impressed. Well, denim and dark corduroy couldn't
 dazzle, but I saw through the rough cloth and she saw me.
 
 We took our seats high in the balcony
 while far below, Marlene, scruffy in jeans,
 sat front row center with a good view
 of the player's argyle taste in hosiery:
 a tasteless clash with Bruckner's last, black strife
 in delta minor, unfinished, a swan singing of faith fraying
 at the edge of life.

 But first Zukerman played Mendelssohn
 and his sugar sweet tones sang music redolent
 of summer birds and fairy tales romantic, half-remembered.
 Though we--married, lovers --sat side by side
 shoulders touching, though your hand possessive
 stroked my thigh, it was winter
 and I left you for another woman...The compulsive

 music moved me to a grove of green
 in bright summer shades, transported me
 to a time now only half-remembered
 and to another romance, another lover,
 and a love more lyrical than ours
 more Mendelssohnian.
 As earth cradled warmth and us, Marlene picked dancing flowers;

 near smiling mushrooms, in soft green moss, squirrels gossiped
 while birds fluttered Disney-like near, serenading love lyrics.
 But later, as we lay idyllic, side by side shoulders touching,
 her hand possessive stroking my thigh, I left her for another...
 for a child conceived in West Virginia prime,
 a child-woman of chestnut and blue,
 and a love, first love, as green as Appalachian springtime.

 "Alas, can I never have peace in the shining instant?
 ...all I can grasp is an earlier, more haunted moment
 and a happier place"
 At a concert of music my reverie died away
 as Mendelssohn died away
 and guilty, I avoided your eyes. Though you were my life,
 I left you that wintry eve, for two women, both conceived in May.

This is lovely, thank you.

[Sergeant Rock]

This is lovely, thank you.

Thanks, Karl!

Sarge

[Brahmsian]

Gripping, Sarge!   

[Brahmsian]

Thanks, Karl!

Sarge

The Dacha awaits your comment, if you have time. 

[foxandpeng]

Thank you...but your using WTF? is confusing. What do you mean by it?

Sarge

WTF... Who knew you had such a turn of phrase? Took me right by surprise! I'm really impressed, Sarge. Lots of poetry written by most people fails to reach the heady heights of 'doggerel', so this was a mature read.

Do you have more?

[Sergeant Rock]

WTF... Who knew you had such a turn of phrase? Took me right by surprise! I'm really impressed, Sarge. Lots of poetry written by most people fails to reach the heady heights of 'doggerel', so this was a mature read.

Do you have more?

Yes I have more. I have written about 200, most of them about the the women I loved and lost. Failure inspired me

Jean was my first real love;together with Marlene, the two radically changed my life when those relationships failed and I quit university and enlisted in the army. Here is the first of some 50 Jean poems,written when I was 47. We met during high school band rehearsal She played trumpet, I tenor sax.  She had auburn hair and the darkest blue eyes I've ever seen, which explains the last line.

JEAN ONE/SONNET TWENTY-ONE
       
My future shrinking at the same grave rate.
my past increases, and ages now I
have sighed for you. But when did I first sigh,
first fall; what day, what month...September late?
proximity of sax to trumpets, fate?
"How did you get stuck with me?" you wrote once,
in mock self-deprecation (I could sense
the smile, the tease). Why did I concentrate
on you; what glue was used to blind and bind me?
The freshmen girls, your Class of 70,
were luscious, all; so fresh and ripe and new,
just right for picking: Marty, blonde Judy,
two Beckys, Vicki. But you, sigh...O you
were forbidden fruit, russet and dark blue.

And here is a poem describing my elation when she said yes for the first time.

JEAN TWO/SONNET FOURTEEN
(December 1966)

You don't know how many times
I've wished that I could hold you
          —The Association, Cherish

My heart leapt, then blazed when I heard you say
Yes! but my facade so cool--though careen-
ing emotions I could not control, Jean,
roller-coastered me up & down hallway
stairs the rest of the delirious day!
And I a dream come true for you, I learned
later: Marty your friend asked who you yearned
for, burned for, who did you positively pray
for, and the whispered, confidential, girl
to girl answer was combustible me!   
me who fired your..., who ignited your twirl
in giddy thought of high (teen) society:
orchid-dreams formal-dress clinging-dance swirl
with a boy who would Cherish you...slowly

More tomorrow.

[Sergeant Rock]

JEAN SEVENTEEN
(Christmas Formal, December 23rd 1967)

I realize that I am not going to be the one to share your dreams, I am not going to be the one to share what seems
to be the life that you could cherish as much as I do yours                                                                         
                                           —The Association, Cherish

After the Christmas formal, near midnight, Capricorn conflagrant
and she consubstantial, incandescent, when last we touched...
If I'd known, I would have preserved the moment more completely,
in memory and verse; as it is, most of that evening is gone
or buried so deep I'd need a psychologist to excavate.

Our final dance is now, I think, an amalgamation of memories
of all our dances. The very low cut gown, yellow--at that dance
or Homecoming?--exposing small half-globes of startling whiteness,
is razor sharp; our companions, at a table of four--at that dance or some other--aren't. Marty and her date?

Did we dance to Cherish one last time? Did I notice the lyrics,
with foreboding?--she'd refused my ring just days before:
Ohio University Class of 71; set heavily in gold, a garnet, garish.
75 dollars wasted. A year wasted too? But no...hope sprang etc the evening soared, my disappointment forgotten finally in her arms.

Mothlike I hugged the flame, dervished into a fiery dimension
as we converged to our own intense music, holding each to each
daunsinge, whiche betokeneth concorde or so it seemed then.
But we were in fact diverging, not coming together in an amaranthine
state signifying matrimonie. But it was sweet, the ignorance,
sweet and candent that Capricorn evening, when last we danced.
   
And later, sweet was her mouth, a vermilion vortex drawing me in;
that moist kiss (like our first kiss.like our last) transcendent, not simply lips touching, no but my mouth more her mouth, a dissolving of body and soul into body and soul. My house was strangely empty and quiet that evening near midnight. Jill, with her date, was engaged like me, too busy to note big brother
and she soon disappeared from my soft, rectangular universe with its single,

rufescent star: reclining Jean, radiant on the den couch, our only bed
(our August Eden being devoid of furniture). But from such a distance, three decades distorting like cosmic dust, her glow's obscured, the haze thickening with each passing year, the color fading like her photographs. Her voice is gone, the tone,the intimate sounds; her perfume gone now too...but not her passion or the feel, the taste, the texture of hr open mouth on mine,

like an exquisite single malt, the smooth Macallan say: sherry'd syrup,
liquid heather, mulled fire: incessant, lingering, intoxicating,
O unforgettable taste, as sweet as I could bear. And now, when Capricorn
rises, bringing cold days and colder nights, I, chilled and pensive,
recall a singular star, the brilliance and the heat, and I mourn.