Poetry Thursday

Joy

by George Bilgere

Today I sit on the sun porch
with my body, just the two of us
for a change, the flu
having left me for someone else.

I'm thinking about how good it is
to have been sick, to have been turned
inside out. Until we are sick, says Keats,
we understand not. and for four or five days
I understood. Fully and completely.
There was absolutely no ambiguity,
no misunderstandings of any sort whatsoever.

For awhile I thought I'd never get better.
I'd be that sick eagle, staring at the sky
on a permanent basis. But
we're living in the age of miracles:
another jetliner smacked into New York,
only this time nobody got hurt. A black guy
thoroughly fumigated the White House.

And this morning I woke up
feeling like a little French village
the Nazis suddenly decided to pull out of
after a particularly cruel occupation.

The baker has come back to his store
and everything smells like warm baguettes.
The children are playing in the schoolyard,
the piano bars along the river
have thrown open their doors.

And here you are, with coffee
and an open blouse, and two cool breasts
from the land of joy.

"Joy" by George Bilgere, from The White Museum. © Autumn House Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

This poem might be a little self-referential, but I enjoyed it and thought you might too.

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manual

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manual
by Pamela Spiro Wagner

First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.

Do not assume meanings hidden from you:
the best poems mean what they say and say it.
To read poetry requires only courage
enough to leap from the edge
and trust.

Treat a poem like dirt,
humus rich and heavy from the garden.
Later it will become the fat tomatoes
and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table.
Poetry demands surrender,
language saying what is true,
doing holy things to the ordinary.

Read just one poem a day.

Someday a book of poems may open in your hands
like a daffodil offering its cup
to the sun.

When you can name five poets
without including Bob Dylan,
when you exceed your quota
and don't even notice,
close this manual.

Congratulations.
You can now read poetry.

Quote of the Day

Despite all my inner crumblings,
I'm still able to recognize a perfect day:
sea without shadow,
sky without wrinkles,
air hovering over me like a blessing.

Excerpt from "Summer X-Rays" by Nina Cassian


Thanks Dainon!

The Feet of Judas

CHRIST washed the feet of Judas!
The dark and evil passions of his soul,
His secret plot, and sordidness complete,
His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole,
And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him,
His bargain with the priest, and more than this,
In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim,
Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
And so ineffable his love ’twas meet,
That pity fill his great forgiving heart,
And tenderly to wash the traitor’s feet,
Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!
And thus a girded servant, self-abased,
Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven
Was ever too great to wholly be effaced,
And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.

And so if we have ever felt the wrong
Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not,
What e’er the soul has felt or suffered long,
Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot:
Christ washed the feet of Judas.

George Marion Mclellan

From the Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922

Remember, remember the fifth of November,

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

Funny, the rest of the poem is rarely recited:

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

"Strikeouts are boring! Besides that, they're fascist. Throw some ground balls - it's more democratic."

On today the greatest of days, the day that MLB playoffs start, I could talk about how the day is the 55th Anniversary of the "shot heard round the world," when the New York Giants beat the Brooklyn Dodgers with a walk-off 3 run homerun in the bottom of the 9th. According to a historian on NPR, the New York Giants put one of their coaches in a strategic position to read the pitcher/catcher hand signals of the Dodgers and then buzzed them into the dugout(they had a buzzer system installed). The Giants backup Catcher then signaled to the batter what the upcoming pitch would be. Hoo, sounds like your boys were robbed.

However, as fascinating as the Giant's cheating scheme is, an unpublished Robert Frost poem was found recently and published recently. I'm sure this made the national news, but since the poem was found in VA, its been covered here in town pretty well. The poem, "War Thoughts at Home" was written in 1918. Robert Frost was tormented by the world war, and a year earlier, his close friend, was killed in the War. This poem is likely a step to the memorial of his friend, "to e.t." Here's the first two stanza's of the poem (The Frost estate has asked that only the first two stanzas be published).

"War Thoughts at Home"

On the backside of the house

Where it wears no paint to the weather

And so shows most its age,

Suddenly blue jays rage

And flash in blue feather.

It is late in an afternoon

More grey with snow to fall

Than white with fallen snow

When it is blue jay and crow

Or no bird at all

Here's the poem he wrote as a memorial to his friend,

To E. T. by Robert Lee Frost
I slumbered with your poems on my breast

Spread open as I dropped them half-read through

Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb

To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life

Through some delay, and call you to your face

First soldier, and then poet, and then both,

Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain

Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--

And one thing more that was not then to say:

The Victory for what it lost and gained.

You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire On Vimy Ridge;

and when you fell that day

The war seemed over more for you than me,

But now for me than you--the other way.

How over, though, for even me who knew

The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,

If I was not to speak of it to you

And see you pleased once more with words of mine