Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
“I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over ..."
Thank you for sharing.
OMG! I can't believe I hadn't noticed this before! The poem is in Spanish, I hope it's ok. This is my favourite poem for various reasons, it has been writen by a good friend and it reminds me of a really good time when I went on tour with him.
It's a really sad poem, full of desesperation and sadness but anyway I love it. I'm also posting a translation but it has no rhyme, I only was able to translate the words, my English isn't so good :(
LA GRAN GUERRA
Te he buscado
perdido por la lluvia
que arrasa la nación estas semanas.
El tráfico de gestos en las calles
húmedas y cargadas de silencio
me dice que tu rostro podría ser cualquiera.
Lejos quedaron ya los días del festejo,
tú admirada por mí, por mi uniforme,
repartidos tú y yo por las esquinas,
soñando en el café nuestros destinos,
el ambiente insensato de alborozo,
de tu mano el periódico doblado
con grandes titulares celebrando la guerra.
Nunca amamos, sin duda, como entonces.
Días de permiso, hoteles viejos.
Un fantasma de gas me espera en la ventana,
tú corres las cortinas y te tiendes,
no sabes qué podrá pasarnos luego.
No pides más que este lugar y este ahora,
un recodo de hotel
donde el amor habita en un instante.
Hoy he vuelto. La guerra la perdimos.
Perdimos la gran guerra; estamos muertos.
Alguien quedó dormido en los alambres,
mis amigos se enredan
en el frío de cada amanecer.
Visito cada tarde a sus familias.
Me miran como a un ser de tierra extraña.
Les pregunto por ti, si no te han visto.
Todas las chicas se parecen ahora,
llevan todas el mismo traje gris,
la misma sombra larga,
son espectros delgados
ocultos de la luz.
Te he buscado
perdido por la lluvia
que arrasó la nación esas semanas.
El tráfico de gestos en las calles
húmedas y cargadas de silencio
me dice que tu rostro podría ser cualquiera.
Es posible que tú me reconozcas.
Entonces yo me miro en los espejos,
en los ojos ausentes de soldados que vuelven.
Somos todos el hombre derrotado.
También tú,
si me estuvieras buscando,
podrías confundirme con cualquiera.
Joaquín Pérez Azaústre
Translation:
THE GREAT WAR
I’ve searched for you
lost in the rain
which is devastating the country these weeks.
The movement in the streets
damp and weighted with silence
tells me that your face could be anyone.
Far away are now the days of festivities,
you amazed by my, by my uniform,
spread out, you and me, in every corner,
dreaming in the café about our fates,
the imprudent joyful atmosphere,
the folded newspaper in your hand
with enormous headlines celebrating the War.
We never loved, without doubt, like back then.
The leave days, old hotels.
A gas phantom wait for me in the window,
you close the curtains, and lay back,
you do not know what could happen later.
You do not ask for anything more than this place and this moment,
a hotel
where love inhabit in an instant.
Today I have come back. We lost the War.
We lost the great war; we are dead.
Someone stayed slept over the wires,
my friends tangle
in the cold of every dawn.
I visit every evening their families.
They look at me like a strange being.
I ask them about you, if they have seen you.
All the girls seem the same now,
all of them wear the same gray suit,
the same long shadow,
they are long spectres
hiding from the light.
I’ve search for you
lost in the rain
which devastated the country these weeks.
The movement in the streets
damp and weighted with silence
tells me that your face could be anyone.
Maybe you would recognize me.
Then I look at myself in the mirrors,
in the absent eyes of the soldiers that come back.
All of us are the defeated man.
Also you,
if you were looking for me,
could confuse me with anyone.
Joaquín Pérez Azaústre
Mod
This is my favourite poem for various reasons, it has been writen by a good friend and it reminds me of a..."
This is so vivid, Rosa!
Josh wrote: "This is so vivid, Rosa! "Yes. Thank you, Rosa.
And can I add that I really appreciate a fellow who defined gender violence as «terrorism against women»?
Josh wrote: "Rosa wrote: "OMG! I can't believe I hadn't noticed this before! The poem is in Spanish, I hope it's ok. This is my favourite poem for various reasons, it has been writen by a good friend and it re..."
Yes! You can feel the anguish and the absence through its words. If you like it, there's another good ones in the book where this one is included, it's called "Delta"
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7523910-delta
Mod
This is my favourite poem for various reasons, it has been writen by a good friend and it reminds me of a..."
Thank you for sharing this, Rosa!
Mod
by Amy Lowell
What is the thing I would say to you
Ere the time when we can say nothing at all,
Neither you to me nor I to you,
And between us is sprung a smoky wall?
If I am left, I shall push the mist
And crack my eyes to a gimlet point
Striving to pierce its every twist
And bore a hole through some weakened joint.
But I know very well it will disappoint
My keenest urge, and I shall be left
Baffled, forsaken, and blind to boot,
But with still the feeling that in some cleft
You linger and watch and maybe hear
The dim and feeble substitute
For speech which may travel from sphere to sphere
And hold itself perpetual
Merging the there and here.
I am counted one who is good at words,
And yet, in placing my thought of you
Where I can see it, hard and clear,
This, that, and the other, in review,
I think that only the songs of birds
Are adequate for the task which I
Can never even make the attempt
To come at ever so haltingly.
I earn my own contempt
That I should presume to try.
You have lifted my eyes, and made me whole,
And given me purpose, and held me faced
Toward the horizon you once had placed
As my aim's grand measure. Your starry truth
Has shown me the worm-holes in Earth's apple,
You have soothed me when I dared not look,
And forced me on to seek and grapple
With the nightmare doubts which block the ways
Of a matrix-breaking, visioning soul
When, lacking the arrogance of youth,
I started to carve the granite days
Into tablets of a book.
The hundred kindly daily things,
I have numbered them all though I may not speak them.
Sitting here on this Christmas Eve,
I think of you asleep above,
And the house has a gentleness which clings,
And a wide content of love.
What you have said and what you have done,
I should not have known enough to seek them,
But now the very rooms you leave
Have a peace which hangs like a hyacinth scent
All about them.
Your ways, your thoughts,
I would surely rather lose the sun
Than be without them.
So absolutely is it I am bent
To know how you are excellent.
Dearest, I have written it down
For your Christmas Day, but not half is said.
I might write so long it would span the town
And yet scarce mention more than a shred
Of you and you, and you and me;
And of all that I know so well to be,
How wretchedly I have scratched the stone!
You must know the end instead.
Mod
by Amy Lowell
What is the thing I would say to you
Ere the time when we can say nothing at all,
Neither you to me nor I to you,
And between us is sprung a smoky wall?
If I ..."
Thank you for sharing this! I haven't heard of it before.
I especially loved this bit (after the first read):
"Sitting here on this Christmas Eve,
I think of you asleep above,
And the house has a gentleness which clings,
And a wide content of love."
Johanna wrote: "I especially loved this bit (after the first read):"Sitting here on this Christmas Eve,
I think of you asleep above,
And the house has a gentleness which clings,
And a wide content of love." "
Me two. I went ''aww'' there, but I didn't want to confess it in public ;-). Thanks, Johanna!
And thank you for the poem, dear Josh.
Mod
by Amy Lowell
What is the thing I would say to you
Ere the time when we can say nothing at all,
Neither you to me nor I to you,
And between us is sprung a smoky wall..."
Those are my favorite too. :-)
Mod
(I know I am! LOL.)
Johanna wrote: "So, does that mean that all three of us are big softies...? ;-)(I know I am! LOL.)"
Of course. Under a tough appearance we conceal our romantic soul ;-).
I'm not joking: why would we read the stuff we read if not because of this?
Mod
But I love her for that undisciplined and emotional poetic outburst. Especially because she was usually such a careful painter of words.
Si tú me olvidas by Pablo NerudaQuiero que sepas
una cosa.
Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe,
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.
Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.
Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en ese día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.
Pero
si cada día,
cada hora
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable.
Si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.
From
http://www.neruda.uchile.cl/obra/obra...
If You Forget Me translated by Donald S. Walsh
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
From ;-)
http://joshlanyon.blogspot.ch/2016/12...
Mod
Quiero que sepas
una cosa.
Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ..."
Thank you so much for this, Antonella.
Josh wrote: "Antonella wrote: "Thank you so much for this, Antonella."Thank *you* for the poem.
I thought that several people here can read Spanish.
Mario Benedetti's poem No te salves is alternately translated as Don't Save Yourself or Don't Play It Safe. Good as a new year resolution ;-)
See below a probably amateurishly English translation.
Here Mario Benedetti reads his poem in the original version:
No te salves
No te quedes inmóvil
al borde del camino
no congeles el júbilo
no quieras con desgana
no te salves ahora
ni nunca
no te salves
no te llenes de calma
no reserves del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
no dejes caer los párpados
pesados como juicios
no te quedes sin labios
no te duermas sin sueño
no te pienses sin sangre
no te juzgues sin tiempo
pero si
pese a todo
no puedes evitarlo
y congelas el júbilo
y quieres con desgana
y te salvas ahora
y te llenas de calma
y reservas del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
y dejas caer los párpados
pesados como juicios
y te secas sin labios
y te duermes sin sueño
y te piensas sin sangre
y te juzgas sin tiempo
y te quedas inmóvil
al borde del camino
y te salvas
entonces
no te quedes conmigo.
Do not save yourself
Do not stand still
by the roadside
Do not freeze the joy
Do not want reluctantly
Do not save yourself now
Or ever
Do not save yourself
Do not fill yourself with calm
Do not book in the world
just a quiet corner
Do not lower the eyelids
Heavy as judgments
Do not stand without lips
Do not sleep without sleep
Do not think without Blood
Do not judge yourself out of time
But if
Nevertheless
you can not help it
and you freeze the joy
and want reluctantly
and you save yourself now
and book in the world
just a quiet corner
and lower the eyelids
heavy as judgments
And you dry without lips
and you sleep without sleep
and you think without blood
And you judge yourself out of time
and you stand still
By the roadside
And you save yourself
Then
Do not stay with me
(http://lyricstranslate.com/de/no-te-s...)
Antonella wrote: "Mario Benedetti's poem No te salves is alternately translated as Don't Save Yourself or Don't Play It Safe. Good as a new year resolution ;-)
See below a probably amateurishly English translation..."
I love this poem! Thank you for posting it <3
I think your translation is quite good. Really accurate :) But it always amazes me how the poems change when translated, it's really interesting I think.
Rosa wrote: "I love this poem! Thank you for posting it <3I think your translation is quite good. Really accurate :) But it always amazes me how the poems change when translated, it's really interesting I think."
Thank you, but it is not my translation, I put there the link to the website I took it from.
I've just heard a good quote about poetry in translation in a very poetic movie Paterson by Jim Jarmush, but I forgot it.
IMO it is impossible to properly translate poetry.
Antonella wrote: "Rosa wrote: "I love this poem! Thank you for posting it <3I think your translation is quite good. Really accurate :) But it always amazes me how the poems change when translated, it's really inter..."
Oh! I didn't realize about the translation. I saw the message yesterday in the middle of the party and I didn't notice it ^__^Û
Yes, I agree with you, translating poetry is almost impossible. But I think it's really good that poems are translated because if you know both languages you can enjoy them twice, because at least for me, the words give me slightly different feelings :)
A Winter Night by Sara Teasdale((found here: http://joshlanyon.blogspot.it/2016/12... ;-))
My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.
God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro.
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.
My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.
This quote by Marianne Williamson is not a poem, but I've seen it written as a poem in its German translation and I loved it, so I thought to post it here:“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
NB: The quote is sometimes falsely attributed to Nelson Mandela, or it is said Nelson Mandela quoted it in his inaugural speech, but it from A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of "A Course in Miracles"
Mod
Good as a new year resolution ;-)
See below a probably amateurishly English translation..."
Oh wow!
Mod
“Our deepest fear is not that we are i..."
That is lovely.
A quote by Mario Benedetti, a kind of haiku:Después de todo,
la muerte es sólo un síntoma
de que hubo vida.
I found following translations:
In the end, death is just a symptom of having lived.
After all death is only a sign/symbol/symptom that there was life.
It was the end of the letter left by Eduardo “Pacho” Dellagiovanna, born in Argentina in 1951, exiled in Italy during the dictatorship, who committed suicide yesterday in Italy because he having lost his job one year ago he didn't have any money to survive. After having paid 34 years of contributions according to the new dispositions he would have had to wait 18 months to get a pension. What a sad story...
Antonella wrote: "A quote by Mario Benedetti, a kind of haiku:Después de todo,
la muerte es sólo un síntoma
de que hubo vida.
I found following translations:
In the end, death is just a symptom of having lived...."
That is very sad.
Antonella wrote: "A quote by Mario Benedetti, a kind of haiku:Después de todo,
la muerte es sólo un síntoma
de que hubo vida.
I found following translations:
In the end, death is just a symptom of having lived...."
That story is so sad and unfair... but thank you for the little "haiku" I think is really beautiful.
Mod
Después de todo,
la muerte es sólo un síntoma
de que hubo vida.
I found following translations:
In the end, death is just a symptom of having lived...."
That's heartbreaking.
I saw Down by Law by Jim Jarmusch (1986). In the movie Roberto Benigni quotes The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
It has been differently interpreted. You'll find some notes on it here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road...
Mod
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one..."
This is one of my all time favorite poems. The older I get, the more I appreciate it.
Mod
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road... "
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I have to admit that all this time I was certain that the poem was meant to encourage getting off the "beaten path" — following one's own ways, not the crowd. Hmmm...
Mod
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road... "
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travel..."
No, I don't believe it's about following the crowd. It's about the fact that we are the choices we make and that no choice will be perfect.
Mod
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road... "
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the o..."
The Wikipedia article seemed to imply that Frost intended it as a (gentle) prod to his indecisive friend, which would mean that I misread this line by taking it seriously, while Frost meant it ironically?
And that has made all the difference.
Mod
Yeah, that's how I've understood it, the same way you had.
Mod
Well, yes, this too.
Mod
Mod
I found this post about 'The Road Not Taken' interesting: http://yuptab.com/robert-frosts-the-r... Here's a quote from it:
While living in Gloucestershire (England) in 1914, Frost frequently took long walks with Thomas through the English countryside. Thomas frequently chose a route to enable him to show his American friend a rare plant or a special vista; but often before the end of the walk, Thomas would regret the choice he had made and would sigh over what they might have seen if they had taken a “better” direction. Frost is said to have teased his English friend, on more than one occasion, about the “wasted regrets.” Frost believing in the philosophy of not looking back perhaps found something romantic in sighing over what might have been. (Thompson, quoted by Mehta and Bennerjee)
While back in the US, after writing “The Road”, Frost sent a manuscript copy of the poem to Thomas, without comment, hoping that his friend would notice the irony in the line “I shall be telling this with a sign.” Since the irony was too subtle, his friend disappointingly missed the point. (Thompson)
When “The Road Not Taken” was first published in the Atlantic Monthly (August 1915 issue), the pivotal irony of the poem continued to be missed by the readers. At various times, Frost gave hints about the hidden irony in the poem. On one occasion, after the public reading of “The Road..” he pointedly warned: “You have to be careful of that one; it’s a trick poem – very tricky.” (Thompson)
Frost himself has been rather unclear about the exact background of the poem. While he has acknowledged at times, the Edward Thomas connection to the poem, it turns out that it is not the only one. At the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference on August 23,1953 he is quoted to have said:
One stanza of ‘The Road Not Taken’ was written while I was sitting on a sofa in the middle of England: Was found three or four years later, and I couldn’t bear not to finish it. I wasn’t thinking about myself there, but about a friend who had gone off to war, a person who, whichever road he went, would be sorry he didn’t go the other. He was hard on himself that way. (Quoted in “The Road..” Classic Poetry Pages)
Mod
And that has made all the difference."
It seems that way.
Mod
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road... "
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—..."
I guess it could be ironic or pointed, but it's also going to be the simple truth. :-)
Mod
I found this post about 'The Road Not Taken' interesting: htt..."
Because no creative work is ever the result of one thing or one moment. Even if the author believes that to be true at any given point. Because we remember things later, different influences resurface, different recollections. At one point we see one theme in our song/book/poem/painting book but later we recognize other forces at work. Or someone else recognizes other forces at work.
Which is why when people ask about the AE series I might remember some fact which later eludes me or forget something that actually was really important at the time, but no longer is.
Memory is tricky. Art is even trickier. :-)
Mod
I do think it is pretty much a perfect poem. :-)
Mod
I found this post about 'The Road Not Taken' ..."
Yes, what you say is extremely interesting and true. And I find it fascinating to hear your author's/artist's point of view. Because I think that's one of the best things in art (in fact in both art making and art consuming) — it "speaks" to us all slightly differently depending on our personal history and where exactly we are in our life journey at the time. Especially with visual arts I find this wonderfully liberating — there really aren't wrong interpretations when you examine for example a painting. At least that's how I see it. At least that's what I try to assure my students of when they're shy/unsure to say what they think when analyzing art. :-) Obviously general knowledge and knowledge of art history helps greatly in analyzing art — but experiencing it... there's no one way, or wrong way, to do it. And that makes art really very cool. :-D
Mod
“It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.”
The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus (1883)Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
In the course of history Emma Lazarus' lines written on the Statue of Liberty were sometimes less true than others. I know that other countries are also closing their doors to refugees, but maybe this it the time to reread this poem. By the way Lazarus came from a Jewish family originally immigrated from Germany.
Mod
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman wi..."
Heartbreaking.
Mod
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman wi..."
Very timely reminder, this.
Sorry for being a bit one track minded lately, but I've heard this only now, read by Sheila Hancock for Holocaust Memorial Day 2017.Refugee Blues by WH Auden (1939)
Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.
Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.
In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.
The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.
Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?
Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.
Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.
Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.
Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.
Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.
Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.
Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.
Muriel Rukeyser, “Poem”I lived in the first century of world wars.
Most mornings I would be more or less insane.
The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,
The news would pour out of various devices
Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.
I would call my friends on other devices;
They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.
Slowly I would get to pen and paper,
Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.
In the day I would be reminded of those men and women,
Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,
Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined
values.
As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,
We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,
To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile
Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,
Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means
To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,
To let go the means, to wake.
I lived in the first century of these wars.
William Stanford 'Peace Walk'We wondered what our walk should mean
taking that un-march quietly;
the sun stared at our signs—“Thou shalt not kill.”
Men by a tavern said, “Those foreigners . . . ”
to a woman with a fur, who turned away—
like an elevator going down, their look at us.
Along a curb, their signs lined across,
a picket line stopped and stared
the whole width of the street, at ours: “Unfair.”
Above our heads the sound truck blared—
by the park, under the autumn trees—
it said that love could fill the atmosphere:
Occur, slow the other fallout, unseen,
on islands everywhere—fallout, falling
unheard. We held our poster up to shade our eyes.
At the end we just walked away;
no one was there to tell us where to leave the signs.
Q&A with Josh Lanyon
Books mentioned in this topic
Mr. Cogito (other topics)Don't Mention the Children (other topics)
Writing Haiku: A Beginner's Guide to Composing Japanese Poetry (other topics)
Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life (other topics)
The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World (other topics)
More...
Authors mentioned in this topic
Zbigniew Herbert (other topics)Vanni Bianconi (other topics)
Pablo Neruda (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
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“I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,
I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,
Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.”
Walt Whitman, Song Of The Open Road