Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Half Caste" by John Agard


Excuse me
Standing on one leg

I'm half-caste


Explain yuself

Wha yu mean

When yu say half-caste

Yu mean when picasso

Mix red an green

Is a half-caste canvas?

Explain yuself

Wha u mean

When yu say half-caste

Yu mean when light an shadow

Mix in de sky

Is a half-caste weather??

Well in dat case

England weather

Nearly always half-caste

In fact some o dem cloud

Half-caste till dem overcast

So spiteful dem dont want de sun pass

Ah rass

Explain yuself

Wha yu mean

When yu say half-caste?

Yu mean tchaikovsky

Sit down at dah piano

An mix a black key

Wid a white key

Is a half-caste symphony?


Explain yuself

Wha yu mean

Ah listening to yu wid de keen

Half of mih ear

Ah looking at u wid de keen

Half of mih eye

And when I'm introduced to yu

I'm sure you'll understand

Why I offer yu half-a-hand

An when I sleep at night

I close half-a-eye

Consequently when I dream

I dream half-a-dream

An when moon begin to glow

I half-caste human being

Cast half-a-shadow

But yu come back tomorrow

Wid de whole of yu eye

An de whole of yu ear

And de whole of yu mind


An I will tell yu

De other half

Of my story


by John Agard


For more information about poet, John Agard, see:

https://www.poetryarchive.org/poet/john-agard

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Tuesday Poem : "My Father's Kites" by Allison Joseph


were crude assemblages of paper sacks and twine,
amalgams of pilfered string and whittled sticks,

twigs pulled straight from his garden, dry patch


of stony land before our house only he

could tend into beauty, thorny roses goaded

into color. How did he make those makeshift


diamonds rise, grab ahold of the wind to sail

into sky like nothing in our neighborhood

of dented cars and stolid brick houses could?


It wasn’t through faith or belief in otherworldly

grace, but rather a metaphor from moving

on a street where cars rusted up on blocks,


monstrously immobile, and planes, bound

for that world we could not see, roared

above our heads, our houses pawns


in a bigger flight path. How tricky the launch

into air, the wait for the right eddy to lift

our homemade contraption into the sullen


blue sky above us, our eyes stinging

with the glut of the sun. And the sad tangle

after flight, collapse of grocery bags


and broken branches, snaggle of string

I still cannot unfurl. Father, you left me

with this unsated need to find the most


delicately useful of breezes, to send

myself into the untenable, balance my weight

as if on paper wings, a flutter then fall,


a stutter back to earth, an elastic sense

of being and becoming forged in our front

yard, your hand over mine over balled string.

by Allison Joseph


For more information about poet, Allison Joseph, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/allison-joseph


Sunday, June 10, 2018

"Untitled" by Michael Leunig


The smear on the footpath
The blot on the floor
The stain on the table
The scratch on the door
The smudge on the ceiling
The splotch on the chair:
The marks that remind me
My true love was there.

by Michael Leunig

Saturday, June 9, 2018

"Stan the Fan" by Michael Leunig


I'm a huge fan of the fan
And when I'm feeling hot
I have a fan called Stan
I turn him on a lot.

I lie there on the bed
Stan sits upon a stool
He slowly turns his head
And everything is cool.

I love to sleep with Stan
And feel him by my side
Stan's the lovely man
Who keeps me satisfied.

by Michael Leunig

Friday, June 8, 2018

"Untitled" by Michael Leunig


Life is but a leap into a bucket;
Seize a juicy saveloy and suck it;
Tell your enemies to go and shove it;
Plunge into your life and try to love it.

by Michael Leunig

Thursday, June 7, 2018

"Where the Hoon Sucks (apologies to William Shakespeare)" by Michael Leunig


Where the hoon sucks, there suck I;
In an Irish pub I lie;
There I couch as bowels do cry.
Off the handle I do fly
In the summer hot and dry.
Merry, merry I shall be;
Head butt if you look at me.

by Michael Leunig

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

"Lament" by Michael Leunig


As I lay sleeping
The graffiti boy came creeping;
Creeping through the dark
To make a boring mark
That made no sense
Upon the paling fence.

I can recall
When old Jack Frost would call
As I lay curled;
He painted half the world
In sparkling white;
And always got it right.

by Michael Leunig