Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Vespers" by Denis Johnson


The towels rot and disgust me on this damp
peninsula where they invented mist
and drug abuse and taught the light to fade,
where my top-quality and rock-bottom heart
cried because I'll never get to kiss
your famous knees again in a room made
vague by throwing a scarf over a lamp.
Things get pretty radical in the dark:
the sailboats on the inlet sail away;
the provinces of actuality
crawl on the sea; the dusk now tenderly
ministers to the fallen parking lots—
the sunset instantaneous on the fenders,
memory and peace . . . the grip of chaos . . .


by Denis Johnson

 
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Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Love after Love" by Derek Walcott


The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, at your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

by Derek Walcott


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Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "The Gift" by Andrew M. Bell


for Thomas and Ryan

When we are cosmic dust
blowing through the universe
and memories of us fade
like colours in a Polaroid
you can pick up your guitar and know
your parents gave you a gift
no one could take away

by Andrew M. Bell



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POET'S NOTE: The poet would like to acknowledge The Press, Christchurch, in whose pages this poem first appeared.


Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Hunger" by Jack Gilbert



Digging into the apple
with my thumbs.

Scraping out the clogged nails

and digging deeper.

Refusing the moon color.

Refusing the smell and memories.

Digging in with the sweet juice

running along my hands unpleasantly.

Refusing the sweetness.

Turning my hands to gouge out chunks.

Feeling the juice sticky

on my wrists. The skin itching.

Getting to the wooden part.

Getting to the seeds.

Going on.

Not taking anyone's word for it.

Getting beyond the seeds.



by Jack Gilbert



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