Tuesday, 23 January 2024
Tuesday Poem: (Song)"Beverly Penn" by The Waterboys
Tuesday, 16 January 2024
Tuesday Poem: (Song) "Fairytale of New York" by The Pogues
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
Were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last
Still singing Galway Bay
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas day
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you
Still singing Galway Bay
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas day
Tuesday, 9 January 2024
Tuesday Poem: "My Brother the Artist, at Seven" by Philip Levine
behind our block, six frame houses
holding six immigrant families,
the parents speaking only gibberish
to their neighbors. Without the kids
they couldn't say "Good morning" and be
understood. Little wonder
he learned early to speak to himself,
to tell no one what truly mattered.
How much can matter to a kid
of seven? Everything. The whole world
can be his. Just after dawn he sneaks
out to hide in the wild, bleached grasses
of August and pretends he's grown up,
someone complete in himself without
the need for anyone, a warrior
from the ancient places our fathers
fled years before, those magic places:
Kiev, Odessa, the Crimea,
Port Said, Alexandria, Lisbon,
the Canaries, Caracas, Galveston.
In the damp grass he recites the names
over and over in a hushed voice
while the sun climbs into the locust tree
to waken the houses. The husbands leave
for work, the women return to bed, the kids
bend to porridge and milk. He advances
slowly, eyes fixed, an animal or a god,
while beneath him the earth holds its breath.
Tuesday, 2 January 2024
Tuesday Poem: "Epitaph on my own friend" by Robert Burns
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d:
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
Tuesday, 19 December 2023
Tuesday Poem: "Poetry is Political" by Leslie D. Bush
Poetry is political?
How can this be
Can society be upended
Divided by a love poem?
Poets are political?
Yes. No. Maybe
Some examples
Perhaps
Poets don’t tell
The literal truth
(Who does?)
They see things
That are not necessarily
There. Do continue.
See motives when such
Motives might not exist
Interesting, pray continue
(to dig yourself into a hole)
The truth is grey, everybody knows
Why do you paint it white as snow
Or blood stained, by death in the masses
Do these things not happen?
Are they not motivated by and acted on
By humans? I write what I see
You say, poetry is political
Do you mean, designed to misinform
Not to tell the truth? To inflame the minds
Of the proletariat, to put the powerful at risk?
You can’t be too careful, can you?
Yes, poets and poetry ARE political
In the sense they are human
Producing human creations
Yes, poems are political
They are narratives, they choose a side
And argue their case, assertively
Honestly. Do you fear debate?
It would be imprecise to say
Poetry is truth. It is not the opposite
By purpose. A poet seeks the truth
Either literally or metaphorically
Nothing less will satisfy them
So, yes, poetry is a political act
So is breathing. Going to ban that?
by Leslie D. Bush
Tuesday, 12 December 2023
Tuesday Poem; "What Belongs to Us" by Marie Howe
The carefully rehearsed short cuts home.
Not the summer shimmering like pavement, when Lucia
pushed Billy off the rabbit house and broke his arm
or our tiny footprints in the black files.
Not the list of kings from Charlemagne to Henry
not the boxes under our beds
or Tommy’s wedding day when it was so hot and Mark played the flute
and we waved at him waving from the small round window in the loft
the great gangs of people stepping one by one into the cold water.
I have, of course, a photograph
you and I getting up from a couch.
Full height, I stand almost two inches taller than you
but the photograph doesn’t show that
just the two of us in motion
not looking at each other, smiling.
Not even the way we said things, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Not the cabin where I burned my arm and you said, oh, you’re the type
that even if it hurt, you wouldn’t say.
Tuesday, 3 October 2023
Tuesday Poem: "Winter's Formulae" by Tomas Tranströmer
Walked along the antipoetic wall.
Die Mauer. Don't look over.
It wants to surround our adult lives
in the routine city, the routine landscape.
Eluard touched some button
and the wall opened
and the garden showed itself.
I used to go with the milk pail through the wood.
Purple trunks on all sides.
An old joke in there
as beautiful as a votive ship.
Summer read out of Pickwick Papers.
The good life, a tranquil carriage
crowded with excited gentlemen.
Close your eyes, change horses.
In distress come childish thoughts.
We sat by the sickbed and prayed
for a pause in the terror, a breach
where the Pickwicks could pull in.
Close your eyes, change horses.
It is easy to love fragments
that have been on the way a long time.
Inscriptions on church bells
and proverbs written across saints
and many-thousand-year-old seeds.
Archilochos! -- No answer!
The birds roamed over the seas' rough pelt.
We locked ourselves in with Simenon
and felt the smell of human life
where the serials debouch.
Feel the smell of truth.
The open window has stopped
in front of the treetops here
and the evening sky's farewell letter.
Shiki, Björling and Ungaretti
with life's chalks on the death's blackboard.
The poem which is completely possible.
I looked up when the branches swung.
White gulls were eating black cherries.
by Tomas Tranströmer (translated from the Swedish by May Swenson)