Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Tuesday Poem: "At Days Bay" by James K. Baxter

To lie on a beach after
looking at old poems: how

slow untroubled by any

grouch of mine or yours, Father

Ocean tumbles in the bay

alike with solitary


divers, cripples, yelling girls

and pipestem kids. He does what

suits us all; and somewhere — there,

out there, where the high tight sails

are going — he wears a white

death flag of foam for us, far


out, for when we want it. So

on Gea’s breast, the broad nurse

who bears with me, I think of

adolescence: that sad boy

I was, thoughts crusted with ice

on the treadmill of self-love,


Narcissus damned, who yet brought

like a coal in a hallow

stalk, the seed of fire that runs

through my veins now. I praise that

sad boy now, who having no

hope, did not blow out his brains.

by James K. Baxter

For more information about the poet, James K. Baxter, see:

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Dream of a Slave" by Gavin Ewart

I want to be carried, heavily sedated,
into a waiting aircraft.

I want to collapse from nervous exhaustion.

I want to bow my head like Samson

and bring down with me

the top ten advertising agencies.

I want to see the little bosses

vanish like harmless fairies.

I want the pantomime to be over,

the circus empty.

I want what is real to establish itself,

my children to prevail,

to live happy ever after

in this world that worships the preposterous.

It is better to be a scribe

than hacking at the salt mines,

heaving the building blocks.

Everybody wants to be a scribe.

But I want out. I want non-existence.

A passive dream, a future for my children.

by Gavin Ewart

For more information about poet, Gavin Ewart, see:

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Afternoons" by Jorge H. Aigla

Those afternoons, the Saturdays of my tender childhood
in Mexico City

were just lovely.

It was the time when fathers

were one on one with their sons,

and took them to see friends, have an ice,

talk in the park, or to intriguing stores

from their youth.

I remember going to a store

that sold mountain climbing equipment:

my father knew “The Goat,”

one of the climbers of the great Popocatepetl,

and he would show us boots, ropes, and hammers,

and photographs of the Valley of Mexico and of snow.

Another place in my fantast was a corner

in the old section of the city,

where they sold model airplanes

with gasoline engines;

I would watch the wealthy kids buy

and we in our dreams would fly.

Another place was the small shop of the Japanese man, Osawa,

who sold shells, butterflies, spiders, beetles,

and other vermin and dried creepers;

for a few pesos one could well

enlarge a modest collection.

A labyrinth in the basement of a mansion

led one to the abode of the Old Catalán

who sold stamps and postal seals;

he had in his possession the first stamp of Juárez,

and promised never to sell it,

though perhaps, he might give it to me some day.

In a garage Don Leopoldo sold supplies for engineers:

slide rules with many rows, squares,

fine pens, india ink, complicated compasses,

and with all this my father’s friend

traced a world for me.

Those crammed afternoons, already abandoned,

shadowed by death,

undone by a fast and coarse world,

taught me what it is to fill out

the alertness of time.

by Jorge H. Aigla

For more information about the poet, Jorge H. Aigla, see: