Tuesday, 27 August 2019

Tuesday Poem: "Horses at Midnight Without a Moon" by Jack Gilbert

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down

but the angel flies up again taking us with her.

The summer mornings begin inch by inch

while we sleep, and walk with us later

as long-legged beauty through

the dirty streets. It is no surprise 

that danger and suffering surround us.

What astonishes is the singing.

We know the horses are there in the dark

meadow because we can smell them,

can hear them breathing. 

Our spirit persists like a man struggling 

through the frozen valley

who suddenly smells flowers

and realizes the snow is melting

out of sight on top of the mountain,

knows that spring has begun.

by Jack Gilbert

For more information about poet, Jack Gilbert, see:

Tuesday, 20 August 2019

Tuesday Poem: "American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin' by Terrance Hayes

The black poet would love to say his century began
With Hughes or, God forbid, Wheatley, but actually

It began with all the poetry weirdos & worriers, warriors,

Poetry whiners & winos falling from ship bows, sunset

Bridges & windows. In a second I’ll tell you how little

Writing rescues. My hunch is that Sylvia Plath was not

Especially fun company. A drama queen, thin-skinned,

And skittery, she thought her poems were ordinary.

What do you call a visionary who does not recognize

Her vision? Orpheus was alone when he invented writing.

His manic drawing became a kind of writing when he sent

His beloved a sketch of an eye with an X struck through it.

He meant 
I am blind without you. She thought he meant
I never want to see you again. It is possible he meant that, too. 

by Terrance Hayes

For more information about poet, terrance hayes, see:

Tuesday, 13 August 2019

Tuesday Poem: "Today's Special" by Warren Decker

Today's special is all-natural rage, 
Grilled on a smoldering fire. 
Its powerful flavor made subtle with age,
Today's special is all-natural rage. 
Domestically raised in a comfortable cage, 
And fed only free-range desire, 
Today's special is all-natural rage,
Grilled on a smoldering fire. 

by Warren Decker

Poet, Warren Decker, keeps a low profile, but you can find his blog here:

Tuesday, 6 August 2019

Tuesday Poem: "On the pier at Kinlochbervie" by Norman MacCaig

The stars go out one by one
as though a bluetit the size of the world

were pecking them like peanuts out of the sky's string bag,

A ludicrous image, I know.

Take away the gray light.

I want the bronze shields of summer

or winter's scalding sleet.

My mind is struggling with itself.

That fishing boat is a secret

approaching me. It's a secret

coming out of another one.

I want to know the first one of all.

Everything's in the distance,

as I am. I wish I could flip that distance

like a cigarette into the water.

I want an extreme nearness.

I want boundaries on my mind.

I want to feel the world like a straitjacket.

by Norman MacCaig

For more information about poet, Norman MacCaig, see: