Tuesday 30 May 2023

Tuesday Poem: "Peaches" by Jack Gilbert


The ship goes down and everybody is lost or is living 
comfortably in Spain. He finds himself at the edge 
of emptiness, absence and heat everywhere. 
Just shacks along the beach and nobody in them. 
He has listened to the song so often that he hears 
only the spaces between the notes. He stands there, 
remembering peaches. A strange, almost gray kind 
that had little taste when he got them home, and that 
little not much good. But there had to be a reason 
why people bought them. So he decided to make jam. 
When he smelled the scorching, they were already tar. 
Scraped out the mess and was glad to have it over. 
Found himself licking the crust on the spoon. Next day 
he had eaten the rest, still not sure whether he liked 
it or not. And never able to find any of them since. 

by Jack Gilbert

Photo Credit: Kate Davidson, NPR

For more information about the poet, Jack Gilbert, see:


Tuesday 23 May 2023

Tuesday Poem: "Making the Move" by Paul Muldoon


When Ulysses braved the wine-dark sea
He left his bow with Penelope,

Who would bend for no one but himself.
I edge along the book-shelf,

Past bad Lord Byron, Raymond Chandler,
Howard Hughes; The Hidden Years,

Past Blaise Pascal, who, bound in hide,
Divined the void to his left side:

Such books as one may think one owns
Unloose themselves like stones

And clatter down into this wider gulf
Between myself and my good wife;

A primus stove, a sleeping-bag,
The bow I bought through a catalogue

When I was thirteen or fourteen
That would bend, and break, for anyone,

Its boyish length of maple upon maple
Unseasoned and unsupple.

Were I embarking on that wine-dark sea
I would bring my bow along with me.

by Paul Muldoon

Photo Credit: Oliver Morris

For more information about the poet, Paul Muldoon, see:


Tuesday 16 May 2023

Tuesday Poem: "Hell is Graduated" by Max Jacob


When I was employed at Cooperative Fashions, in spite of the dark, 
ugly old maid, I tried to steal some garters.  I was pursued down the 
superb staircases, not for the theft, but for my laziness at work and for 
my hatred of the innocent finery.  Descend, you are pursued.  The stair-
cases are less beautiful in the offices than in the part open to the public.  
The staircases are less beautiful in the "service" quarters than in the 
offices.  The staircases are still less beautiful in the cellar!  But what can 
I say of the marsh where I arrived?  What can I say of the laughter?  Of 
the animals that brushed by me, and of the whisperings of unseen 
creatures?  Water gave place to fire, to fear, to unconsciousness; when I 
came to myself I was in the hands of silent and nameless surgeons.

by Max Jacob (translated from the French by Elizabeth Jacob)

Photo Credit: Vechten (Library of Congress)

For more information about the poet, Max Jacob, see:

Tuesday 9 May 2023

Tuesday Poem: "Untitled" by Rainer Maria Rilke


You must suffer long, not knowing what, 
until suddenly, out of bitterly chewed fruit
your suffering's taste comes forth in you. 
Then almost instantly you'll love what's tasted. No one
will ever talk you out of it. 

Paris, 1913

by Rainer Maria Rilke (translated from the German by Edward Snow)


For more information about the poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, see:


Tuesday 2 May 2023

Tuesday Poem (Song): "Thousands Are Sailing" by The Pogues



The island, it is silent nowBut the ghosts still haunt the wavesAnd the torch lights up a famished manWho fortune could not save
Did you work upon the railroad?Did you rid the streets of crime?Were your dollars from the White House?Were they from the Five-and-Dime?
Did the old songs taunt or cheer you?And did they still make you cry?Did you count the months and yearsOr did your teardrops quickly dry?
"Ah, no", says he, "it was not to beOn a coffin ship I came hereAnd I never even got so farThat they could change my name"
Thousands are sailingAcross the western oceanTo a land of opportunityThat some of them will never seeFortune prevailingAcross the western oceanTheir bellies fullTheir spirits freeThey'll break the chains of povertyAnd they'll dance
In Manhattan's desert twilightIn the death of afternoonWe stepped hand in hand on BroadwayLike the first man on the moon
And a blackbird broke the silenceAs you whistled it so sweetAnd in Brendan Behan's footstepsI danced up and down the street
Then we said goodnight to BroadwayGiving it our best regardsTipped our hats to Mister CohenDear old Times Square's favourite bard
Then we raised a glass to JFKAnd a dozen more besidesWhen I got back to my empty roomI suppose I must have cried
Thousands are sailingAgain across the oceanWhere the hand of opportunityDraws tickets in a lotteryPostcards we're mailingOf sky light skies and oceansFrom rooms the daylight never seesAnd lights don't glow on Christmas treesAnd we danced to the musicAnd we danced
Thousands are sailingAcross the western oceanWhere the hand of opportunityDraws tickets in a lotteryWhere e'er we go, we celebrateThe land that makes us refugeesFrom fear of priests with empty platesFrom guilt and weeping effigiesStill we dance to the musicAnd we dance

by Philip Chevron

For more information about The Pogues see: