Tuesday Poem: "Who Makes These Changes?" by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

Who makes these changes?
I shoot an arrow right.
It lands left.
I ride after a deer and find myself
Chased by a hog.
I plot to get what I want
And end up in prison.
I dig pits to trap others
And fall in.

I should be suspicious

Of what I want. 

by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi (translated from the Persian by Coleman Barks with John Moyne)

For more information on the ancient Persian poet, Rumi, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi

Tuesday Poem: "The Untrustworthy Speaker" by Louise Glück

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.
I don’t see anything objectively.

I know myself; I’ve learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
that’s when I’m least to be trusted.

It’s very sad, really: all my life, I’ve been praised
for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight.
In the end, they’re wasted—

I never see myself,
standing on the front steps, holding my sister’s hand.
That’s why I can’t account
for the bruises on her arm, where the sleeve ends.

In my own mind, I’m invisible: that’s why I’m dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless,
we’re the cripples, the liars;
we’re the ones who should be factored out
in the interest of truth.

When I’m quiet, that’s when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house, the azaleas
red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
to the older daughter, block her out:
when a living thing is hurt like that,
in its deepest workings,
all function is altered.

That’s why I’m not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart

is also a wound to the mind. 

by Louise Glück

For more information about poet,  Louise Glück, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/louise-gluck

Tuesday Poem: "For Chrissie Weeping for the Sea" by Andrew M. Bell

As yesterday, Monday 22 February 2020, was the 10th Anniversary of the Christchurch Earthquake, I thought it would be appropriate to share this poem I wrote for a good friend who was mourning the fact that our oceans were filled with sewage for 10 months after the earthquake.

You’re the one,

the nexus, the crux, the one at the centre

keeping all us flakes from

flaking off into a life more ordinary

and yet,

here you are, bursting into spontaneous tears,

the creep up behind you emotions,

the lump rising mid-word

and it’s not much to ask:

here, the poor people have a patch of the sea

not generally a city feature.

We walk our dogs, we surf our dreams and we contemplate.

We know the value of a dollar and the value of

turning your back on one.

And we’re a funny, fucked-up family

and our sea is our friend,

our plaything,

our solace and we’ll drive

one and a half hours

on special occasions

just to change our view of our sea

but we’ll always come back to our strip

of our sea

and we’ll stand and weep with our friend, Chrissie,

for the day they filled our sea with shit.

by Andrew M. Bell

POET'S NOTE: The poet wishes to acknowledge the editors of Landfall in whose Issue 230 this poem was first published.

Photograph Credit: Joe Hayes

For more information about the poet, Andrew M. Bell, see:

https://ambell4.wixsite.com/andrew-m-bell-author

Tuesday Poem: "Me" by Chairil Anwar

 

When my time comes

No one's going to cry for me,
And you won't, either
The hell with all those tears!

I'm a wild beast
Driven out of the herd

Bullets may pierce my skin
But I'll keep coming,

Carrying forward my wounds and my pain
Attacking
Attacking
Until suffering disappears

And I won't give a damn

I want to live another thousand years

by Chairil Anwar (translated from the Indonesian by Burton Raffel)

For more information about poet,  Chairil Anwar, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chairil_Anwar

Tuesday Poem: "Green Apples" by Ruth Stone

 

In August we carried the old horsehair mattress
To the back porch
And slept with our children in a row.
The wind came up the mountain into the orchard
Telling me something;
Saying something urgent.
I was happy.
The green apples fell on the sloping roof
And rattled down.
The wind was shaking me all night long;
Shaking me in my sleep
Like a definition of love,
Saying, this is the moment,
Here, now.

by Ruth Stone

Photo Credit: Jan Freeman

For more information about poet, Ruth Stone, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ruth-stone

Tuesday Poem: "Cut Grass" by Philip Larkin

 

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace.

by Philip Larkin

For more information about the poet, Philip Larkin, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/philip-larkin

Tuesday Poem: "Zoom Calls in the Time of Coronavirus (Part 2)" by John Kenney

Why, yes,

that was my five-year-old son

running back and forth,

nude,

behind me,

shouting,

“Anus! Anus! Anus!”

while the dog barked

and my husband yelled

and I leaned away from the computer

so that no one would hear me scream

“Greg! For Christ’s sake, can you get the fucking kids out of here?!”

and then smoothly sat back up

only to see the rather stunned faces

of my colleagues

and hear my boss

remind everyone

to mute themselves.

by John Kenney 

Photo Credit: Rick Knief

For more information about the poet, John Kenney, see:

https://www.byjohnkenney.com/about