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:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jack-gilbert

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:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/paul-muldoon

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:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/max-jacob

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:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/rainer-maria-rilke

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

The island, it is silent now
But the ghosts still haunt the waves
And the torch lights up a famished man
Who 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 years
Or did your teardrops quickly dry?

"Ah, no", says he, "it was not to be
On a coffin ship I came here
And I never even got so far
That they could change my name"

Thousands are sailing
Across the western ocean
To a land of opportunity
That some of them will never see
Fortune prevailing
Across the western ocean
Their bellies full
Their spirits free
They'll break the chains of poverty
And they'll dance

In Manhattan's desert twilight
In the death of afternoon
We stepped hand in hand on Broadway
Like the first man on the moon

And a blackbird broke the silence
As you whistled it so sweet
And in Brendan Behan's footsteps
I danced up and down the street

Then we said goodnight to Broadway
Giving it our best regards
Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen
Dear old Times Square's favourite bard

Then we raised a glass to JFK
And a dozen more besides
When I got back to my empty room
I suppose I must have cried

Thousands are sailing
Again across the ocean
Where the hand of opportunity
Draws tickets in a lottery
Postcards we're mailing
Of sky light skies and oceans
From rooms the daylight never sees
And lights don't glow on Christmas trees
And we danced to the music
And we danced

Thousands are sailing
Across the western ocean
Where the hand of opportunity
Draws tickets in a lottery
Where e'er we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies
Still we dance to the music
And we dance

by Philip Chevron

For more information about The Pogues see:

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

Tuesday Poem: "About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter" by Charles Bukowski

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?”
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
thing.”
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”

“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”

“what happened
then?”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
her?”
“yes.”

“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
HARD!”

“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“no.”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
writer.”
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“why?”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
have.”
“yes.”
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
poetry.”
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“what?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
mind!”
“buy a piano.”
“you think
so?”
“yes.”

he walks away
thinking about
it.

I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more

sad music.

by Charles Bukowski

For more information about the poet, Charles Bukowski, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/charles-bukowski

Christmas Day Poem: "My Christmas Wish" by Andrew M. Bell

When you’re sitting down to turkeys and hams, 

remember those in far-off lands

and even people in your street

who do not have enough to eat.

 

When your family is gathered near,

remember those who cower in fear

whose loved ones are lost or dead

as songs of war sing overhead.

 

When you sit with port and swollen belly

to watch the King’s message on the telly,

remember those hostages still not home,

chained in some far-off catacomb.

 

When your faces are aglow with joy

as child by child unwraps a toy,

remember the pain on the jobless’ faces

explaining how Santa had to skip their places.

 

When you’re frolicking afterwards by the sea,

I’ll tell you what my Christmas wish would be:

that you would set the glitz and froth apart

and love your fellow humans with all your heart. 

by Andrew M. Bell

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

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