Tuesday Poem: "Poetry is Political" by Leslie D. Bush

 

Poetry is political?

How can this be

Can society be upended

Divided by a love poem?

Poets are political?

Yes. No. Maybe

Some examples

Perhaps

Poets don’t tell

The literal truth

(Who does?)

They see things

That are not necessarily 

There. Do continue.

See motives when such

Motives might not exist

Interesting, pray continue

(to dig yourself into a hole)

The truth is grey, everybody knows

Why do you paint it white as snow

Or blood stained, by death in the masses

Do these things not happen?

Are they not motivated by and acted on

By humans? I write what I see

You say, poetry is political

Do you mean, designed to misinform

Not to tell the truth? To inflame the minds

Of the proletariat, to put the powerful at risk?

You can’t be too careful, can you?

Yes, poets and poetry ARE political

In the sense they are human

Producing human creations

Yes, poems are political

They are narratives, they choose a side

And argue their case, assertively

Honestly. Do you fear debate?

It would be imprecise to say

Poetry is truth. It is not the opposite

By purpose. A poet seeks the truth

Either literally or metaphorically

Nothing less will satisfy them

So, yes, poetry is a political act

So is breathing. Going to ban that?

by Leslie D. Bush

Tuesday Poem; "What Belongs to Us" by Marie Howe

Not the memorized phone numbers.

The carefully rehearsed short cuts home.

Not the summer shimmering like pavement, when Lucia
pushed Billy off the rabbit house and broke his arm

or our tiny footprints in the black files.

Not the list of kings from Charlemagne to Henry

not the boxes under our beds

or Tommy’s wedding day when it was so hot and Mark played the flute
and we waved at him waving from the small round window in the loft

the great gangs of people stepping one by one into the cold water.

I have, of course, a photograph
you and I getting up from a couch.

Full height, I stand almost two inches taller than you
but the photograph doesn’t show that
just the two of us in motion
not looking at each other, smiling.

Not even the way we said things, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Not the cabin where I burned my arm and you said, oh, you’re the type
that even if it hurt, you wouldn’t say.

Not even the blisters. Look.

by Marie Howe 

For more information see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/marie-howe

Tuesday Poem: "Winter's Formulae" by Tomas Tranströmer

Walked along the antipoetic wall.
Die Mauer. Don't look over.
It wants to surround our adult lives
in the routine city, the routine landscape.

Eluard touched some button
and the wall opened
and the garden showed itself.

I used to go with the milk pail through the wood.
Purple trunks on all sides.
An old joke in there
as beautiful as a votive ship. 

Summer read out of Pickwick Papers.
The good life, a tranquil carriage
crowded with excited gentlemen.

Close your eyes, change horses.

In distress come childish thoughts.
We sat by the sickbed and prayed
for a pause in the terror, a breach
where the Pickwicks could pull in.

Close your eyes, change horses.

It is easy to love fragments
that have been on the way a long time.
Inscriptions on church bells
and proverbs written across saints
and many-thousand-year-old seeds.

Archilochos! -- No answer!

The birds roamed over the seas' rough pelt.
We locked ourselves in with Simenon
and felt the smell of human life
where the serials debouch.

Feel the smell of truth.

The open window has stopped
in front of the treetops here
and the evening sky's farewell letter.

Shiki, Björling and Ungaretti
with life's chalks on the death's blackboard. 
The poem which is completely possible.

I looked up when the branches swung.
White gulls were eating black cherries.

 by Tomas Tranströmer (translated from the Swedish by May Swenson)

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/swedish-poet-transtromer-awarded-nobel-prize-in-poetry

Tuesday Poem: "War/Love/Nature/Life" (a combination of Haiku and Senryu) by Gabrielle de Haan-Skitt

 

This is what poet, Gabrielle de Haan-Skitt, says about herself, her poetry and her life:

Have I always loved Nature? Yes, it's who I am, the threads that bind me to find solace. Leaving my home in Aotearoa New Zealand, I then went to school in Holland. From there I travelled, worked and lived in many foreign countries observing culture and religion. I felt like a caged exotic bird but one day the bird flew and became part of the melody of Haikus and Senryu.

Tuesday Poem: "Driving With Madness" by Emma-Jane Uren

My madness is the friend who I like to take on road trips. 

They are an amazing travel companion, giving me directions and teaching me new ways to get to places to catch the scenery… 
But I hate it when my Madness is behind the wheel. 
My Madness is a reckless driver, they swerve all over the road, shouting and screaming maniacally.
 They don’t give a shit about the speed limit or anyone else for that matter. 
I wrestle with them to pull over, pleading with them to stop. 
And then… as I try to gain control of the car, we wind up in a ditch. 
The car is munted, thankfully we’re ok and it isn’t a complete write-off… 
My Madness is gutted, and sad and broken… and so am I. 
The car that I saved up so hard for, the car I fought for, now sports a few more dents, adding to the last time I let my Madness take control… 
It’s my turn now to drive… My Madness takes the passenger seat again… switches on the radio and together we start singing along to our favourite song and we laugh. 
My Madness pinky promises me not to take the wheel again, and I promise not to let them… 
But then again, some promises are made to be broken…  

by Emma-Jane Uren

Emma-Jane Uren is an Otautahi/Christchurch-based poet and this is what she has to say about herself:

"I'm EJ. I'm an expert tea slurper, awkward conversationalist, passionate (yet terrible) ukulele player and singer-songwriter, laughter yoga enthusiast, mad poet and diarist.  I'm always on the lookout for new and interesting people to write about and share my chippies with!"

Emma-Jane Uren is a member of the "Mad Poets and Creatives Collective" who can be found on Facebook at:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/madpoetscanterbury/.

Tuesday Poem: "Saturation" by Kelly Pope

 

How much salt could I pour 
Between the syllables of this poem before 
It is over-saturated?
Idolised crystals spilling onto paper 
getting in that un-worn space 
Between the pages and the spine 
Causing dull pain 
Under bitten fingernails 
Chewed in indecision at each newly written line 
Seasoning reheated thai takeaways 
Rimming margarita glasses 
Adding cynicism to our laughter 
Falling behind our shoulders as we pray 
For these poems 
For the canaries in the coalmines 
And for the miners 
For all the things symmetrical and neat 
Like sheets tucked in, hospital corners 
For the barren fields abandoned 
 

by Kelly Pope

Tuesday Poem (Song): "Deeper Water" by Paul Kelly

 

On a crowded beach in a distant time At the height of summer see a boy of five At the water′s edge so nimble and free

Jumping over the ripples, looking way out to sea Now a man comes up from amongst the throng Takes the young boy's hand and his hand is strong And the child feels safe and the child feels brave As he′s carried in those arms up and over the waves Deeper water, Deeper water, Deeper water, Is calling him on Let's move forward now and the child's seventeen With a girl in the back seat tugging at his jeans And she knows what she wants, she guides with her hand As a voice cries inside him - "I′m a man, I′m a man!" Deeper water, Deeper water, Deeper water, Is calling him on Now the man meets a woman unlike all the rest Well, he doesn't know it yet but he′s out of his depth And he thinks he can run, it's a matter of pride But he keeps coming back like a cork on the tide (Deeper water,) (Deeper water,) Now the years hurry by and the woman loves the man Then one night in the dark she grabs hold of his hand Says "there, can you feel it kicking inside"? And the man gets a shiver right up and down his spine Deeper water, (Deeper water,) Deeper water, (Deeper water,) Deeper water, (Deeper water,) Is calling him on Yeah the clock moves around and the child is a joy But Death doesn′t care just who it destroys Now the woman gets sick, thins down to the bone She says "where I'm going next, I′m going alone" (Deeper water,) (Deeper water,) On a distant beach lonely and wild At a later time see a man and a child And the man takes the child up into his arms Takes her over the breakers To where the water is calm Deeper water, (Deeper water,) Deeper water, (Deeper water,) Deeper water, (Deeper water,) Deeper water, (Deeper water)

by Paul Kelly

For more information about Australian musician, Paul Kelly, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Kelly_(Australian_musician)