Sweatshirt Poesy poetry, music, what-have-you

Time 2020-11-07 06:02:47

Web Name: Sweatshirt Poesy poetry, music, what-have-you

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W.S. Merwin, Dry Ground poetry Summer deepens and a root reaches for recedingwater with a sense of waking long afterwardlong after the main event whatever it washas faded out like the sounds of a processionlike April like the age of dew like the beginningnow the dry grass dying keeps making the sounds of rainto hollow air while the wheat whitens in the cracked fieldsand they keep taking the cows farther up into the woodsto dwindling pools under the oaks and even therethe brown leaves are closing their thin hands and fallingand out on the naked barrens where the light shakesin a fever without a surface and the parched shriekof the cicadas climbs with the sun the batscling to themselves in crevices out of the lightand under stone roofs those who live watching the grapeslike foxes stare out over the plowed white stonesand see in all the hueless blaze of the day nothingbut rows of withered arms holding up the green grapes* * *From The Vixen. Rod McKuen, Part Twenty-Seven of Listen to the Warm poetry The fireflies gone nowthe trees low bendingwith the weight of winter rainI listen for the sound of winters past.The years I walked the rainy streetsand filtered through the parksin search of music people.Creeping home to bed aloneto be with imaginary loversand hear the sound of Edensinging in my young ears.I could go back to San Franciscoif I still had muscled thighs.The trouble isI run a little faster now.* * *Ah, hello Mr. McKuen! I knew we d make it to you eventually. This is from his book of the same name, Listen to the Warm. I like picking this book up from time to time because his poetry is so unaffected. He just writes. Writes beautiful, sorrowful, erotic, melancholic poems. He doesn t hide things behind too much metaphor, imagery, or other poetic tricks. I really like that sometimes, that unadulterated take on poetry. Which isn t to say that it s boring. He can turn a phrase too. Like hear the sound of Eden / singing in my young ears or that enigmatic ending. I also like this book because my good friend Jared gave it to me, inscribed and everything, and I like to remember the people who give me books when I m reading them. It adds that secondary layer of thought and attention to your reading. Federico Garcia Lorca, Your Childhood in Menton poetry (I am so sorry for taking so long to post this translation. The old WordPress was acting up something ridiculous. Had to delete and reinstall the database and well, here it is. Enjoy.)~ ~ ~Yes your childhood: now a fable of fountains. Jorge GuillénYes, your childhood: now a fable of fountains.The train and the woman who fills the sky.Your shy loneliness in hotelsand your pure mask of another sign.The sea s childhood and your silencewhere the crystals of wisdom shattered.Your rigid ignorance wheremy torso was circumscribed with fire.What I gave you, Apollonian man, was the standard of love,fits of tears with an estranged nightingale.But ruin fed upon you, you whittle yourself to nothingfor the sake of fleeting, aimless dreams.Thoughts before you, yesterday s light,traces and signs of what might be Your waist of restless sandfollows only trails that do not climb.But in every corner I must look for your warm soulthat is without you and doesn t understand you,with the sorrow of Apollo stopped in his tracks,the sorrow with which I shattered your mask.It s there, lion, there, sky s fury,where I ll let you graze on my cheeks;there, blue horse of my insanity,pulse of the nebula and hand that counts the minutes.There I ll look for the scorpions stonesand the clothes of the girl who was your mother,midnight tears and torn cloththat wiped moonlight from the temples of the dead man.Yes, your childhood: now a fable of fountains.Strange soul, tiny and adrift, rippedfrom the emptied space of my veins I must look until I find you.The same love as ever, but never the same!Yes, I do love! Love! Leave me alone, all of you.And don t try to cover my mouth, you who seekthe wheat of Saturn in snowfields,or castrate animals on behalf of a sky,anatomy s clinic and jungle.Love, love, love. The sea s childhood.Your warm soul that is without you and doesn t understand you.Love, love, the flight of the doethrough the endless breast of whiteness.And your childhood, love, your childhood.The train and the woman who fills the sky.Not you, not me, not the air, not the leaves.Yes, your childhood: now a fable of fountains.~ ~ ~If that doesn t hit hard and sink down to your bones, well, then there s nothing more I can do for you. You are honestly lost. I don t think you should expect to be able to pierce the web of Lorca s imagery, because it is strong and fierce and well-protected, a type of surrealism that can only be conjured by a Spaniard, a type of surrealism that is at once imagistic and deeply personal, yet open, expressive, emotive, and free to all. To me the language here is simply astounding. And the poem is not totally impenehjgtrable: it is very clearly about love. Love, love, love, he says. The sea s childhood. Love, and it s disappearance, and Lorca s attempt to cope with its fleeting nature. It is about his male lover, the Apollonian man, and of course this matters, very much so his forwardness about his sexuality shows incredible bravery for his time and his place, under the thumb of fascism, but in the end too it is just as much about the idea of Love, and how it may cause pain as well as joy. At least this is what I take from it. Like I said, the imagery is hard to untangle, and yet you understand it, even if you think you don t. I don t know if reading the Spanish first without translation did anything for you. This translation is not by me, but by the translators of his Poet in New York, Greg Simon and Steven F. White.I hope you ve enjoyed the Lorca portion of our Poetry ABC s. It s been a while for me since I have visited his poetry, so it has been a joy to reread it and share it all with you.¡Amor de siempre, amor, amor de nunca!¡Oh, sí! Yo quiero. ¡Amor, amor! Dejadame.No me tapen la boca los que buscanespigas de Saturno por la nieveo castran animales por un cielo,clínica y selva de la anatomía.Amor, amor, amor. Niñez del mar.Tu alma tibia sin ti que no te entiende.Amor, amor, un vuelo de la corzapor el pecho sin fin de la blancura.Y tu niñez, amor, y tu niñez.El tren y la mujer que llena el cielo.Ni tú, ni yo, ni el aire, ni las hojas.Sí, tu niñez: ya fábula de fuentes.~ ~ ~This one is from his Poeta en Nueva York. I thought it would be fun to post the poem as a whole, sin traducción, and just sort of let the Spanishness of it wash over us. Whether you understand the words or not there is a certain music to it, and in a way it s fun to enjoy a poem just for its sounds and music without all that pesky meaning and comprehension get in the way. I ll post the translation tomorrow and talk some more about the poem. Galway Kinnell, Hide-and-Seek 1933 poetry Once when we were playinghide-and-seek and it was timeto go home, the rest gave upon the game before it was doneand forgot I was still hiding.I remained hidden as a matterof honor until the moon rose.~ ~ ~Galway Kinnell is the best. Absolutely the best. Galway Kinnell, Sex poetry On my hands are the odorsof the knockout ethereither of above the skywhere the bluebirds get bluedon their upper surfacesor of down under the earthwhere the immaculate nightcrawlerstake in tubes of red earthand polish their insides. Galway Kinnell, Middle of the Night poetry A telephone rings through the wall.Nobody answers. Exactly howthe mouth shapes itself insidesaying the word “gold” is what sleepwould be like if one were happy.So Kenny Hardman and George Sykescalled “Gaw-way-ay!” at the backof the house. If I didn’t come outthey would call until nightfall,like summer insects. Or likethe pay phone at the abandonedfilling station, which sometimesrang, off and on, an entire day.The final yawn before one sleepsis the word “yes” said too many times,too rapidly, to the darkness. On the landingshe turned and looked back. Somethingof the sea turtle heavy with eggs,looking back at the sea. The shocking darkof her eyes blew alive in methe affirmative fire. It would have hurtto walk away, just as it would bewildera mouth making the last yawn to say “no.”* * *Oh, hi. Yes I took a bit of a vacation from the poem-posting but I decided to get back at it again. Right back where I left off, with Mr. Kinnell how great is this poem?! Just so just so Galway-esque. Sublime and verbose and it hits you in all the right spots. Ted Kooser, Barn Owl poetry High in the chaffy, taffy-colored hazeof the hayloft, up under the starrynail-hole twinkle of the old tin roof,there in a nest of straw and bailing twineI have hidden my valentine for you:a white heart woven of snowy feathersin which wide eyes of welcome opento you as you climb the rickety ladderinto my love. Behind those eyes liesa boudoir of intimate darkness, darling,the silks of oblivion. And set like a jeweldead center in the heart is a golden hookthe size of a finger ring, to hold youalways, plumpest sweetheart mouse of mine.* * *From his little book Valentines. John Keats, Lines on the Mermaid Tavern poetry Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?Have ye tippled drink more fineThan mine host’s Canary wine?Or are fruits of ParadiseSweeter than those dainty piesOf venison? O generous food!Drest as though bold Robin HoodWould, with his maid Marian,Sup and bowse from horn and can.I have heard that on a dayMine host’s sign-board flew away,Nobody knew whither, tillAn astrologer’s old quillTo a sheepskin gave the story,Said he saw you in your glory,Underneath a new old signSipping beverage divine,And pledging with contented smackThe Mermaid in the Zodiac.Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?* * *Poets, drinking, and divine intervention. All the trappings of a classic poem by a man who should know a thing or two about classic poems. Jack Kerouac said lines written A poet is a fellow whospends his time thinkingabout what it is that’swrong, and although heknows he can never quitefind out what this wrongis, he goes right onthinking it outand writing it down.A poet is a blind optimist.The world is against him formany reasons. But thepoet persists. He believesthat he is on the right track,no matter what any of hisfellow men say. In hiseternal search for truth, thepoet is alone.He tries to be timeless in asociety built on time.

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