Tag Archives: Guest poem

The morning after the poem

Thotpurge has finished a poem about not finishing the poem. Brilliant!

THOTPURGE

at first light, on a
single sheet of paper, I found
a poem that does not want to be
read, a sky that will not know its
end, a cloud that realized it cannot
resist the wind, and a moon that
longs to scream over and over and over
again that all it can ever see,
is darkness —

the poet, as always,
did not
show up
at the
reading

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Climbing a beech tree in your parents’ garden

A truly wonderful poem from Sarah Connor. Enjoy!:

Fmme writes poems

You will come to a place
where you can stop,
back pressed against the trunk –
a place where you can feel
your soft limbs branch and stiffen,
and the sap pulsing under
your skin, and all your thoughts
are nests and breezes,
and the taste of sunlight,
and the tree holds you here,
like a father holds a child –

Or maybe
your father hoists you up
onto his strong shoulders,
so you can peer through
the green leaves of his hair,
over the fence to where
next-door’s cat lolls in the sunshine
and the old lady jabs
at her flowerbed

and now two butterflies
spiral up towards you
and a bird swoops in
to land upon a twig

and no-one else can see
the tree-ness of you.

I’m hosting at earthweal this week, and asking you to think about how children connect with nature. Or adults, I guess. 

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Baby Brother

This wonderful poem from Glenys has really taken me back to dressing up my little boy for the school pickup–he had a Loch Ness monster hat!

lifecameos

Baby brother is dressed up
to collect his sisters from
school st home time.

Great Grandma knitted his bright
striped beanie, cousin Paul grew
out of the dashing dinosaur leggings;
little friend Oliver passed on the
jacket with Barney on it. The
tiny tartan sneakers came from
Sarah over the road, she’s at
kindergarten now, nearly a big girl.

Yes the big girls at school
will gush and coo and gasp
over him – he enjoys that already.

Mummy thinks he is cool too.
Holding him on her hip she
tickles his ribs with her free hand.
He giggles and wriggles
wiggles and jiggles
chuckles then shrieks
gleefully, joyously
grinning from ear to ear
energetically, excitedly.

It’s a happy day today !

Previously posted November 2016.

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STAR TIME

I love this poem from Damian and where it goes at the end. Enjoy!

best poetry blog in the cosmos

STAR TIME

we sat
under the night sky

making love
to the stars

matching them
with their names
figuring out
new ones

trying to make each
star-naming moment
a special
ultimately
memorable experience

until
longing for a star
of our very own

we decided
to birth one

and
having no uranium
no plutonium either

loaded the microwave
with every item of kitchenware
aluminum and iron
and high tec appliances

set the dial
to hyperdrive

and aimed
for the Sun

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A Fox Crossed Barley Lane

A wonderful tale of foxes and people over time:

lifecameos

A fox crossed Barley Lane at dusk
trotting from his den on the heath
towards the scattered Essex farms
to hunt for a springtime dinner of hens
ducks, geese with newly hatched young.
He passed a farm labourer plodding along
the rutted track to a meagre dinner.
The fox would dine better than he tonight.

A fox crossed Barley Lane at dusk
trotting from his den on the heath
towards the prosperous Essex farms
keenly seeking a poultry dinner
from their large abundant barns.
He briskly rounded the loaded wagons
creaking along the potholed track.
His mind was on his dinner.

A fox crossed Barley Lane at dusk
trotting from his den on the heath
to seek his dinner at Essex farms and
backyards along the High Road
crossing Barley Lane as it followed
the new railway with its deafening trains.
It took more work to extract his dinner
but…

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Friday Poem: Days by Orhan Veli Kanık

There are days, I gather myself and leave,
In the smell of nets freshly hauled from the sea
Taking flight on the path of gulls
Drifting from one island to another.

There are unimaginable worlds,
Flowers open, erupt in noise,
Smoke bursts noisily from the earth.

But the seagulls, the seagulls,
Each feather bristling with haste!

There are days, blue all over me.
There are days, sunlight all over me.
There are days, delirious days . . .

by Orhan Veli Kanik

translated by George Messo

Rather than from one of my poetry books, this week I have a Turkish poem from Leonard Durso’s glorious website leonarddurso.com

Friday Poem: I am listening to Istanbul

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
First a breeze is blowing
And leaves swaying
Slowly on the trees;
Far far away the bells of the
Water carriers ringing,
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
A bird is passing by,
Birds are passing by, screaming, screaming,
Fish nets being withdrawn in fishing weirs,
A woman’s toe dabbling in water,
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening,
The cool Grand Bazaar,
Mahmutpasha twittering
Full of pigeons,
Its vast courtyard,
Sounds of hammering from the docks,
In the summer breeze far, far away the odor of sweat,
I am listening.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
The drunkenness of old times
In the wooden seaside villa with its deserted boat house
The roaring southwestern wind is trapped,
My thoughts are trapped
Listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
A coquette is passing by on the sidewalk,
Curses, sings, sings, passes;
Something is falling from your hand
To the ground,
It must be a rose.
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed
A bird is flying round your skirt;
I know if your forehead is hot or cold
Or your lips are wet or dry;
Or if a white moon is rising above the pistachio tree
My heart’s fluttering tells me. . .
I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

by Orhan Veli Kanik

translated by the poet Murat Nemet-Nejat

…and I admit, this time the poem comes not from my poetry bookshelf, but from Leonard Durso’s glorious website leonarddurso.com

Also, we should have been in Istanbul last week, but Corona got in the way.  :(

the disappeared…

A brilliant poem from SLPMartin:

Read Between the Minds

that shack’s
got no electric
nor
inside plumbing
as far as we know
nobody
visits 
that old man
most folks
say
he’s
a crazy old fool
only thing
he talks about
when he steps foot
off
his property
usually
just
to go
to the general store
is
the haints
in the swamp
the swamp’s
just beyond
his back door
at
night he burns
sage
and
holy impepho
covers
most of his face
in
soot
from
the cedar
burnt in his fireplace
as a child
i once
heard him talking
to
my uncle
said the swamp
holds the souls
of
runaway slaves
freedom fighters
and
soldiers
who thought
freedom
was theirs
because
they fought
in
the great wars
guess
the sheriff
and
town folks disagreed
their bodies
got swallowed up
by
the swamp
no
area 6 burial
for
them
i’ve been thinking
lately
that
he might not
be
all that crazy

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Missing – poem by Sarah Connor

A fantastic poem from Sarah that tells of a strong feeling I didn’t really know I had –until I read this. Enjoy!

Fmme writes poems

What I miss is aliens.

Not aliens, exactly, but the though of aliens –
descending in their shiny spotless spacecraft,
making first contact and humanity responding –

love and peace? Maybe. A realising
that we’re human, all of us together,
that we’re adrift on this blue spacehsip
but we can reach out –

grappling hooks and handshakes –

learn from others, find new ways to live.

I’m missing Captain Kirk.

That clean ideal of boldly going out
into the great unknown,
sharing the best that we can be.

Maybe I miss my own naivety.

Maybe I miss the feeling that we can be better,
that we can all reach out –
all those old cliches, building bridges,
building bigger tables, building love

when all we ever build are walls

and maybe it was never there –
maybe I’m yearning after something that I never had
and never lost.

Maybe it’s…

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