I write some poetry myself but I usually have to wait until it comes to me. I have not written one in years but I will share one of my old ones with you. I really like The Day Is Done.
This one remains untitled. It was originally the introduction of my book but I changed it. This is one that I got tattooed on my arm while I was doing time in a federal prison in Waseca, Minnesota.
That is what I missed.
Scraped knees and runny noses
playing in the snow until your toes were frozen.
That is what I missed.
The reassurance of a paternal embrace
like a smile amidst strangers from a loved ones face.
That is what I missed.
Cartoon filled days and prom nights.
Those three words that make painful things feel better
and the things that are wrong feel right.
That is what i missed.
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Poem of the moment
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- Saffron
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Re: Poem of This Moment
Nice to see you posting again!GentleReader9 wrote:
(Nobody worry. It's just a mood thing. I'm well. Just coming through a period of a lot of intense stuff going on around me.)
- Krysondra
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I just read "Back with the Quakers", and I have to say, it is a brilliant piece. It gave me all sorts of shivers. Thanks for posting it, Saffron.
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never say a common place thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." ~ Jack Kerouac
- Saffron
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The September/October issue of The American Poetry Review greeted me upon my arrival home this evening. To my great delight the opening article is about Gerard Manley Hopkins. There is a sense of pent up passion, longing and terrible sadness in the body of Hopkins work. The past few weeks have been heavy ones for me. The poem included with the article is of deep despair, mine is not so great.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.
45. ‘I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day’
I Wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say 5
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.
I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; 10
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.
45. ‘I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day’
I Wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say 5
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.
I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; 10
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.
- Saffron
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Just thought I'd post the link to The American Poetry Review. In a day or so the Sept/Oct issue will be posted and with any luck the article on Gerard Manley Hopkins will be accessible.
- Saffron
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I think another Gerard Manley Hopkins for tonight.
Peace
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.
Peace
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.
- Saffron
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I am all about food these days; the life consuming life miracle of being alive. Twenty-first century western culture is still suffering from the mind body split. If you look at pop culture (TV, movies, ads, etc.) it is all about perfect bodies and sex, but not from the perspective of actual living thinking bodies. It is a plastic, unobtainable ideal; which puts it all squarely back in the mind. American's especially are all in there heads. We might as well be plugged like in the Matrix. So, here's to Key Lime Pie! Eat up!
Key Lime Pie
(for Katie Guthrie)
by Mary Rose O'Reilley
Commas of lime in sugar and milk,
suspension, mild on the tongue
as memory of being filled,
or if you never were full before,
now is the moment--
be born again,
trailing, for all I care,
Augustine, Ambrose, all of those guys--
Aquinas, sit here, eat this pie.
Each one's longing to feel
a belly round with surfeit,
figuring out at last
one of the why's we came for:
key lime pie.
Tumble with me, Augustine,
out of the pear tree of self-hate.
Here is a Buddha-pie your African grin
can barely take in. Here is a radical
homecoming pie. Aquinas,
it runs down your chin.
you will never again
have to be clever or even good.
Taste the green skin of logos
wanting to kiss your tongue.
You are undone, like a child
gone feral to smell grass,
murmuring here it is,
all I have longed for
at last, at last.
Key Lime Pie
(for Katie Guthrie)
by Mary Rose O'Reilley
Commas of lime in sugar and milk,
suspension, mild on the tongue
as memory of being filled,
or if you never were full before,
now is the moment--
be born again,
trailing, for all I care,
Augustine, Ambrose, all of those guys--
Aquinas, sit here, eat this pie.
Each one's longing to feel
a belly round with surfeit,
figuring out at last
one of the why's we came for:
key lime pie.
Tumble with me, Augustine,
out of the pear tree of self-hate.
Here is a Buddha-pie your African grin
can barely take in. Here is a radical
homecoming pie. Aquinas,
it runs down your chin.
you will never again
have to be clever or even good.
Taste the green skin of logos
wanting to kiss your tongue.
You are undone, like a child
gone feral to smell grass,
murmuring here it is,
all I have longed for
at last, at last.
- stahrwe
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It’s cold,
Ice,
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing
Snow falling
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing,
Snow falling,
Car stalling,
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing,
Snow falling,
Night coming,
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing,
Snow coating,
All dark,
Brrr.
It’s
cold,
Ice
Wind …,
….. Coating
……
Br…..
Ice,
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing
Snow falling
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing,
Snow falling,
Car stalling,
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing,
Snow falling,
Night coming,
Brrr.
It’s cold,
Ice,
Wind blowing,
Snow coating,
All dark,
Brrr.
It’s
cold,
Ice
Wind …,
….. Coating
……
Br…..
- Penelope
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- Gender:
All of these guys begin with 'A' -Saffron:
Augustine, Ambrose, all of those guys--
Aquinas, sit here, eat this pie.
How wonderful if this poem went on to the end of the alphabet.
Ambrosia -yummy!!!
Thankyou Saff.
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.
He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....
Rafael Sabatini
He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....
Rafael Sabatini
- Saffron
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I have a new favorite radio show; Radio Netherlands The State We're In. Today they aired an interview with a poet I'd never heard of, Sian (Shawn) Hughes. Her poem, The Send-off is beautiful. It is about a pregnancy she decided to terminate. In talking about her own poem, she mentioned another poet that I'd never heard of, Thomas Lynch. I went looking for examples of Lynch's poetry. It would seem he does not want his poetry published on the web, as the only examples I could find were audio or the page prevented copy & paste. The poem I did find is one entitled, Iambs for the Day of Burial. Both poems are powerful examples of the complexity of human emotion and the precariousness of human existence.
Here is a link to the interview with Sian Hughes:
A Lifetime of Regret
(You will need to scroll down the page until you see the title)
Sian Hughes terminated her pregnancy after her foetus tested positive for Down’s Syndrome. She immediately regretted it and later wrote a prize-winning poem about her regret.
excerpt of the poem:
…My darling, sleep well in your bed.
Don’t come out on the landing where it’s cold
because, you see, I won’t come home
in my long dress and necklace
and blow you kisses up the stairs.
I won’t carry you back to bed
to rub your blue feet better
or fetch blankets from the box.
No, you don’t need a bottle, cuddle,
special rabbit, teddy, bit of cloth.
You don’t even need to close your eyes.
They were born that way, sealed shut…
Now, the link to Thomas Lynch's Iambs for the Day of Burial
Here is a link to the interview with Sian Hughes:
A Lifetime of Regret
(You will need to scroll down the page until you see the title)
Sian Hughes terminated her pregnancy after her foetus tested positive for Down’s Syndrome. She immediately regretted it and later wrote a prize-winning poem about her regret.
excerpt of the poem:
…My darling, sleep well in your bed.
Don’t come out on the landing where it’s cold
because, you see, I won’t come home
in my long dress and necklace
and blow you kisses up the stairs.
I won’t carry you back to bed
to rub your blue feet better
or fetch blankets from the box.
No, you don’t need a bottle, cuddle,
special rabbit, teddy, bit of cloth.
You don’t even need to close your eyes.
They were born that way, sealed shut…
Now, the link to Thomas Lynch's Iambs for the Day of Burial