A Poetry Reading At West Point

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1. The Poetry Reading at high noon At a small college near the beach Sober The sweat running down my arms A spot of sweat on the table I flatten it with my finger Blood money blood money My god they must think I love this like the others But it’s for bread and beer and rent Blood money […]...
2. Poetry it Takes A lot of Desperation Dissatisfaction And Disillusion To Write A Few Good Poems. It’s not For Everybody Either to Write It Or even to Read It....
3. The New Poetry Handbook 1 If a man understands a poem, he shall have troubles. 2 If a man lives with a poem, he shall die lonely. 3 If a man lives with two poems, he shall be unfaithful to one. 4 If a man conceives of a poem, he shall have one less child. 5 If a man […]...
4. ON FIRST READING JOHN GOODBY'S 'IRISH POETRY SINCE 1950&#039 Barbarous insult to Yeats’ memory and Claudel’s Allen, thank God you are dead, you who breathed the air of Apollinaire, Ghost of Reverdy bear witness to the mendacity of his clamour, Hart Crane, rise from the estuary of the great river you drowned in, John Clare, rise from your country churchyard grave, Gray, from your […]...
5. The Correspondence School Instructor Says Goodbye To His Poetry Students Goodbye, lady in Bangor, who sent me Snapshots of yourself, after definitely hinting You were beautiful; goodbye, Miami Beach urologist, who enclosed plain Brown envelopes for the return of your very Clinical Sonnet; goodbye, manufacturer Of brassieres on the Coast, whose eclogues Give the fullest treatment in literature yet To the sagging-breast motif; goodbye, you […]...
6. Whats The Use Of A Title? They dont make it The beautiful die in flame – Sucide pills, rat poison, rope what – Ever… They rip their arms off, Throw themselves out of windows, They pull their eyes out of the sockets, Reject love Reject hate Reject, reject. They do’nt make it The beautiful can’t endure, They are butterflies They are […]...
7. Some Like Poetry Write it. Write. In ordinary ink On ordinary paper: they were given no food, They all died of hunger. “All. How many? It’s a big meadow. How much grass For each one?” Write: I don’t know. History counts its skeletons in round numbers. A thousand and one remains a thousand, As though the one had […]...
8. Facing West from California’s Shores FACING west, from California’s shores, Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound, I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my Western Sea-the circle almost circled; For, starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere, From Asia-from the north-from […]...
9. Eating Poetry Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad And she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs […]...
10. The Sun Was Slumbering in the West The sun was slumbering in the West, My daily labors past; On Anna’s soft and gentle breast My head reclined at last; The darkness closed around, so dear To fond congenial souls, And thus she murmur’d at my ear, “My love, we’re out of coals! “That Mister Bond has call’d again, Insisting on his rent; […]...
11. Silence of reading i like the silence of reading Flat on my stomach on the woollen floor My legs waving upwards like the fronds of ferns And in my mind Gigantic screaming monsters Or the mystery ship Scuttling crablike to the shore I am lost to the spell of words The enchantment of sea in the silent shell […]...
12. The Art Of Poetry To gaze at a river made of time and water And remember Time is another river. To know we stray like a river And our faces vanish like water. To feel that waking is another dream That dreams of not dreaming and that the death We fear in our bones is the death That every […]...
13. HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR Only a little more I have to write: Then I’ll give o’er, And bid the world good-night. ‘Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away. O Time, that cut’st down all, And scarce leav’st here Memorial Of any men that were; How many lie forgot […]...
14. Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet At this height, Kansas Is just a concept, A checkerboard design of wheat and corn No larger than the foldout section Of my neighbor’s travel magazine. At this stage of the journey I would estimate the distance Between myself and my own feelings Is roughly the same as the mileage From Seattle to New York, […]...
15. Poetry And Religion Religions are poems. They concert Our daylight and dreaming mind, our Emotions, instinct, breath and native gesture Into the only whole thinking: poetry. Nothing’s said till it’s dreamed out in words And nothing’s true that figures in words only. A poem, compared with an arrayed religion, May be like a soldier’s one short marriage night […]...
16. Written Before Re-Reading King Lear O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute! Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away! Leave melodizing on this wintry day, Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute. Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay Must I burn through; once more humbly assay The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit. Chief Poet! […]...
17. HUDDERSFIELD – THE SECOND POETRY CAPITAL OF ENGLAND It brings to mind Swift leaving a fortune to Dublin ВЂ˜For the founding of a lunatic asylum – no place needs it more’. The breathing beauty of the moors and cheap accommodation Drew me but the total barbarity of the town stopped me from Writing a single line: from the hideous facade of its railway […]...
18. A Thought or Two on Reading Pomfret's I have been reading Pomfret’s “Choice” this spring, A pretty kind of sort of kind of thing, Not much a verse, and poem none at all, Yet, as they say, extremely natural. And yet I know not. There’s an art in pies, In raising crusts as well as galleries; And he’s the poet, more or […]...
19. Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying Poetry is a kind of lying, Necessarily. To profit the poet Or beauty. But also in That truth may be told only so. Those who, admirably, refuse To falsify (as those who will not Risk pretensions) are excluded From saying even so much. Degas said he didn’t paint What he saw, but what Would enable […]...
20. 16-bit Intel 8088 chip with an Apple Macintosh You can’t run Radio Shack programs In its disc drive. Nor can a Commodore 64 Drive read a file You have created on an IBM Personal Computer. Both Kaypro and Osborne computers use The CP/M operating system But can’t read each other’s Handwriting For they format (write On) discs in different […]...
21. Thought OF what I write from myself-As if that were not the resumé; Of Histories-As if such, however complete, were not less complete than the preceding poems; As if those shreds, the records of nations, could possibly be as lasting as the preceding poems; As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of […]...
22. The Poetry Of Life “Who would himself with shadows entertain, Or gild his life with lights that shine in vain, Or nurse false hopes that do but cheat the true? Though with my dream my heaven should be resigned Though the free-pinioned soul that once could dwell In the large empire of the possible, This workday life with iron […]...
23. Reading The Brothers Grimm To Jenny Jenny, your mind commands Kingdoms of black and white: You shoulder the crow on your left, The snowbird on your right; For you the cinders part And let the lentils through, And noise falls into place As screech or sweet roo-coo, While in my own, real, world Gray foxes and gray wolves Bargain eye to […]...
24. Ode To The West Wind I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each […]...
25. Poetry In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps One spark of the planet’s early fires Trapped forever in its net of ice, It’s not love’s later heat that poetry holds, But the atom of the love that drew it forth From the silence: so if the bright coal of his love Begins to smoulder, […]...
26. Poor Poet ‘A man should write to please himself,’ He proudly said. Well, see his poems on the shelf, Dusty, unread. When he came to my shop each day, So peaked and cold, I’d sneak one of his books away And say ’twas sold. And then by chance he looked below, And saw a stack Of his […]...
27. Judson Stoddard On a mountain top above the clouds That streamed like a sea below me I said that peak is the thought of Budda, And that one is the prayer of Jesus, And this one is the dream of Plato, And that one there the song of Dante, And this is Kant and this is Newton, […]...
28. A HOPE FOR POETRY: REMEMBERING THE SIXTIES There was a hope for poetry in the sixties And for education and society, teachers free To do as they wanted: I could and did teach Poetry and art all day and little else – That was my way. I threw rainbows against the classroom walls, Gold and silver dragons in the corridors and Halls; […]...
29. The Ballad Of Reading Gaol (In memoriam C. T. W. Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guards Obiit H. M. prison, Reading, Berkshire July 7, 1896) I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom […]...
30. Le Gout du Néant Morne esprit, autrefois amoureux de la lutte, L’Espoir, dont l’éperon attisait ton ardeur, Ne veut plus t’enfourcher! Couche-toi sans pudeur, Vieux cheval dont le pied à chaque obstacle bute. Résigne-toi, mon coeur; dors ton sommeil de brute. Esprit vaincu, fourbu! Pour toi, vieux maraudeur, L’amour n’a plus de gout, non plus que la dispute; Adieu […]...
31. Who is now Reading This? WHO is now reading this? May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life, Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me, Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision, Or may-be one who is puzzled at me. As if I […]...
32. Journey West I said Goodbye To Beale Street one year, Eyes hurting From the painful contrast Of stark white on black – Dividing-lines with No intervening warm colors. West of the Mississippi The Trail of Tears Meanders, Silent imitation Of the great river, A different culture’s Babylon Although dry now, Bones’ dust Underneath retreating feet. Trading riverbanks […]...
33. The West Wind Beneath the forest’s skirts I rest, Whose branching pines rise dark and high, And hear the breezes of the West Among the threaded foliage sigh. Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of wo? Is not thy home among the flowers? Do not the bright June roses blow, To meet thy kiss at morning hours? And lo! […]...
34. West London Crouch’d on the pavement close by Belgrave Square A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied; A babe was in her arms, and at her side A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, Pass’d opposite; she touch’d her girl, who hied Across, and begg’d […]...
35. Reading the Obituaries Now the Barbaras have begun to die, Trailing their older sisters to the grave, The Helens, Margies, Nans-who said goodbye Just days ago, it seems, taking their leave A step or two behind the hooded girls Who bloomed and withered with the century- The Dorotheas, Eleanors and Pearls Now swaying on the edge of memory. […]...
36. West Riding Bright sari in a darkened street – The lilting grey of Yorkshire sky; Rust requiems for demolished mills – Repeating grooves of curlew’s cry. And did Jane once sit on this stile And watch the moon look down on Hay, And see the dog and hear the horse Send icy clatters through the grey? Then […]...
37. The Prisoners Steel doors – guillotine gates – Of the doorless house closed massively. We were locked in with loss. Guards frisked us, marked our wrists, Then let us into the drab Rec Hall – Splotched green walls, high windows barred – Where the dispossessed awaited us. Hands intimate with knife and pistol, Hands that had cruelly […]...
38. The West Wind IT’S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills. And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils. It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, […]...
39. To the East and to the West TO the East and to the West; To the man of the Seaside State, and of Pennsylvania, To the Kanadian of the North-to the Southerner I love; These, with perfect trust, to depict you as myself-the germs are in all men; I believe the main purport of These States is to found a superb friendship, […]...
40. These held their Wick above the West These held their Wick above the West Till when the Red declined Or how the Amber aided it Defied to be defined Then waned without disparagement In a dissembling Hue That would not let the Eye decide Did it abide or no...