Not sure why I waited to talk about poetry until the last day of National Poetry Month, but better late than never.
Since high school, one of my favorite poets has been e. e. cummings. I fell so in love with his poem “anyone lived in a pretty how town” that I included a line from it in my senior yearbook quote: “sun moon stars rain.” Here’s the first stanza and a link to the poem on poets.org:
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did
Two of my favorite poets in recent years are Tim Pratt, who has a poetry collection and vast number of published poems, and cafenowhere, who gifts us with amazing free poems almost every day on Livejournal. (Go read some!)
Here are a few lines from one of my favorite Tim Pratt poems, “Ghost“:
The sorcerer got home from his job
at the 7-11 and stood limp in the center
of his empty bedroom, reading runes
in the fine traceries of dust. The blurry
portents gave him only old news:
Got a favorite poem or two to share?
8 thoughts on “Nat’l Poetry Month!”
Love Tim's poem. This is one of my favorite poems. Caution, very sad–about the Spanish Civil War, but it could be around Iraq, Afghanistan, anywhere. It's by Pablo Neruda.
I'll Explain some Things
You’ll ask, Where are the lilacs?
And the philosophy dreamy with poppies?
And the rain which kept beating out
Your words, filling them
With water-specks and birds?
I’m going to tell you everything that happened to me.
I lived in a neighborhood
In Madrid with church bells
And clock towers and trees.
From there you could see
The dry face of Castille
Like a sea of leather
My house was called
“The house with the flowers” because around it
Geraniums exploded. It was
A beautiful house
With dogs and kids.
Raúl, do you remember?
Frederico, do you still remember
Under the ground?
Do you remember my house with the balconies
Where the June light soaked your mouth with
The taste of flowers?
The market place of Arguelles, my neighborhood
With its statue like a pale inkwell among
The fish stalls.
It was all
Loud voices, salty commerce,
A deep rumble
Of feet and hands filled the streets,
Meters and liters,
The sharp essence of life,
Fish stacked up,
The texture of roofs in the cold sun in which
The weather-vane grows tired.
Fine, crazily carved ivory of potatoes
Lines of tomatoes to the sea.
Then one morning flames
Came out of the ground
Devouring human beings.
From then on fire,
Gunpowder from then on,
From then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and Moorish troops
Bandits with gold rings and duchesses
Bandits with black monks giving their blessing
Came across the sky to kill children
And through the streets, the blood of children
Ran simply, like children’s blood does.
Jackals that a jackal would reject
Stones that a dry thistle would bite and spit out
Vipers that vipers would hate!
I have seen the blood
Of Spain rise up against you
To drown you in a single wave
Of pride and knives!
Look at my dead home
Look at broken Spain –
But from each dead house
Burning metal shoots out
Instead of flowers.
From every shell-hole in Spain
Spain will rise.
From every dead child a rifle with
Eyes will rise.
From every crime bullets will be born
Which will one day find a place
In your hearts.
You ask “Why doesn’t your poetry
Speak to us of dreams and leaves
Of the great volcanoes of your native land?”
See the blood along the streets
The blood along the streets
Come see the blood
Along the Streets!
Yikes. Powerful stuff. :-(
My favorite poem of all time…and I love poetry…
"Wild nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Futile – The Winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but Moor – Tonight –
It gets me every time.
Sorry – that's from Emily Dickenson.
Ha! That poem is so you!!!
Thanks! ; )
Thanks – I'll take that as a compliment, lol! ; )
You should! I meant it as one. :-D
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