From a Letter from Lesbia

... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
Except a poet. All of them are queer.

It's just the same -- a quarrel or a kiss
Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this;
Myself, I much prefer the business type.

That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died --
(Oh, most unpleasant -- gloomy, tedious words!)
I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
The stupid fool! I've always hated birds ...

	
Penelope 

In the pathway of the sun,
  In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
  He shall ride the silver seas,
    He shall cut the glittering wave.

I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
    They will call him brave.

(Dorothy Parker)

med_cat

AN ANSWER.

If all the year was summertime,
And all the aim of life
Was just to lilt on like a rhyme--
Then I would be your wife.

If all the days were August days,
And crowned with golden weather,
How happy then through green-clad ways
We two could stray together!

If all the nights were moonlit nights,
And we had naught to do
But just to sit and plan delights,
Then I would wed with you.

If life was all a summer fete,
Its soberest pace the "glide,"
Then I would choose you for my mate,
And keep you at my side.

But winter makes full half the year,
And labor half of life,
And all the laughter and good cheer
Give place to wearing strife.

Days will grow cold, and moons wax old,
And then a heart that's true
Is better far than grace or gold--
And so my love, adieu!
I cannot wed with you.

(Ella Wheeler Wilcox)

med_cat

...Somewhat to my surprise, this poem of Robert Browning's has not been posted to this comm before...
~~~~

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

Robert Browning

1812 –1889

Gr-r-r--there go, my heart's abhorrence!
Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
God's blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
Oh, that rose has prior claims--
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
Hell dry you up with its flames!

At the meal we sit together;
Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork crop: scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt;
What's the Latin name for "parsley"?
What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"?

( Whew! We'll have our platter burnished... )

med_cat

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am i going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

(Mary Oliver)

med_cat

Я недавно беседу имел с котом,
Так как кот в настроении был как раз.
Он сказал, что нет никакого «потом» —
Лишь «сейчас и здесь», только «здесь и сейчас».

I recently had a conversation with a cat,
Because the cat happened to feel like talking.
He said that there is no "afterwards",
There's only "now and here", only "here and now".

Что коты эту мудрость знают давно:
Если ты спокоен, весь мир — эскорт,
Что прекрасно просто смотреть в окно,
Что в коробках тайна, а в миске корм.

He said that cats have known this wisdom for a long time:
If you're calm, the entire world is your escort,
That it's fine to simply look out the window,
That there's mystery in boxes, and food in the bowl.

Хочешь есть — поешь. Хочешь спать — ложись.
Одолеют мысли — лицо умой.
А девятая жизнь — лишь девятая жизнь,
Что-то вроде пятой или седьмой.

If you're hungry, eat. If you're sleepy, go to bed.
If thoughts are plaguing you, wash your face.
And the ninth life is simply the ninth life,
Rather similar to a fifth or a seventh life.

— Но потом — я воскликнул — потом-то смерть!..
Кот зевнул, небрежно махнул хвостом,
И сказал, живота умывая мех:
Ты забыл, что нет никакого «потом».

"But afterwards," I exclaimed, "afterwards--there'll be death!..."
The cat yawned, negligently waved his tail,
And said, washing the fur on his belly,
"You've forgotten that there's no such thing as 'afterwards'."

Сергей Плотов

Sergey Plotov

(cross-posting from my DW)

med_cat

One of my favourites, from the author of "Invictus":

DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE

Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the east will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail:-
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'( Idle shot or coming bill,... )

med_cat

The Battered Dream Ship

Oh, once I sent a ship to sea,
and Hope was on her bow,
But Time has brought her back to me
and Wisdom's painted now;
Yes, Time has brought me many things
and some of them were good.
And some of them were failure's stings
I little understood.

When Hope set forth the dream was fair,
the sea was calm and blue,
I knew men met with storms out there
and had to ride them through;
But still I dreamed my ship would ride
and weather every blow,
For Hope flings many a truth aside
which Wisdom comes to know.

The storms have come with bitter cold,
I've prayed unto the Lord,
I've had false cargoes in the hold
and thrown them overboard;
I've trimmed my sails to meet the gale,
I've cut my journey short;
With battered hulk and battered sail
at last I've come to port.

'Tis not enough to hope and dream,
for storms will surely rise,
However smooth the sea may seem,
'tis there disaster lies;
And I have learned from time and stress,
that those who ride the wave,
And come at last to happiness
must suffer and be brave.

(Edgar A. Guest)

med_cat

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be—
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?

(Robert Frost)

med_cat

Do Something

If the world seems cool to you,
Kindle fires to warm it!
Let their comfort hide from you
Winters that deform it.
Hearts as frozen as your own
To that radiance gather;
You will soon forget to moan,
"Ah! The cheerless weather!"

If the world's "a vale of tears,"
Smile till rainbows span it;
Breathe the love that life endears--
Clear from clouds to fan it.
Of your gladness lend a gleam
Unto souls that shiver;
Show them how dark sorrow's stream
Blends with hope's bright river.

(From The Humbler Poets, 1888)
Edit: by Lucy Larcom
published in 1885, in The Humbler Poets: A Collection of Newspaper and Periodical Verse, 1870 to 1885

med_cat

THE LOOM OF TIME

Man's life is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see,
While the weavers work and the shuttles fly
Till the dawn of eternity.

Some shuttles are filled with silver threads,
And some with threads of gold,
While often but the darker hues
Are all that they may hold.

But the weaver watches with skillful eye
Each shuttle fly to and fro,
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
As the loom moves sure and slow.

God surely planned the pattern:
Each thread, the dark and fair,
Is chosen by His master skill
And placed in the web with care.

He only knows its beauty,
And guides the shuttles which hold
The threads so unattractive,
As well as the threads of gold.

Not till each loom is silent,
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God reveal the pattern
And explain the reason why

The dark threads were as needful
In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
For the pattern which He planned.

med_cat

Prayer To Persephone

Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.

She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child

Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

(Edna St. Vincent Millay)

(via allpoetry.com)

(surprisingly, this poem hasn't been posted to this comm before, at least not since 2006)

med_cat

Questions From a Worker Who Reads

Who built Thebes of the 7 gates?
In the books you will read the names of kings.
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock?

And Babylon, many times demolished,
Who raised it up so many times?

In what houses of gold glittering Lima did its builders live?
Where, the evening that the Great Wall of China was finished, did the masons go?

Great Rome is full of triumphal arches.
Who erected them?

Over whom did the Caesars triumph?
Had Byzantium, much praised in song, only palaces for its inhabitants?

Even in fabled Atlantis, the night that the ocean engulfed it,
The drowning still cried out for their slaves.

The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone?

Caesar defeated the Gauls.
Did he not even have a cook with him?

Philip of Spain wept when his armada went down.
Was he the only one to weep?

Frederick the 2nd won the 7 Years War.
Who else won it?

Every page a victory.
Who cooked the feast for the victors?

Every 10 years a great man.
Who paid the bill?

So many reports.

So many questions.

Bertolt Brecht, 1935

https://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/brecht/

(via

minoanmiss , with many thanks)

med_cat

A bit out of season, I know, but one of the most recent poems I shared here reminded me of this one.
~~

ПОСЛАНИЕ ЮНЫМ ДРУЗЬЯМ

                Я, побывавший там, где вы не бывали,
  я, повидавший то, чего вы не видали,
  я, уже т а м стоявший одной ногою,
  я говорю вам — жизнь все равно прекрасна.

A Message to My Young Friends

I, who have been where you hadn't,
I, who have seen what you hadn't,
I, who had already stood t h e r e with one foot,
I say to you: life is still beautiful.


  Да, говорю я, жизнь все равно прекрасна,
  даже когда трудна и когда опасна,
  даже когда несносна, почти ужасна —
  жизнь, говорю я, жизнь все равно прекрасна.


Yes, say I, life is still beautiful,
Even when it's difficult and when it's dangerous,
Even when it's unbearable, and almost horrible--
Life, say I, life is still beautiful.

( Now, I look back-- )

med_cat

Yes

by William Stafford

It could happen any time, tornado,

earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.

Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That’s why we wake

and look out – no guarantees

in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,

like right now, like noon,

like evening.

(via Read a Little Poetry FB page--many thanks!)

med_cat

Peonies

by Jim Harrison

The peonies, too heavy with their beauty,

slump to the ground. I had hoped

they would live forever but ever so slowly

day by day they’re becoming the soil of their birth

with a faint tang of deliquescence around them.

Next June they’ll somehow remember to come alive again,

a little trick we have or have not learned.

(via Read a Little Poetry FB page--many thanks!)

(they also have a website, do take a look: readalittlepoetry.com/)

med_cat

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

From "Starlings in Winter by Mary Oliver

(via

minoanmiss , with many thanks)

med_cat

Surprisingly, this poem hadn't been posted to this comm before. Now, I am aware that Robert Burns' Day is long past, but the message in this poem's last stanza is no less valid and the poem no less enjoyable...so:
~~~~~

To A Louse

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,
Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a Lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

( Read more... )

duathir.livejournal.com

Cross-post from

war_poetry:

Howl Under a Blue Light Filtered Moon
(Dedicated to Allen Ginsberg)

I saw the best minds of my generation scrolling themselves to death,
starved for meaning, lit by the blue glow of a thousand screens,
dragged through the feed at 3 A.M. looking for something real.

Angels of burnout, prophets of anxiety,
wired into coffee and code and self-diagnosis,
naked in their rooms, refreshing the apocalypse for updates.

Who texted their prayers into the void and got an emoji in return,
who built their gods out of hashtags and dopamine,
who confessed their sins to algorithms that sold them better ones.

Who wandered suburbia in eternal leases,
tethered to Wi-Fi, dreaming of the open road but afraid of gas prices,
who howled under fluorescent lights of office towers
as their dreams were formatted into PowerPoints.

Who made love to ghosts through pixelated glass,
mouths pressed to screens, hearts buffering,
and cried out for human touch in the language of memes.

Who believed in justice and were met with comment sections,
who marched, livestreamed, and bled for change
while billionaires built rockets to leave them behind.

Who raged against the machine
only to find the machine was polite,
efficient,
and offered a free trial.

Who searched for beauty and found filters,
who searched for truth and found ads,
who searched for God and found Wi-Fi signal
two bars, unstable, but better than nothing.

Who traded their time for content,
their thoughts for engagement,
their solitude for a sense of being seen.

Who sat in therapy learning to breathe again
after years of holding their breath online.

( Who drove through endless sameness: Target, Starbucks, Costco, )

By Elden Locke

.

med_cat

My Star

All that I know
Of a certain star
Is that it can throw,
Like the angled spar,
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said, they would fain see too
The star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird, like a flower hangs furled;
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matters to me that their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it!

(Robert Browning)
~~
P.S. Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, and this poem comes from

minoanmiss , from whom I had learned about this day (and who had sent postcards with this poem and her illustration of it, in previous years)

med_cat

Isn't the moon dark too,
most of the time?

And doesn't the white page
seem unfinished

without the dark stain
of alphabets?

When God demanded light,
he didn't banish darkness.

Instead he invented
ebony and crows

and that small mole
on your left cheekbone.

Or did you mean to ask
"Why are you sad so often?"

Ask the moon.
Ask what it has witnessed.

(today's poem is brought to you by

conuly --many thanks!)

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Page Summary

med_cat - Two poems by Dorothy Parker
med_cat - "An Answer", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
med_cat - "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister", by Robert Browning
med_cat - "I Worried", by Mary Oliver
med_cat - A poem by Sergey Plotov
med_cat - "Double Ballade of Life and Fate", by William Ernest Henley
med_cat - "The Battered Dream Ship", by Edgar A. Guest
med_cat - Neither Out Far Nor In Deep, by Robert Frost
med_cat - "Do Something", by Lucy Larcom
med_cat - The Loom of Time
med_cat - "Prayer to Persephone", by Edna St. Vincent Millay
med_cat - "Questions From a Worker Who Reads", by Bertolt Brecht
med_cat - "A Message to my Young Friends", by Yuri Levitansky
med_cat - "Yes", by William Stafford
med_cat - "Peonies", by Jim Harrison
med_cat - "As though I had wings", by Mary Oliver
med_cat - Robert Burns, "To A Louse"
duathir.livejournal.com - Elden Locke, 'Howl Under a Blue Light Filtered Moon'
med_cat - "My Star", by Robert Browning
med_cat - "Why are your poems so dark," by Linda Pastan

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Two poems by Dorothy Parker

"An Answer", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox