Ecological Poem -Brian Kim Stefans
September 29, 2017, 7:41 pm
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Around the pool the hippos drool
as if the chloride wouldn’t kill them.
In fact, they like to play the fool,
the harbinger, the pilgrim.

The bird that plops into the glass
makes a sound, then isn’t there.
Spiders toss, in oleaginous mass,
Goo Gone into the air.

The ants that drag a beat-up car
onto the lawn are emissaries
of some forgotten prince or tsar
from an HBO miniseries.

The cheetah, panther, jaguar, and lynx
(some of these might be the same)
conjure images of Sphinx
and other trademarked names.

The dynamited hole now teems
with insects shiny and obscene,
crawling, dying, though it dreams
an ectoplasm of green.

My own two cats stiffen, confused
at this profusion past the door.
They bat at things they’ve often used
for sound therapy before.

I tell you this out of principle:
that spiraling around a theme
(while naming lots of animals)
can supercharge a meme.

My own skin founders in the rush
of allergenic, if cautious, beasts.
Eyes eye darkness, ears hear hush —
the assassin’s humor feasts.

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Cure and Curry -Natalie Rose Richardson
September 29, 2017, 7:38 pm
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My father is a nod, a jilt. Bop.
Insists that 90s music is the jams they
will drop when I have children. Cancel
the station with rap-crap, the cure
for stiff-skin is the blunk of funk and
lilt of lips that pickles like sound-curry.


daydreamin’
July 9, 2017, 4:06 pm
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Lines for Winter -Mark Strand
June 25, 2017, 3:39 pm
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Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.



Federico Garcia Lorca
May 29, 2017, 10:02 am
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Her Voice, My Voice -Oscar Wilde
April 20, 2017, 10:39 am
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Her Voice

The wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—
It shall be, I said, for eternity
’Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love’s web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,—
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,—you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.

My Voice

Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow hath paled my lip’s vermilion,
And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee
No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.



Dulce et Decorum Est -Wilfred Owen
March 16, 2017, 8:28 am
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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.