Poetry Thread

[grouper52]

Maybe there's already a poetry thread here, and if so, I apologize.

I recall the surprise years ago, when reading an an old book on Penjing by a Chinese master, to hear that the best training for Penjing was neither the study of horticulture nor Penjing, but the study of poetry and Chinese landscape painting.

Having admired and written poetry my whole life, I thought that some of the sentiments from poems I love have dovetailed nicely - even if indirectly - with the art of bonsai.

The website formats poetry really quite horribly last time I tried, but I will try again with a poem that was going through my mind today as I watered my trees. Enjoy. I may post others over time, especially if the formatting isn't too frustrating, and I encourage others to do so as well.

WHAT HE SAYS​

Raspberries splash, redly
in their leaves;​

squirrels​

squabble in the pine-tops.
An old man,​

wearing​

a sweater in warm July,
breathes​

the same morning as the birds,​

​

goes, talking among the flowers​

beautiful as he is,
bending​

leaves at his elbow.​

What he says,​

by himself, wandering​

in the sunny garden,​

need not be true,​

nor useful.​

​

By Robert Wallace​

​

 

[Geo]

Can't see anything wrong with the formatting. A great mind, had that Wallace ( Wikipedia has only a meager stub on him). Most impressed. I think I will try to memorize it (if there are enough neurons left).
As for Penjing, the reference to landscape painting is obvious: reference to poetry, perhaps more complex. Chinese is calligraphic. There is meaning, but there is also form,which I am suspecting ,plays a role with tree and tray design as well. But then, it's late ...and I don't speak, or in this case, write , the languages of the Celestial Kingdom.

George

 

[grouper52]

Thanks, Geo. Glad you appreciated it. And yes, my efforts to get the formatting acceptable seem to be paying off this time.

Here's one I've always loved just for its sheer beauty, and the depth it adds to Homer's epic, but it does mention mending trees and such. Wallace Stevens, for those who don't know, was an insurance salesman . . .


The World As Meditation

J’ai passé trop de temps à travailler mon violon, à voyager. Mais l’exercice essentiel du compositeur — la médiatation — rien ne l’a jamais suspendu en moi … Je vis un rêve permanent, qui ne s’arrête ni nuit ni jour. — Georges Enesco


Is it Ulysses that approaches from the east,

The interminable adventurer? The trees are mended.

That winter is washed away. Someone is moving


On the horizon and lifting himself up above it.

A form of fire approaches the cretonnes of Penelope,

Whose mere savage presence awakens the world in which she dwells.


She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him,

Companion to his self for her, which she imagined,

Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend.


The trees had been mended, as an essential exercise

In an inhuman meditation, larger than her own.

No winds like dogs watched over her at night.


She wanted nothing he could not bring her by coming alone.

She wanted no fetchings. His arms would be her necklace

And her belt, the final fortune of their desire.


But was it Ulysses? Or was it only the warmth of the sun

On her pillow? The thought kept beating in her like her heart.

The two kept beating together. It was only day.


It was Ulysses and it was not. Yet they had met,

Friend and dear friend and a planet’s encouragement.

The barbarous strength within her would never fail


She would talk a little to herself as she combed her hair,

Repeating his name with its patient syllables,

Never forgetting him that kept coming constantly so near.


Wallace Stevens, 1879-1955

 

[grouper52]

​

Mei Yao-Ch'en wrote a number of poems about his wife: this is my favorite, for which I tweaked the translation by Kenneth Rexroth . . .​

Memories On The Blue River


A halo surrounds the moon - there will be wind

say the boatmen, talking into the night.


Dawn - and brisk winds fill our sail -

we push from the bank, and scud the white waves.


It’s no use to be here in the land of Wu.

My dreams and desire are back in Cho’u.


I dreamt that one day she would come with me

on a trip like this . . . and now she is only dust.


​

Mei Yao-Ch’en, 1002-1060​

​

​

 

[Cypress187]

Lol, i read Potery I haven't read you poems but i bet they are wonderfull and inspiring.

 

[grouper52]

Allen Ginsberg - for those who have had the experience, no words are necessary; for those who have not had the experience, no words are possible. [It would not format exactly right, but is close enough - Enjoy!]

Transcription of Organ Music​

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formally in the kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it currently stayed open waiting for me, it’s owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on the floor, listening to music, my misery, that’s why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and ceiling, they contained my room, they contained me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had arisen
to think at the sun

Can I bring back the words? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye?

The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them
The privilege to witness my existence - you too must see the sun . . .

My books piled up before me for my use
waiting in space where I placed to them, they haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities for me to use - my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my love.

I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and we’re waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them. . . .
Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I love them.
I am so lonely in my glory - except they too out there - I looked up - those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the window waiting in blind love, there leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive - all creation open to receive - the flat earth itself.

The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
The world knows the love that’s in it’s breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
The Father is merciful.

The light socket is crudely attached to the ceiling, after the house was built, to receive a plug which sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now . . .

The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
The kitchen has no door, the hole there will admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
I remember when I first got laid, H. P. graciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Provincetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me if I wished to enter.

There are unused electricity plugs all over my house if I ever need them.
The kitchen window is open, to admit air . . .
The telephone - sad to relate - sits on the floor - I haven’t the money to get it connected -

I want people to bow as they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of the Creator.
And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning for him.


Allen Ginsberg,
Berkeley 1955​

 

[Geo]

Juniperus communis

There is a cliff
just past that big one
there
And on the line of rock and
atmosphere
a thousand years meandering
in rock through
air
and back again
down and up and
down
To me
a dancing diagram of space
of time
and ....

I saw these Junipers growing on the Niagara escarpment close to the Canada side falls. Must be 20 years ago now. Funny what a few beers and a keyboard does to a guy. Forgive me. All off the cuff and in good spirit. Cheers.

 

[Geo]

Grew up with Ginsberg, by the way. And Ferlingetti(sp?). They really did jump start the art of poetry when it did need a major kick in the rear.

 

[grouper52]

Juniperus communis

There is a cliff
just past that big one
there
And on the line of rock and
atmosphere
a thousand years meandering
in rock through
air
and back again
down and up and
down
To me
a dancing diagram of space
of time
and ....

I saw these Junipers growing on the Niagara escarpment close to the Canada side falls. Must be 20 years ago now. Funny what a few beers and a keyboard does to a guy. Forgive me. All off the cuff and in good spirit. Cheers.

Bravo! Good stuff! Yes, beers and a keyboard - nothing that needs forgiveness.

Your line about

"a dancing diagram of space
and time
and ...."

reminded me of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago after a friend and I got into a discussion with his 20-something son at a party where some nice single malt was being consumed, his son going on and on sophomorically about the existential implications of the "Multiverse," which Wikipedia defines as "The hypothetical set of infinite or finite possible universes that together comprise everything that exists: the entirety of space, time, matter, and energy as well as the physical laws and constants that describe them."

Of course, this definition does not, indeed, comprise "everything that exists" - it leaves out consciousness, awareness, which may very well be the "and ...." that your poem hints at as it ends.

Anyway, a long way from what I consider my better poems, but perhaps clever in a scotch-induced sort of way.

Next I'll post one of my "better" ones from years ago, just to redeem myself, but here's this one.

The Sharing: Scotch & Friends


let’s suppose it really is all just
energy
and energy condensed
incarnate
masquerading as matter

energy/matter existing neatly in
space/time
whatever that is

let’s just suppose

still
underlying even that there's
awareness
primordial & fundamental
yours & mine

undeniably aware
aware that it is aware

aware of the same energy/matter
existing in the same space/time
existing in the same your/my awareness

awareness wondering
perhaps
if it really is the same
awareness

or perhaps just simultaneous
awareness

or perhaps
(let’s just suppose)
awareness
shared​

 

[grouper52]

One I wrote around 1978.

Mama Hall​

stands in the kitchen

ignoring the aching veins

swollen from years at the stove and sink

in the only room Daddy Hall finished

before dying, the only room

anyone cared about anyway


staring west this winter morning

past bare apple branches

across Kerr’s Creek, Route 60

and ten frosted miles to House Mountain

Barbara married​

Lisa in Roanoke​

Blair working a saw mill​

in Covington​

Donna and Billy

still there, but talking

between mouthfuls

about college in Richmond

after spring graduation​

 

[ColinFraser]

Cool; I love poetry. Philip Larkin is one if my favorites; here's his "Next, Please"

Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,

Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last

We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.

 

[grouper52]

Thanks for chiming in, Colin. Nice poem - I recall the name of the poet, but I don't think I'm familiar with his work.

 

[grouper52]

Here's my other favorite Wallace Stevens poem, I believe both his most famous and the last one he wrote:



Of Mere Being

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

 

[grouper52]

Another one of mine, written 1975.

On the Fantail, Leaving the Philippines


these islands

a thousand ripe memories

like perfumed clouds bringing soft rains

swelling the tropical streams of my soul


my heart

swims slowly

like the great sea turtles

endlessly roaming the Sibuyan Sea

with reptilian urgings to lay eggs again

on the warm brown sands of Luzon


on the bow there is only the future

and the wind like time in your face​

 

[ColinFraser]

“The Riddle of the Dinosaur” by Bert Leston Taylor
Behold the mighty dinosaur,
Famous in prehistoric lore,
Not only for his weight and length,
But for his intellectual strength.
You will observe by these remains
The creature had two sets of brains,
The one in his head, the usual place,
The other at his spinal base.
Thus he could reason a priori
As well as a posteriori.
No problem bothered him a bit,
He made both head and tail of it.
So wise he was
So wise and solemn
Each thought filled just a spinal column.
If one brain found the pressure strong,
It passed a few ideas along.
It something slipped the forward mind
’Twas rescued by the one behind.
And if in error he was caught
He had a saving afterthought.
As he thought twice before he spoke
He had no judgment to revoke.
For he could think without congestion
Upon both sides of every question.
O gaze upon this noble beast,
Defunct ten million years at least.

 

[M. Frary]

Have you heard the one about the man from Nantucket?
Can't help it Will.

 

[Brian Van Fleet]

There once was a man from Nantuckett
Whose tree was so big he could hug it
He said with a grin
As he cleaned up his Jin
If his oak was a stump
He'd a dug it.

 

[M. Frary]

There once was a man from Nantuckett
Whose tree was so big he could hug it
He said with a grin
As he cleaned up his Jin
If his oak was a stump
He'd a dug it.

Not quite the exact one. But close. Dangerously close.
I think that's called a limerick too. Not a poem.

 

[grouper52]

I can't recall the poet/author - I think somebody famous for more weighty works - but this is a cute one (and well-crafted) that I've always liked:

That last little bean

Just sits on my plate.

It'll never get ate.



​

 

[grouper52]

That last little poem was close to a haiku - here's a recent one of mine:

Old room, growing bare.

Small Buddha. Just one sutra.

Scent of burning leaves.​