fragments of contemporary poetry

[ipincif]

All street signs are in the genitive. The road of Heraclitus. So, too, are the surnames of women. She of Psaropoulos. Patronymics. Who are you=to whom do you belong.
__________________
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[quasimodo1]

Plaint in a Major Key

Without even leaving one's door,
One can know the whole world.
—Laozi

The rumble of the night sounds
even in the bright daylight
of morning. Life blooms amid
the Ten Thousand Things, but
does not bloom amid the Ten
Thousand Things. Shrivel-eyed
I wake up and tend to the One
here and now, clamoring to be
let out. Down with the gate,
out with the boy, to the rooms
of life's necessities, first
to void and next to fill.
The Order is only order which
is disorder, the only Disorder
is the disorder that is order.
We usher ourselves, each in our
own way, back down the way
for various brushings, combings,
other groomings. Each in our
own way we urge the other
toward some kind of growth:
one to assume, the other
to renounce; one to grow larger,
the other to grow smaller,
thereby growing larger. Words
do not work, and when they do not,
other words might. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

Nabokov’s Last Puzzle {a review}
By DAVID GATES
Published: November 11, 2009 --- THE ORIGINAL OF LAURA

(Dying Is Fun)

By Vladimir Nabokov

Edited by Dmitri Nabokov

278 pp. Alfred A. Knopf. $35 -- http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/15/bo...r=1&ref=review

[quasimodo1]

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/13/bo...t.html?_r=1&em

[Virgil]

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/13/bo...t.html?_r=1&em

Nice to Helen Vendler still around critiquing. She must be up there in age. I don't think I've ever spent a dedicated amount ot time on Ashberry. I probably should.

[quasimodo1]

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/20/bo...ooksupdateema3 --- EASY

Poems

By Marie Ponsot

[quasimodo1]

little tree

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower


who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly


i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid


look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,


put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy


then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see ...{excerpt} --

[Virgil]

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/20/bo...ooksupdateema3 --- EASY

Poems

By Marie Ponsot

Thanks Quasi. I had never heard of her. Found this one by her on the internet.

The Problem of Fiction
by Marie Ponsot

She always writes poems. This summer
she’s starting a novel. It’s in trouble already.
The characters are easy—a girl
and her friend who is a girl
and the boy down the block with his first car,
an older boy, sixteen, who sometimes
these warm evenings leaves his house to go dancing
in dressy clothes though it’s still light out.
The girl has a brother who has lots of friends,
is good in math, and just plain good which
doesn’t help the story. The story
should have rescues & escapes in it
which means who’s the bad guy; he couldn’t be
the brother or the grandpa or the father either,
or even the boy down the block with his first car.

[Snip]
Read the rest here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch...html?id=177094

[quasimodo1]

you have to love the Poetry Foundation (maybe not so much Poetry magazine)... besides they now sponsor PBS

[quasimodo1]

ADVENT 1966

Because in Vietnam the vision of a Burning Babe
is multiplied, multiplied,
the flesh on fire
not Christ’s, as Southwell saw it, prefiguring
the Passion upon the Eve of Christmas,
but wholly human and repeated, repeated,
infant after infant, their names forgotten,
their sex unknown in the ashes,
set alight, flaming but not vanishing,
not vanishing as his vision but lingering,
cinders upon the earth or living on
moaning and stinking in hospitals three abed;
because of this my strong sight,
my clear caressive sight, my poet’s sight I was given
that it might stir me to song,
is blurred.
{excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/c...ow/5324494.cms

--- Dilip Chitre --- his homepage --- In the pool of bliss,Bliss is all ripples." http://thebuckstopshere0.tripod.com/

[quasimodo1]

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/30/bo...pagewanted=all --- A VILLAGE LIFE

By Louise Glück

[quasimodo1]

http://www.csmonitor.com/Books/chapt...-Fred-Marchant

[quasimodo1]

GHAZAL OF THE BETTER-UNBEGUN



A book is a suicide postponed.
--Cioran
Too volatile, am I? too voluble? too much a word-person?
I blame the soup: I'm a primordially
stirred person.

Two pronouns and a vehicle was Icarus with wings.
The apparatus of his selves made an ab-
surd person.

The sound I make is sympathy's: sad dogs are tied afar.
But howling I become an ever more un-
heard person.

I need a hundred more of you to make a likelihood.
The mirror's not convincing-- that at-best in-
ferred person.

As time's revealing gets revolting, I start looking out.
Look in and what you see is one unholy
blurred person. ... {excerpt}

[quasimodo1]

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.


Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.


Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and *** and camel which adore.


Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss. ... {excerpt}