Anthology
Here are some poems by other authors which I hope you might enjoy.
Contents:
Fear
Ozymandias
Nothing is So Beautiful ...
An Elizabethan Prayer for Our Enemies
God's Grandeur
Pro Patria?
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Dorianne Laux has very kindly given me her generous permission to add her wonderful poem to this anthology:
Fear
Ozymandias
Nothing is So Beautiful ...
An Elizabethan Prayer for Our Enemies
God's Grandeur
Pro Patria?
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Dorianne Laux has very kindly given me her generous permission to add her wonderful poem to this anthology:
Fear
We were afraid of everything: earthquakes,
strangers, smoke above the canyon, the fire
that would come running and eat up our house,
the Claymore girls, big-boned, rough, razor blades
tucked in the ratted hair. We were terrified
of polio, tuberculosis, being found out, the tent
full of boys two blocks over, the kick ball, the asphalt,
the pain-filled rocks, the glass-littered canyon, the deep
cave gouged in its side, the wheelbarrow crammed
with dirty magazines, beer cans, spit-laced butts.
We were afraid of hands, screen doors slammed
by angry mothers, abandoned cars, their slumped
back seats, the chain-link fence we couldn’t climb
fast enough, electrical storms, blackouts, girl fights
behind the pancake house, Original Sin, sidewalk
cracks and the corner crematorium, loose brakes
on the handlebar of our bikes. It came alive
behind our eyes: ant mounds, wasp nests, the bird
half-eaten on the scratchy grass, chained dogs,
the boggy creekbed, the sewer main that fed it,
the game where you had to hold your breath
until you passed out. We were afraid of being
poor, dumb, yelled at, ignored, invisible
as the nuclear dust we were told to wipe
from lids before we opened them in the kitchen,
the fat roll of meat that slid into the pot, sleep,
dreams, the soundless swing of the father’s
ringed fist, the mother’s face turned away,
the wet bed, anything red, the slow leak,
the stain on the driveway, oily gears soaking
in a shallow pan, busted chairs stuffed
in the rafters of the neighbor’s garage,
the Chevy’s twisted undersides jacked up
on blocks, wrenches left scattered in the dirt.
It was what we knew best, understood least,
it whipped through our bodies like fire or sleet.
We were lured by the Dumpster behind the liquor store,
fissures in the baked earth, the smell of singed hair,
the brassy hum of high-tension towers, train tracks,
buzzards over a ditch, black widows, the cat
with one eye, the red spot on the back of the skirt,
the fallout shelter’s metal door hinged ot the rusty
grass, the back way, the wrong path, the night’s
wide back, the coiled bedsprings of the sister’s
top bunk, the wheezing, the cousin in the next room
tapipng on the wall, anything small.
We were afraid of clotheslines, curtain rods, the worn
hairbrush, the good-for-nothings we were about to become,
reform school, the long ride to the ocean on the bus,
the man at the back of the bus, the underpass.
We were afraid of fingers of pickleweed crawling
over the embankment, the French Kiss, the profound
silence of dead fish, burning sand, rotting elastic
in the waistbands of our underpants, jellyfish, riptides,
eucalyptus bark unraveling, the pink flesh beneath
the stink of seaweed, seagulls landing near our feet,
their hateful eyes, their orange-tipped beaks stabbing
the sand, the crumbling edge of the continent we stood on,
waiting to be saved, the endless, wind-driven waves.
strangers, smoke above the canyon, the fire
that would come running and eat up our house,
the Claymore girls, big-boned, rough, razor blades
tucked in the ratted hair. We were terrified
of polio, tuberculosis, being found out, the tent
full of boys two blocks over, the kick ball, the asphalt,
the pain-filled rocks, the glass-littered canyon, the deep
cave gouged in its side, the wheelbarrow crammed
with dirty magazines, beer cans, spit-laced butts.
We were afraid of hands, screen doors slammed
by angry mothers, abandoned cars, their slumped
back seats, the chain-link fence we couldn’t climb
fast enough, electrical storms, blackouts, girl fights
behind the pancake house, Original Sin, sidewalk
cracks and the corner crematorium, loose brakes
on the handlebar of our bikes. It came alive
behind our eyes: ant mounds, wasp nests, the bird
half-eaten on the scratchy grass, chained dogs,
the boggy creekbed, the sewer main that fed it,
the game where you had to hold your breath
until you passed out. We were afraid of being
poor, dumb, yelled at, ignored, invisible
as the nuclear dust we were told to wipe
from lids before we opened them in the kitchen,
the fat roll of meat that slid into the pot, sleep,
dreams, the soundless swing of the father’s
ringed fist, the mother’s face turned away,
the wet bed, anything red, the slow leak,
the stain on the driveway, oily gears soaking
in a shallow pan, busted chairs stuffed
in the rafters of the neighbor’s garage,
the Chevy’s twisted undersides jacked up
on blocks, wrenches left scattered in the dirt.
It was what we knew best, understood least,
it whipped through our bodies like fire or sleet.
We were lured by the Dumpster behind the liquor store,
fissures in the baked earth, the smell of singed hair,
the brassy hum of high-tension towers, train tracks,
buzzards over a ditch, black widows, the cat
with one eye, the red spot on the back of the skirt,
the fallout shelter’s metal door hinged ot the rusty
grass, the back way, the wrong path, the night’s
wide back, the coiled bedsprings of the sister’s
top bunk, the wheezing, the cousin in the next room
tapipng on the wall, anything small.
We were afraid of clotheslines, curtain rods, the worn
hairbrush, the good-for-nothings we were about to become,
reform school, the long ride to the ocean on the bus,
the man at the back of the bus, the underpass.
We were afraid of fingers of pickleweed crawling
over the embankment, the French Kiss, the profound
silence of dead fish, burning sand, rotting elastic
in the waistbands of our underpants, jellyfish, riptides,
eucalyptus bark unraveling, the pink flesh beneath
the stink of seaweed, seagulls landing near our feet,
their hateful eyes, their orange-tipped beaks stabbing
the sand, the crumbling edge of the continent we stood on,
waiting to be saved, the endless, wind-driven waves.
Ozymandias (Percy Bysshe Shelley)
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Nothing is so Beautiful
This poem by Charles Peguy, translated by Ann and Julian Green, is included Victor Gollancz's anthology Year of Grace.
Nothing is so beautiful as a child going to sleep while he is saying his prayers, says God.
I tell you nothing is so beautiful in this world ...
And yet I have seen beautiful sights in the world.
And I know something about it. My creation is overflowing with beauty.
My creation overflows with marvels.
There are so many that you don't know where to put them.
I have seen millions and millions of stars rolling under my feet like the sands of the sea.
I have seen days as scorching as flames,
Summer days of June and July and August.
I have seen winter evenings spread out like a cloak.
I have seen summer evenings as calm and soft as something shed by Paradise,
All studded with stars.
I have seen the slopes of the Meuse and those churches which are my own houses,
And Paris and Reims and Rouen and cathedrals which are my own palaces and my own castles,
So beautiful that I am going to keep them in heaven.
I have seen the capital of the kingdom and Rome the capital of Christendom.
I have heard mass sung and triumphant vespers.
And I have seen the vales and plains of France,
And they are more beautiful than anything.
I have seen the deep sea, and the deep forest, and the deep heart of man.
I have seen hearts devoured by love
During whole lifetimes
Lost in love
Burning like flames ...
I have seen martyrs blazing like torches,
Thus preparing for themselves palms everlastingly green.
And I have seen, beading under claws of iron,
Drops of blood which sparkled like diamonds.
And I have seen beading tears of love
Which will last longer than the stars in heaven.
And I have seen looks of prayer, looks of tenderness,
Lost in love,
Which will gleam for all eternity, nights and nights.
And I have seen whole lives from birth to death,
From baptism to viaticum,
Unrolling like a beautiful skein of wool.
But I tell you, says God, that I know of nothing so beautiful in the whole world
As a little child going to sleep while saying his prayers
Under the wing of his guardian angel
And laughs happily as he watches the angels and begins to go to sleep;
And is already mixing his prayers together and no longer knows what they are all about;
And sticks the words of Our Father among the words of Hail, Mary, all in a jumble,
While a veil is already coming down over his eyelids,
The veil of night over his gaze and his voice.
I have seen the greatest saints, says God. But I tell you
I have never seen anything so funny and I therefore know of nothing so beautiful in the world
As that child going to sleep while he says his prayers
(As that little creature going to sleep in all confidence)
And getting his Our Father mixed up with his Hail, Mary.
Nothing is so beautiful and it is even one point
On which the Blessed Virgin agrees with me ...
And I can even say it is the only point on which we agree.
Because as a rule we disagree,
She being for mercy,
Whereas I, of course, have to be for justice.
I tell you nothing is so beautiful in this world ...
And yet I have seen beautiful sights in the world.
And I know something about it. My creation is overflowing with beauty.
My creation overflows with marvels.
There are so many that you don't know where to put them.
I have seen millions and millions of stars rolling under my feet like the sands of the sea.
I have seen days as scorching as flames,
Summer days of June and July and August.
I have seen winter evenings spread out like a cloak.
I have seen summer evenings as calm and soft as something shed by Paradise,
All studded with stars.
I have seen the slopes of the Meuse and those churches which are my own houses,
And Paris and Reims and Rouen and cathedrals which are my own palaces and my own castles,
So beautiful that I am going to keep them in heaven.
I have seen the capital of the kingdom and Rome the capital of Christendom.
I have heard mass sung and triumphant vespers.
And I have seen the vales and plains of France,
And they are more beautiful than anything.
I have seen the deep sea, and the deep forest, and the deep heart of man.
I have seen hearts devoured by love
During whole lifetimes
Lost in love
Burning like flames ...
I have seen martyrs blazing like torches,
Thus preparing for themselves palms everlastingly green.
And I have seen, beading under claws of iron,
Drops of blood which sparkled like diamonds.
And I have seen beading tears of love
Which will last longer than the stars in heaven.
And I have seen looks of prayer, looks of tenderness,
Lost in love,
Which will gleam for all eternity, nights and nights.
And I have seen whole lives from birth to death,
From baptism to viaticum,
Unrolling like a beautiful skein of wool.
But I tell you, says God, that I know of nothing so beautiful in the whole world
As a little child going to sleep while saying his prayers
Under the wing of his guardian angel
And laughs happily as he watches the angels and begins to go to sleep;
And is already mixing his prayers together and no longer knows what they are all about;
And sticks the words of Our Father among the words of Hail, Mary, all in a jumble,
While a veil is already coming down over his eyelids,
The veil of night over his gaze and his voice.
I have seen the greatest saints, says God. But I tell you
I have never seen anything so funny and I therefore know of nothing so beautiful in the world
As that child going to sleep while he says his prayers
(As that little creature going to sleep in all confidence)
And getting his Our Father mixed up with his Hail, Mary.
Nothing is so beautiful and it is even one point
On which the Blessed Virgin agrees with me ...
And I can even say it is the only point on which we agree.
Because as a rule we disagree,
She being for mercy,
Whereas I, of course, have to be for justice.
An Elizabethan Prayer for Our Enemies
The author is unknown to me - this is printed in Victor Gollancz's anthology Year of Grace
Most merciful and loving Father,
We beseech Thee most humbly, even with all our hearts,
To pour out upon our enemies with bountiful hands whatsoever things Thou knowest may do them good.
And chiefly a sound and uncorrupt mind,
Where-through they may know Thee and love Thee in true charity and with their whole heart.
And love us, Thy children, for Thy sake.
Let not their first hating of us turn to their harm,
Seeing that we cannot do them good for want of ability.
Lord, we desire their amendment and our own.
Separate them not from us by punishing them,
But join and knot them to us by The favourable dealing with them.
And, seeing we be all ordained to be citizens of the one everlasting city,
Let us begin to enter into that way here already by mutual love,
Which may bring us right forth thither.
Most merciful and loving Father,
We beseech Thee most humbly, even with all our hearts,
To pour out upon our enemies with bountiful hands whatsoever things Thou knowest may do them good.
And chiefly a sound and uncorrupt mind,
Where-through they may know Thee and love Thee in true charity and with their whole heart.
And love us, Thy children, for Thy sake.
Let not their first hating of us turn to their harm,
Seeing that we cannot do them good for want of ability.
Lord, we desire their amendment and our own.
Separate them not from us by punishing them,
But join and knot them to us by The favourable dealing with them.
And, seeing we be all ordained to be citizens of the one everlasting city,
Let us begin to enter into that way here already by mutual love,
Which may bring us right forth thither.
God's Grandeur
Gerard Manley Hopkins was a British poet, 1844-89. This is one of his poems which I'm particularly fond of:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God,
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs -
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God,
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs -
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Pro Patria?
Clive Eastwood, Kent poet and stalwart of the Kent & Sussex Poetry Society, has kindly given me permission to post his moving poem here, written after a visit to a First World War Graves Cemetery. The poem was first published in his collection Fly in Red Wine (ISBN 1-900726-48-3 Tollwood 2000)
Where each rise of the ground
was once a prize to be killed for
and hollows stank, one slope
has been mollified; a graveyard,
neat as a dormitory with the grass
trimmed evenly beside each bed
and the soil tucked firmly in.
The first two thirds are French
-artilleur, capitaine, chasseur -
then the pattern changes. The same
rows, same bare rectangles except
now the headstones are turned,
the names mirror-written, rippled,
the way the wind writes on sand.
With a crescent carved above each
regimental badge, the stones slant -
as a field of sunflowers slants
towards some unattainable desert;
as if, dead, the zouaves have turned
from Douaumont, where every ally
wore the bleached skin of an enemy.
Where each rise of the ground
was once a prize to be killed for
and hollows stank, one slope
has been mollified; a graveyard,
neat as a dormitory with the grass
trimmed evenly beside each bed
and the soil tucked firmly in.
The first two thirds are French
-artilleur, capitaine, chasseur -
then the pattern changes. The same
rows, same bare rectangles except
now the headstones are turned,
the names mirror-written, rippled,
the way the wind writes on sand.
With a crescent carved above each
regimental badge, the stones slant -
as a field of sunflowers slants
towards some unattainable desert;
as if, dead, the zouaves have turned
from Douaumont, where every ally
wore the bleached skin of an enemy.
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo has kindly given me permission to post her beautiful poem here.
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.
from: Reinventing the Enemy's Language.
Edited by Joy Harjo and Gloria Bird.
New York: Norton, 1997.
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.
from: Reinventing the Enemy's Language.
Edited by Joy Harjo and Gloria Bird.
New York: Norton, 1997.
