Raglan Road / Patrick Kavanagh

Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion’s pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay
O I loved too much and by such by such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that’s known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say,
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May.

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay –
When the angel woos the clay he’d lose his wings at the dawn of day.

~~
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
from The Irish Times, October 1946

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Patrick Kavanagh biography

I can remember / Stephan Pickering

I can remember ... אני יכול לזכור

I. 

in the ashes of Auschwitz
February 2018 / Shevat 5778
there exists no
kol hachavvyot,
the Infinite One bring/ing
all of reality into be-ing.

there is no 'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh
who formed Light,
who created Darkness.

II. 

the candles of the Vanished
World are no longer
sown in the seasons of breath.

in 1920 Vilna, Yehu'dit bones
were excavated for horses
to be buried,
all by the tongue of a priest
covered in ambergris.

in 2018 Cyberia alleys,
the malefactor mime cries
as Long Island parhelia
flicker in the seasonal
ice around his little girls.

III. 

the cypress of the
Kingdom of Night are
amidst natz'ri house gardens,
marking in the mouths of
opus dei children the straws
of Poland.

long after midnight we seek
solace in One-Eyed Paritus's
Meditations obliques,
where Sol Nazerman's
zoharic midrashim of
Shabtai Zisel are
narrated by Claude Lanzmann.

the quantum nonlocality
of the corpse of
ha'Kodesh Barukh hu
is the Hollerith tracking
number.

IV. 

Nach uraltem, aengstlich beheutetem
Klostergeheimnis lernen selbst Greise
muehelos Kavier spielen.
– Max Ernst

~~
this is to the memories z"l of 
Rod Steiger 14 April 1925-9 July 2002 
Roman Vischniac 19 August 1897-22 January 1990 
Rose Leamel Ziebell (1933-2007) 
Dottie Sutton (1922-2015) 
and to the Presence of two of my children in Yisra'el 
and the memories of two sons z"l 

STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
© 3 February 2018 / 18 Shevat 5778 - slightly revised 14 April 2019 / 9 Nisan 5779

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Child survivors at Auschwitz, 1945. Photo by Alexander Voroncov. 

Courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

Long May You Live / George J. Dance

Long May You Live

Long may you live, long after I am gone,
And may you often fix your thoughts upon
Our memories; may the good times you and I
Enjoyed be points of light to journey by,
Like fireflies upon a twilit lawn.

May each day find you welcoming the dawn
And living life complete: each day to try,
To win, to celebrate with your head high.
      Long may you live.

May you walk in righteousness through Babylon,
True to yourself, not anybody's pawn;
And on that far-off day when you must die,
Once more may you remember me, and sigh,
And leave one wish for those who carry on:
     "Long may you live."

~~
George J. Dance, 2016
from Logos, and other logoi, 2021
 

[All rights reserved by the author - used with permission]

George J. Dance biography

One Day in May / Clinton Scollard

One Day in May

Do you recall, old friend, how we
Pulled up the Wye one day in May?
The bloom was on the hawthorn tree,
And many an upland meadow way
Showed plots of hyacinths as blue
As glints of sky the clouds let through.

We left gray Chepstow's walls behind,—
Its crumbling keep, its burst of chimes;
With us went wooingly the wind,
Repeating little liquid rhymes;
And with us, too, the tide's long sweep
From Severn and the outer deep.

Spring's choristers from either shore
Flung us their softly silvery hail;
Each time we raised or dipped the oar,
Lo, the sweet burden of a tale
As ancient as the hills, and keyed
To match our spirits' vernal need!

The heights slipped by; the lowlands swung
Like wingèd dreams athwart our ken;
Thatched farmsteads where the ivy clung
Swam in the westering light, and then,
Beyond lush tree and lichened stile,
Loomed Tintern's dim monastic pile.

We shipped the oars and stepped to land;
Sauntered the village streets, and clomb
Wide loops of path until we scanned
The valley,— water, wood and loam
Umber beneath the plowman's blade,
Or in faint gold and green arrayed.

Into a hill gap drooped the sun,
Flooding divinely, ere it went,
The abbey windows one by one
With an ethereal ravishment,—
Ambers and crimsons such as play
About the funeral pyre of day.

Then twilight's purples, and her peace,
And the calm lifting of the moon!
O Memory, may'st thou never cease
To grant to me this gracious boon,—
The vision of that bygone time
When May and youth were both at prime!

~~
Clinton Scollard (1860-1932)
from Voices and Visions, 1908 

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Clinton Scollard biography

A Christmas-Cake / Helen Maria Williams

To Mrs K____, On Her Sending Me 
an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris

What crowding thoughts around me wake,
What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!

~~
Helen Maria Williams (1762-1827)
from Poems on Various Subjects, 1823

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Helen Maria Williams biography

"To Mrs K—, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum Cake at Paris" 

read by Jean Aked. Courtesy jeanakedpoetry

Summer 1969 / Michael G. Munoz

Summer 1969

The first turn of July heat
And I was growing fast
Leaning into the sun
Like the nascent fan palms sprouting up
Through the cracked black asphalt in the street
Long summer days
Of no breeze and sweet lemonade
Growing restless with myself
No money
No car
Maybe a dime for ice cream at Save-Ons

It seemed the whole damn world was getting tighter
My clothes too tight
Shoes too tight
Rooms too tight
Money too tight
And all the friends I had
All my life
Were slowly unwinding into strangers

Potheads
Pillheads
Speedfreaks
With beer and cigarettes
With drums and plugged-in guitars
Or worse
With bibles
And like a novice dabbling into the occult
I tried them all
But none of it mystified me
Not like the hypnotic allurement
Of females

I hooked up with Louie Angel that summer
Who lived down the street
And what little
We had in common
Was quickly and quietly filled
By the newly stocked waters of Peck Park Pool

Girls would come out of the water
And pass in front of us
Shivering, giggling, arms crossed, mouths open
Running in short little steps
In packs of threes and fours
Across the roughed out bleached concrete
To a corner in the shade

We would raise up our sunburned faces
Like sleepy little turtles
And from our soggy towels
And peer quizzically
At all these walking mysteries
And whatever lessons
We had learned from the squared-up games
Of baseball, football, or basketball
In our dismal squared-up lives
They could not free us
From this entanglement of the senses

These girls were candy-canes
Hanging from the poisoned vines
Of our imaginations
We just had to figure out how to get to  them
We had to figure them out

Who to walk with
Who to follow
How far were they going
Through which neighborhoods and
Most importantly
Which ones liked us back
And we had to figure this out
Me and Louie
Without saying
More than two words to each other

So me being utterly unambitious
Or at least being the more practical one
Mostly walked with the girls heading south
While Louie
Being the gambler
And having no reason to ever go home
Seeing as he lived with six sisters
Usually picked a girl
That lived over
On the other side of Peck Park Canyon
But it really didn't matter
Once we fixed an address
We'd go back later in the evening
Trekking as partners
Great adventurers
No distance too great or high
Ducking hurled insults
In the shape of rocks
Or dodging chained up dogs
As we shortcut
Down through dusty canyons
And across vacant lots
Through busted up fences and down alleys
That shone in the moonlight
Like galaxies of broken glass
To end up on the white porches
Of sunburned girls
Who weren't allowed to walk anywhere
With a couple of boys like us

Summer
You once kissed my lips and face
Graced my hands with your sweet fruits
And then you moved on
But not before leading me
Into a new season

Not before
Tossing me high high in the air
Mixed-up colors and words
Streaming in the sunlight
Falling to the earth
Like confetti

And although I didn't know it at the time
While leaning into doorways
And mumbling low hellos
I was whispering
A shy good-by
To my innocence
Forever

~~
Michael G. Munoz
2010
California, U.S.A.

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Dietmar Rabich, Santa Monica State Beach, California, July 2012.

CC BY 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

when i was young / David George

when i was young

"When I was young and had no sense
 I left my balls on a barbed wire fence."
                                  -David George.

Oh toodle doodle doo...

sitting on the stage
of the local village hall

two rows – big kids in the back row
and smaller ones in the front.

Parents and other garrulous locals
packed to the gunwales

in the body of the hall.
Kids buttoned up tight

short back and sides
for the boys and pigtails

de rigueur for most of the girls.
Freckles optional.

But all them dandy little faces
charcoaled an' shiny

In the hall's one spotlight.

Helen and Elizabeth. Peter
and Warren and Bruce.

Arms folded, little eyes a twinkling
"Way down upon the swanny river...

...where the ducks and the cygnets do play;
where seldom is heard..."

...and Danny wipes his nose
And Sandra McPherson, called Sandy,

Scrunches up her knees and looks super-good.

~~
D     A     V     I     D        G     E     O     R     G     E
David George 
Te Waipounamu [South Island],  New Zealand.

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

David George on usenet:
http://groups.google.ca/groups/profile?hl=en&show=more&enc_user=2WBD3xIAAADr7jixqIpvtKJrWaX65Czi8rhlH0Pnl47z4AZhN98BFg&group=us.arts.poetry

A Sestina of Memories / J.E. Ball

A Sestina of Memories

When you were nine, and I was six years old,
Do you remember how we wandered forth,
Two small explorers, through the summer fields,
With apple turnovers provisioned well,
And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass,
In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rose?

And how the farmer in his fury rose
With hot red face, as ogres wore of old,
And eyeing angrily his battered grass,
With wingèd words he drove the culprits forth,
And swore a whipping would be theirs as well
The next time they profaned his sacred fields?

Regretfully we left those sunny fields
(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose),
And sate us down beside a little well
That bubbled up ’midst stonework grey and old,
And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth,
To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass.

Long time we lay upon the kindly grass,
Until the cows from out their distant fields
In solemn, slow procession issued forth.
With stiff and lagging movements then we rose,
Our little bones aweary felt, and old
(For all the ground was damp beside the well).

Long weary weeks passed by ere we were well:
Long aching weeks; by then the farmer’s grass
Had turned to hay, and our offence was old.
Again we entered those forbidden fields,
But found no more our creamy-petalled rose,
Thorns, only thorns, the straggling hedge brought forth.

Sadly we turned, and sadly trotted forth,
Our flowers were gone, and all our hopes as well;
Though some, consoling, said, “Your little rose
Will bloom again: and, not to hurt the grass,
You might go skirting round the farmer’s fields –
His hand is mortal heavy, though he’s old.”

Still to the sunlit fields Hope speeds us forth:
Prone on the grass, we dream that all is well:
And so wax old, and never grasp our rose.

---
J.E. Ball
1904
from The Westminster Problems Book, 1908.

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Songs / Demonspawn

Songs

I have been

collecting music

for years and years

from Queen and Led Zep

to Paul Simon and Juluka,

(picking up

coloured bottles and seashells

from a friend here

lover there)

old spirits, they surround me

comforting, familiar

encouraging, sympathising,

enlightening and

everpresent

in my mind

(broken faded tunes

here and there

gathered

bits of the past trailing behind

clinging to clothes

stale cigarette smoke

campfire

splashy fens lost and found)

playing themselves

over and over

on the turntable

in my head

(bits and pieces remembered

collected over the years

a collage of love and hate

everchanging

growing

fading

patched)

reminding me they are

always there

(a favourite old blanket

on a cold morning)

~~

Demonspawn 

October 2004

From the website:

A Darker Vision

https://www.darkervision.com/

[Some rights reserved under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 (CC-NC-ND-2.5) License.]

"Frost Tonight" / Edith M. Thomas

       
"Frost Tonight"

Apple-green west and an orange bar,
And the crystal eye of a lone, one star .  .  .
And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will,
Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still."

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud,
And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,
The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, —
The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!
A gleam of the shears in the fading light,
And I gathered them all, — the splendid throng,
And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

            .         .          .         .         .         .

In my garden of Life with its all late flowers
I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:
"Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still" .  .  .
Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

---
Edith M. Thomas
from The Flower from the Ashes, and other verse, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Edith M. Thomas biography

ground zero / shaun hull

   
ground zero

i seem to remember
a sunroof sky
full of kanji and silk
wisteria dancing across the wind
my daughter laughing in that so saturated face
as friend and i sit down to our morning game
i swore i would take advantage of his saki rejuvenation

i seem to remember
the taste of my wife's lips
so sweet a touch of harmony
quickly replaced by the happy wet kiss of my child
giggling so to almost annoy
this fierce competition

my new pocket watch stating
with such fine western precision
you have time to champion
it's only
8:13

i seem to remember
wind chimes singing to laughter
and graceful chatter
rising so near to cacophony
in anticipation of movement

a whirl and rash
of mans humanity

i seem to remember
a distant sound of wings
floating across an eastern sky
and eyes squinting to see

to my child suddenly
turning white

the brightest white
the hottest white
the darkest white

i shall never see

i can't seem to remember
where i left my soul

i think it's where my shadow
left a halo
burned into the ground

---
=z=
(shaun hull)

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]

Soundclick: Shaun Hull       http://www.soundclick.com/shaunhull

portrait / Shaun Hull

 

portrait                      

a world revolves around comfortable thoughts

words that have meanings only for you

pictures of reds and whites and

sometime blue

laugh past your painswept

unkept door

a portrait's face in patterns abound

names that come and leave

without a trace

to speak of

with you

remembering nothings but sometimes

somethings

walk within paint by numbers

grayed long ago

wave to the shadows

fading by

dance with melodies

you see them sing

memory washes clean with time

to not know why

or when

masquerades the same

in an opposite way

as the world creeps up

into you

swept into shelters behind frozen walls

grandfather's clock hands
a sentence

from time hello

until wave goodbye

a mind's instance

your sad and smiling

feigned repose

~~
2007

Shaun Hull
Earth

Soundclick: Shaun Hull
http://www.soundclick.com/shaunhull

[All rights reserved by the author - Used with permission]