Morgaine

Posts Tagged ‘group: poetry’

Bête Noire

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 2, 2008 at 6:44 pm

Through the glades of gold
I hurtle in my silver carriage
straight into the embrace
of you, my bête noire.
I know your name but will not say it.
I will take your gifts in spite of myself,
snatching them from your claws
even as you rake them across my heart.
No, I take that back.
They are not gifts; they are too hard won.
I will take them as prizes.
I will take them as tribute.
I float to you through all these leaves
as in a dream,
and I speak boldly now
of how things will be,
but later, after I have left you
in my history,
after you are something
I dared to let happen
to me once, again,
I will think of you,
shiver, wince,
and be grateful you are
over.

Sara

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Anger

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 2, 2008 at 6:38 pm

Against unyielding crag on storm-swept shore,
In useless fury smites the raging sea.
An angry heart so breaks for evermore
Upon the barren cliff of memory.

We hate the ones who kept us from our goal,
Abusing our sweet trust with lies or guile;
The faithless lover who once scarred our soul;
The false friend with the condescending smile.

Who would not burn, unnoticed and ignored
When rivals steal the credit for his labor,
His contributions unacknowledged, scorned,
While others feast on fruit he worked to savor?

A careless insult haunts us like a curse
That strikes us mute, not knowing what to say.
At night we fret and sleeplessly rehearse
Lost wars we might have fought another way. 

Should we strive to be like our enemy,
Surpassing his deceit, if we are wise?
It surely would be vile hypocrisy
To emulate the traits we most despise.

How could we fan to action and redress
A smoldering ire that fears to speak its name?
When conscience counsels our uncertainness,
Revenge dissolves in bitter, silent shame.

And when crude vengeance cannot satisfy,
We fantasize that in some future days
Such glowing deeds our name may dignify
That old foes shall regret their callous ways.

Oh pointless Anger, must you learn so late
The lesson that we always should have known?
The heart hurts but itself when, filled with hate,
It beats against a past that’s carved in stone.

We cannot rest while tempests blast the mind,
And never can we cross a wrathful sea
‘Til time may calm the waves and help us find
The deep, still waters of maturity.

Neil Harding McAlister

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Cutting the grass

In Too lazy to assign a category on September 3, 2007 at 10:28 pm

Aidin – 2007

I find
writing
to be
a bit like
cutting
the grass.

Something
you just
have to do
on a regular
basis
or it gets
far too out of
control
and wild
things
begin to
take root
in it.

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Leda

In Too lazy to assign a category on August 26, 2007 at 7:44 pm

Leda And The Swan, by William Butler Yeats, 1928

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Of Nudes and Swanns

LedaLedaLeda and the Swan 1841

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Poems from Guantánamo

In Too lazy to assign a category on August 20, 2007 at 2:42 am

THE JUST-released "Poems from Guantánamo: The Detainees Speak" is a collection of 22 poems by 17 detainees at the US detention center at Guantánamo Bay. Edited by Marc Falkoff, each poem had to be cleared by the Pentagon. The result offers a rare glimpse into the lives of the prisoners. The following is an excerpt.

Jumah Al Dossari

Jumah al Dossari, a 33-year-old Bahraini national, is the father of a young daughter. He has been held at Guantánamo Bay for more than five years. Detained without charge or trial, Dossari has been subjected to a range of physical and psychological abuses, some of which are detailed in "Inside the Wire," an account of the Guantánamo prison by former military intelligence soldier Erik Saar. He has been held in solitary confinement since the end of 2003 and, according to the US military, has tried to kill himself 12 times while in the prison. On one occasion, he was found by his lawyer, hanging by his neck and bleeding from a gash to his arm.

DEATH POEM

Take my blood.
Take my death shroud and
The remnants of my body.
Take photographs of my corpse at the grave, lonely.
Send them to the world,
To the judges and
To the people of conscience,
Send them to the principled men and the fair-minded.
And let them bear the guilty burden, before the world,
Of this innocent soul.
Let them bear the burden, before their children and before history,
Of this wasted, sinless soul,
Of this soul which has suffered at the hands of the "protectors of peace."

Sami Al Haj

Sami al Haj, a Sudanese national, was a journalist covering the conflict in Afghanistan for the television station al-Jazeera when, in 2001, he was taken into custody and stripped of his passport and press card. Handed over to US forces in January 2002, he was tortured at both Bagram air base and Kandahar before being transferred to Guantánamo Bay in June 2002. The US military alleges that he worked as a financial courier for Chechen rebels and that he assisted Al Qaeda and extremist figures, but has offered the public no evidence in support of these allegations. Haj remains at Guantánamo.

HUMILIATED IN THE SHACKLES

When I heard pigeons cooing in the trees,
Hot tears covered my face.
When the lark chirped, my thoughts composed
A message for my son.
Mohammad, I am afflicted.
In my despair, I have no one but Allah for comfort.
The oppressors are playing with me,
As they move freely about the world.
They ask me to spy on my countrymen,
Claiming it would be a good deed.
They offer me money and land,
And freedom to go where I please.
Their temptations seize my attention
Like lightning in the sky.
But their gift is an evil snake,
Carry hypocrisy in its mouth like venom.
They have monuments to liberty
And freedom of opinion, which is well and good.
But I explained to them that
Architecture is not justice.
America, you ride on the backs of orphans,
And terrorize them daily.
Bush, beware.
The world recognizes an arrogant liar.
To Allah I direct my grievance and my tears.
I am homesick and oppressed.
Mohammad, do not forget me.
Support the cause of your father, a God-fearing man.
I was humiliated in the shackles.
How can I now compose verses? How can I now write?
After the shackles and the nights and the suffering and the tears,
How can I write poetry?
My soul is like a roiling sea, stirred by anguish,
Violent with passion.
I am a captive, but the crimes are my captors'.
I am overwhelmed with apprehension.
Lord, unite me with my son Mohammad.
Lord, grant success to the righteous.

Osama Abu Kabir

Osama Abu Kabir is a Jordanian water truck driver who worked for the municipality of Greater Amman. After joining an Islamic missionary organization called Jama'at al-Tablighi, he traveled to Afghanistan, where he was detained by anti-Taliban forces and handed over to the US military. One of the justifications offered for his continued detention is that he was captured wearing a Casio digital watch, a brand supposedly favored by members of Al Qaeda because some models may be used as bomb detonators. Kabir remains at Guantánamo.

IS IT TRUE?

Is it true that the grass grows up again after the rain?
Is it true that the flowers will rise up in the spring?
Is it true that birds will migrate home again?
Is it true that the salmon swim back up their stream?
It is true. This is true. These are all miracles.
But is it true that one day we'll leave Guantánamo Bay?
Is it true that one day we'll go back to our homes?
I sail in my dreams, I am dreaming of homes.
To be with my children, each one part of me;
To be with my wife and the ones that I love;
To be with my parents, my world's tenderest hearts.
I dream to be home, to be free from this cage.
But do you hear me, oh Judge, do you hear me at all?
We are innocent, here, we've committed no crime.
Set me free, set us free, if anywhere still
Justice and compassion remain in this world!

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Himeros

In Too lazy to assign a category on August 7, 2007 at 7:21 pm

himeros

she left in a whisper
without a trace

yet i remember
a last hungry kiss

    her golden face

    d.a.levy

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Missing words

In Too lazy to assign a category on August 1, 2007 at 10:41 pm

I don’t know how many things there are in this world that have no name. The soft inner side of the elbow, webbed skin between the fingers, a day that wanders out beyond the tidal limits and no longer knows how to summon the moon it has lost, my firstborn who gazes about himself when the TV dies and there is a strange absence in his world. I was looking for a great encyclopaedia, the secret dictionary of all the missing words. I wanted to consult its index and find out what I could have become. The sound the clock makes when it is disconnected and taken down from the wall but can’t lose the habit of trying to jerk itself forward. The look of old socks drying on a rack in the kitchen all through a winter night, hanging starched and sad opposite the wedding photographs. A word for your face when you know you can’t love but would almost like to try. The blurred point of merger between fresh storm damage to a house and the deep fissures that have always been there. Walking down the corridor to the front door with inexplicable elation in my chest as if everything was about to start, as if my love had just arrived, escaped from a burning world, and at the same time clenched in my taut wrists, my hands, the thin bones of my arms, the certainty that everything has long been over.

© 2001, Peter Boyle
From: What the painter saw in our faces
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong, 2001
ISBN: 0 86418 716 5

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Postscript

In Too lazy to assign a category on August 1, 2007 at 10:37 pm

POSTSCRIPT

I’m not one of those whose bones are kept,
nor am I even one the future will lament
not having saved in time to still be bones.

Moreover I’m not one who’ll be a standard
in contests of blood or even words,
by some hated as much as others may love me.

I’m not even one of those enchanting voices,
whispering to the lonely youth in shadows,
of some vague beauty that perchance is in his dreams.

Nor will I even be a consolation to the sad,
to the humiliated or those who boil with rage
at an entire life bit by bit betrayed.

No, I’ll not be anything of what remains or is useful,
and I’ll die, when I die, with me.

Only very timidly, in the empty hours, will he read me,
in disguise from everyone and from himse1f,
curious, that fellow who dares suspect
how truly poetry is still a disguise for life.

© Translation: 1980, Frederick G. Williams
From: The Poetry of Jorge de Sena
Publisher: Mudborn Press, Santa Barbara, 1980

POST-SCRIPTUM
Não sou daqueles cujos ossos se guardam,
nem sequer sou dos que os vindouros lamentam
não hajam sido guardados a tempo de ser ossos.

Igualmente não sou dos que serão estandartes
em lutas de sangue ou de palavras,
por uns odiados quanto me amem outros.

Não sou sequer dos que são voz de encanto,
ciciando na penumbra ao jovem solitário,
a beleza vaga que em seus sonhos houver.

Nem serei ao menos consolação dos tristes,
dos humilhados, dos que fervem raivas
de uma vida inteira pouco a pouco traída.

Não, não serei nada do que fica ou serve,
e morrerei, quando morrer, comigo.

Só muito a medo, a horas mortas, me lerá,
de todos e de si se disfarçando,
curioso, aquel’ que aceita suspeitar
quanto mesmo a poesia ainda é disfarce da vida.

© 1961, Jorge de Sena
From: Poesia I
Publisher: Edições 70, Lisboa, 1988

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Calculating the odds

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 14, 2007 at 12:04 am

I was going to say: the odds of an internet romance working out must be a gazillion to one. I mean, what are the chances that when you finally meet in person your body chemistry, pheromones, auras, chakras and all that jazz will actually mesh? Not to mention all of the idiosyncracies, the body language and the gestures, we each have that only appear when you're face to face. It's so easy to forge an image of someone based on words alone.

But then I remembered this, courtesy of Rumi:

A lover doesn't figure the odds.

He figures he came clean from God
as a gift without a reason,
so he gives without cause
or calculation or limit.

A conventionally religious person
behaves a certain way
to achieve salvation.

A lover gambles everything, the self,
the circle around the zero! She
cuts and throws it all away.

This is beyond
any religion.

Lovers do not require from God any proof,
or any text, nor do they knock on a door
to make sure this is the right street.

They run,
and they run.

And then I remember that I have no choice, really, but to watch it all happen: the gambling, the cutting loose, the giving and the running. It all happens of its own accord.

Just like this love happens. Just like this desire.

These trembling words.

This kiss.

source

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What you want most

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 12, 2007 at 10:56 pm

What you want more than safety
is to be as you are
so utterly vulnerable
as to be beyond harm.

What you want more than security
is to love and be loved
so unconditionally
as to be beyond fear.

What you want more than anything
is what you already have
so intimately near to you
as to be beyond loss.

For you are the same you
before any meeting or parting
the same you
before time crept in and said "then"
the same you
who spun round and round until she fell
     dizzy and laughing
     and didn't care who saw
the same you
who caught sunlight in her eyelashes
     and sneezed,
     held buttercups up to her chin,
     and married boys with rings made of grass
the same you
who filled a backyard universe
     with untiring investigation
     knowing for certain the secret was there
the same you
who swore she would never do that
     then did
who said I'll be happy when
     a thousand whens ago
the same you
who cried and dreamed and broke promises
who held back, risked everything, and lost
herself,
or thought she had
until she realized (again)
I am still here
and nothing real has changed
except the changeful.

Not a person, place or name.
Only you, love, remain.

Source

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