Thursday, September 16, 2021

Wednesday, September 15, 2021

FAREWELL, NORM MACDONALD ~

 


N O R M     M A C D O N A L D

1959, Quebec City, Canada ~ 2021, Los Angeles




Monday, September 13, 2021

ANTHOLOGY 1 ~

 A N T H O L O G Y  1 ___________________________________



ALFRED STARR HAMILTON


town


Give us time

Give us crickets

Give us a clock

could you build this wonderful town house in the grass

and put a cricket in it by this evening?






PHILIP DOW


For a Happy Girl


She is like a cricket:

singing all night


With her legs.






WILLIAM WITHERUP


On the Death of Theodore Roethke


The papers say he died in a swimming pool,

but that's not the way that poets go.

A poet's exit is terrible: as his hour

approached the wind began to blow,

rattling the windows of his study.

Below the lake shuddered; fish grew still.

Above the light soured like spoiling grapefruit.

He listened and heard the awful rupture

of petals and stems and a chorus of worms

singing in the compost. He laid down his pen

and went out, feeling the weight of his flesh,

sensing his time of singing was done,

he who had turned the world into honey.

And he moved through his garden like a heavy bee,

his dark suit gathering a bloody pollen.





FRANK SAMPERI


settling



of the nature


of falling







riding a train


looking at homes


desiring a home







transfixed


seeing flow

in the light

on the floor






CID CORMAN


TU FU is long dead.

Leaves have fallen —

leaves will fall.


Every

thing in his words

on a far lookout.





MIKE O'CONNOR


Bamboo Grove


I sit alone

in the bamboo dark,


strumming zither

and chanting.


In deep woods,

with no one aware,


the bright moon

comes to me shining.





RON PADGETT


December


I will sleep

in my little cup





ARAM SAROYAN


       ' 

aren't




J.D. WHITNEY


Cousin Woodpecker:


How do you keep

that 

        bright red

hat on

while you work?




Cousin Wind:


Where

             do you

sleep?




Cousin Beaver:


Ah!

        The

sound of

one 

        hand

clapping.





AMIL QUAYLE


save the ranch


john wayne saved the ranch

killed three white men

fucked the banker's daughter

drove the steers north

killed four indians

paid the mortgage

married the schoolteacher

drove the steers south

built the railroad

killed five chinamen

saved the widow's ranch

fathered six sons

ran for county commissioner

killed seven democrats

drove the steers west

saved l'amour's ranch

killed eight sunsets

bought texas national

drove the steers east

saved bob hope's ranch

killed nine black men

invested in toilet seats

killed two millions japs

died from a cancer-gun

killed ten angels

drove the steers up

found god in a sheepcamp





DARLENE EDDY


Fallen Timber


A passing winter, fallen timber.


In scents of carrion bloom wake-robin.

Leached oak leaves cushion lady's slipper.


Amid decaying branch, wet loam,

Marsh marigold, wax trillium.


Petaled suns, a faint profusion.





JOHN PHILLIPS


the time

                it takes

     to read

             a poem

  is it






Palimpset


All writing

is written


in a past

the future


reads backwards

to be now






Late

for Eva


Not to

interrupt

you, placing


into,

and out of,

green plastic


cups, pieces of

precious

gravel.






GERALD LOCKLIN


Faith Partially Restored


the sprightly old man from iowa

who is with the sprightly old woman

from iowa

says to the sprightly old woman

who has just taken the seat between them and me

at the bar,


"what do you do for a living?"


and she replies, "I'm a drug dealer."


he says, "you got any on you?"


and she says, "i just plumb ran out."


and even though it later turns out

that she was raised in iowa also,

and the conversation turns

to relatives that might have known each other,


I decide it's not quite time

to give up altogether on bars.




BOB ARNOLD


All


There is


nothing


greater


than a


greatness


that


comes


not at


all




 Hands

 


He was the first

One ever to show

Me anything, and

Make sense, about

A garden. When he

Called me down into

The fenced half-acre

I walked through the

Wire gate and found

Him shoulder high

In the early morning

Blossom of peas.

And snapping a pod

Open, with the same

Hands that cut timber,

Mended fence and

Milked cows — who

Came in here every

Morning before he

Went off to chores —

He put everything

Into my hands

When he said,

Now taste this.





Purple Japanese Iris

 

 

Where you stand


They just about


Touch your lips






LUCILLE CLIFTON


jasper   texas   1998


for j. byrd

i am a man's head hunched in the road.
i was chosen to speak by the members
of my body. the arm as it pulled away
pointed toward me, the hand opened once
and was gone.

why and why and why
should i call a white man brother?
who is the human in this place,
the thing that is dragged or the dragger?
what does my daughter say?

the sun is a blister overhead.
if i were alive i could not bear it.
the townsfolk sing we shall overcome
while hope bleeds slowly from my mouth
into the dirt that covers us all.
i am done with this dust. i am done.




ROBERT CREELEY


Here


Here is
where there
is.









RONALD BAATZ



Children running from a dragonfly
             as though its wings
               spanned two feet







Silent clock

  in the kitchen
cuckoo gone







On our drive out to the country
                      a fly
             in the back seat









KO UN



Farewell.

Fare well.









Tripitaka Koreana


Finding the way blocked by utter gibberish
I turned back
and saw
a snake.

Snakes know the ways of snakes so well.








A Shooting Star


Wow! You recognize me.











JACK KEROUAC



Early morning with the
     happy dogs —
I forgot the Path




The raindrops have plenty
     of personality
Each one




There's no Buddha
     because
There's no me










ROBERTO BOLANO



Angels


Night I've slept between faces and words,
Bodies bent by the wind,
Lines I watched spellbound
At the edge of my dreams.
Freezing European nights, my body in the ghetto
But dreaming.











ALFONSINA STORNI



"I'm Going To Sleep"


Teeth of flowers, bonnet of dew,
hands of grass, you, lovely nursemaid,
turn down the earthen sheets for me
and the quilts of weeded moss.

I'm going to sleep, my nurse, tuck me in,
put a lamp on my headboard:
a constellation, whichever you like;
both are fine; lower the light a little.

Leave me alone: you hear buds bursting open . . .
An unearthly foot rocks you from above
and a bird sketches you a few beats

so you'll forget . . . Thanks. Oh, a favor:
if he calls again on the phone
tell him not to insist, that I've gone . . .

translated by Lauren K. Watel










RAE ARMANTROUT



Clip Art


Stroking her cheek,
I'm drawing

mirror image arcs
in the baby's brain —

closed parentheses
left hanging.

Our topiary space.






Poems from various anthologies, small press journals, friends books et al., 
I have jotted down for years and kept in a notebook to share, as I do now
[ BA ]