Hello Everyone,
Am giving below three links to poems from the wondering minstrels website - all by Yehuda Amichai, relevant for the times and the recent events in Mumbai.
'Let the memorial hill remember' (http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1548.html)
'Seven Laments for the War Dead' (http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1108.html)
'The Diameter of the Bomb' (http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1448.html)
Regards,
Zen.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Special Glasses
By Billy Collins
I had to send away for them
because they are not available in any store.
They look the same as any sunglasses
with a light tint and silvery frames,
but instead of filtering out the harmful
rays of the sun,
they filter out the harmful sight of you --
you on the approach,
you waiting at my bus stop,
you, face in the evening window.
Every morning I put them on
and step out the side door
whistling a melody of thanks to my nose
and my ears for holding them in place, just so,
singing a song of gratitude
to the lens grinder at his heavy bench
and to the very lenses themselves
because they allow it all to come in, all but you.
How they know the difference
between the green hedges, the stone walls,
and you is beyond me,
yet the schoolbuses flashing in the rain
do come in, as well as the postman waving
and the mother and daughter dogs next door,
and then there is the tea kettle
about to play its chord—
everything sailing right in but you, girl.
Yes, just as the night air passes through the screen,
but not the mosquito,
and as water swirls down the drain,
but not the eggshell,
so the flowering trellis and the moon
pass through my special glasses, but not you.
Let us keep it this way, I say to myself,
as I lay my special glasses on the night table,
pull the chain on the lamp,
and say a prayer—unlike the song—
that I will not see you in my dreams.
Comments : Billy Collins is one poet I discovered only last year (thanks A) when a friend lent me ‘The Trouble With Poetry’. I found that I loved the touch of whimsy in some of the poems, the twist in the tale in others, and the sense of time slowly unspooling in others – all of these delivered in no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, light-n-airy verse.
Incidentally, I read a review that said that ‘The Trouble With Poetry’ is a collection of the most inferior of his poems. But I thoroughly enjoyed it and it left me hungry for more Billy Collins.
Have chosen one of the more somber and sad poems here – I really liked this poem for the way it describes the process of getting over someone.
- Zen
About the poet : Billy Collins is the author of eight collections of poetry, including Nine Horses; Sailing Alone Around the Room; Picnic. Lightning; The Art of Drowning; and Questions About Angels. He is also the editor of Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry and 180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day. A Distinguished Professor of English at Lehman College of the City University of New York, he was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States for 2001-2003 and is currently serving as the Poet Laureate of New York State.
More about the poet on http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/278 and http://www.cstone.net/~poems/troubcol.htm
I had to send away for them
because they are not available in any store.
They look the same as any sunglasses
with a light tint and silvery frames,
but instead of filtering out the harmful
rays of the sun,
they filter out the harmful sight of you --
you on the approach,
you waiting at my bus stop,
you, face in the evening window.
Every morning I put them on
and step out the side door
whistling a melody of thanks to my nose
and my ears for holding them in place, just so,
singing a song of gratitude
to the lens grinder at his heavy bench
and to the very lenses themselves
because they allow it all to come in, all but you.
How they know the difference
between the green hedges, the stone walls,
and you is beyond me,
yet the schoolbuses flashing in the rain
do come in, as well as the postman waving
and the mother and daughter dogs next door,
and then there is the tea kettle
about to play its chord—
everything sailing right in but you, girl.
Yes, just as the night air passes through the screen,
but not the mosquito,
and as water swirls down the drain,
but not the eggshell,
so the flowering trellis and the moon
pass through my special glasses, but not you.
Let us keep it this way, I say to myself,
as I lay my special glasses on the night table,
pull the chain on the lamp,
and say a prayer—unlike the song—
that I will not see you in my dreams.
Comments : Billy Collins is one poet I discovered only last year (thanks A) when a friend lent me ‘The Trouble With Poetry’. I found that I loved the touch of whimsy in some of the poems, the twist in the tale in others, and the sense of time slowly unspooling in others – all of these delivered in no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, light-n-airy verse.
Incidentally, I read a review that said that ‘The Trouble With Poetry’ is a collection of the most inferior of his poems. But I thoroughly enjoyed it and it left me hungry for more Billy Collins.
Have chosen one of the more somber and sad poems here – I really liked this poem for the way it describes the process of getting over someone.
- Zen
About the poet : Billy Collins is the author of eight collections of poetry, including Nine Horses; Sailing Alone Around the Room; Picnic. Lightning; The Art of Drowning; and Questions About Angels. He is also the editor of Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry and 180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day. A Distinguished Professor of English at Lehman College of the City University of New York, he was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States for 2001-2003 and is currently serving as the Poet Laureate of New York State.
More about the poet on http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/278 and http://www.cstone.net/~poems/troubcol.htm
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Weather Child
Sometimes the air in which roses
grow and trees thrive turns boisterous,
then rough. It tousles their foliage, then knocks
them down so that a child watching all this
out of a window thinks without knowing
what it’s thinking : that’s how it must be,
living with a parent with an uncertain temper.
By,
Suniti Namjoshi
Comments :I liked this poem because of the analogy with trees – found it an unusual link to child abuse. Incidentally, it is part of a book titled ‘Sycorax’, which is one worth buying. It has both prose and poetry, a lot of which is a tongue-in-cheek and cynical look at reality. Zen
Click on http://ambainny.blogspot.com/2008/02/suniti-namjoshi.html to read Suniti’s comments about this poem, part of an interesting interview given by her.
About the poet :
Suniti Namjoshi (born 1941) is an Indian writer and poet, many of whose works explore issues of gender and sexual orientation. She has written several collections of fables, poetry and fantasy fiction. She has also written some children's fiction (Aditi and the one eyed monkey, Aditi and the Thames Dragon etc). She was born in Mumbai. She has worked as an officer in the IAS and held several academic posts in India and Canada. She now lives in the UK.
Read further details at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suniti_Namjoshi and http://india.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=9964
grow and trees thrive turns boisterous,
then rough. It tousles their foliage, then knocks
them down so that a child watching all this
out of a window thinks without knowing
what it’s thinking : that’s how it must be,
living with a parent with an uncertain temper.
By,
Suniti Namjoshi
Comments :I liked this poem because of the analogy with trees – found it an unusual link to child abuse. Incidentally, it is part of a book titled ‘Sycorax’, which is one worth buying. It has both prose and poetry, a lot of which is a tongue-in-cheek and cynical look at reality. Zen
Click on http://ambainny.blogspot.com/2008/02/suniti-namjoshi.html to read Suniti’s comments about this poem, part of an interesting interview given by her.
About the poet :
Suniti Namjoshi (born 1941) is an Indian writer and poet, many of whose works explore issues of gender and sexual orientation. She has written several collections of fables, poetry and fantasy fiction. She has also written some children's fiction (Aditi and the one eyed monkey, Aditi and the Thames Dragon etc). She was born in Mumbai. She has worked as an officer in the IAS and held several academic posts in India and Canada. She now lives in the UK.
Read further details at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suniti_Namjoshi and http://india.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=9964
Sunday, November 16, 2008
archy goes abroad
london england
since i have been
residing in westminster
abbey i have learned
a secret that i desire
to pass on to the psychic
sharps it is this
until the body of a human
being perishes utterly
the spirit is not
released from its vicinity
so long as there is any
form left in the physical
part of it the ghost cannot go
to heaven or to hell
the ancient greeks
understood this and they
burned the body very often
so that the spirit could
get immediate release
the ancient Egyptians
also knew it
but they reacted differently
to the knowledge
the embalmed the body
so that the form would
persist for thousands
of years and the ghost would have
to stick around for a time
here in westminster abbey
there are hundreds of
ghosts that have not yet
been released
some of them are able to wander
a few miles away
and some of them cannot
go further than a few hundred
yards from the graves
where their bodies lie
for the most part
they make the best of it
they go out on little
excursions around london
and at night they sit on
their tombs and
tell their experiences
to each other
it is perhaps the most
exclusive club in London
henry the eighth came in
about three o clock this morning
after rambling about
picadilly for a couple of hours
and I wish I had the
space to report in detail
the ensuing conversation
between him and charles dickens
now and then
a ghost can so influence
a living person that you
might say he had grabbed off
that living persons body and was
using it as his own
edward the black prince
was telling the gang
the other evening
that he had been leading the life
of a city clerk for three weeks
one of those birds
with a top hat and a sack coat
who come floating though
the mist and drizzle
with manuscript cases
under their arms looking unreal
even when they are not animated
by ghosts edward the black prince
who is known democratically
as neddie black here
says this clerk was a mild and
humble wight when he took
him over but he worked
him up to the place where
he assaulted a policeman
saturday night then left him flatone of the most pathetic
sights however
is to see the ghost of queen
victoria going out every
evening with the ghost
of a scepter in her hand
to find mr lytton strachey
and bean him it seems she beans
him and beans him and he
never knows it
and every night on the stroke
of midnight elizabeth tudor
is married to sir walter raleigh by that
eminent clergyman
dr lawrence sterne
the gang pulls a good many
pageants which are written
by ben johnson but i think
the jinks will not be properly
planned and staged until
j m barrie gets here
this is the jolliest bunch
i have met in london
they have learned
since they passed over
that appearances and suety
puddings are not all they were
cracked up to be anon from your little friend
archy
Comments : I loved this poem for it's whimsical rambling story. The idea of the ghosts of Henry the Eighth and Charles Dickens sitting having a conversation, the 'most exclusive club in London' these just cracked me up. - Zen
Don Marquis first introduced archy the cockroach and mehitabel, a cat in her ninth life, in his newspaper column, ‘The Sun Dial’ in 1916. In a previous life archy was a free verse poet, while mehitabel’s soul once belonged to Cleopatra. She is toujours gai, but archy is more philosophical. It is he who records their songs and observations on the boss’ typewriter late at night. But he is not strong enough to make capital letters so it all comes out lower case.
the main question is
whether the stuff is
literature or not.
it is.
(p.s. I copied the above bit from the back cover of 'archy and mehitabel')
since i have been
residing in westminster
abbey i have learned
a secret that i desire
to pass on to the psychic
sharps it is this
until the body of a human
being perishes utterly
the spirit is not
released from its vicinity
so long as there is any
form left in the physical
part of it the ghost cannot go
to heaven or to hell
the ancient greeks
understood this and they
burned the body very often
so that the spirit could
get immediate release
the ancient Egyptians
also knew it
but they reacted differently
to the knowledge
the embalmed the body
so that the form would
persist for thousands
of years and the ghost would have
to stick around for a time
here in westminster abbey
there are hundreds of
ghosts that have not yet
been released
some of them are able to wander
a few miles away
and some of them cannot
go further than a few hundred
yards from the graves
where their bodies lie
for the most part
they make the best of it
they go out on little
excursions around london
and at night they sit on
their tombs and
tell their experiences
to each other
it is perhaps the most
exclusive club in London
henry the eighth came in
about three o clock this morning
after rambling about
picadilly for a couple of hours
and I wish I had the
space to report in detail
the ensuing conversation
between him and charles dickens
now and then
a ghost can so influence
a living person that you
might say he had grabbed off
that living persons body and was
using it as his own
edward the black prince
was telling the gang
the other evening
that he had been leading the life
of a city clerk for three weeks
one of those birds
with a top hat and a sack coat
who come floating though
the mist and drizzle
with manuscript cases
under their arms looking unreal
even when they are not animated
by ghosts edward the black prince
who is known democratically
as neddie black here
says this clerk was a mild and
humble wight when he took
him over but he worked
him up to the place where
he assaulted a policeman
saturday night then left him flatone of the most pathetic
sights however
is to see the ghost of queen
victoria going out every
evening with the ghost
of a scepter in her hand
to find mr lytton strachey
and bean him it seems she beans
him and beans him and he
never knows it
and every night on the stroke
of midnight elizabeth tudor
is married to sir walter raleigh by that
eminent clergyman
dr lawrence sterne
the gang pulls a good many
pageants which are written
by ben johnson but i think
the jinks will not be properly
planned and staged until
j m barrie gets here
this is the jolliest bunch
i have met in london
they have learned
since they passed over
that appearances and suety
puddings are not all they were
cracked up to be anon from your little friend
archy
Comments : I loved this poem for it's whimsical rambling story. The idea of the ghosts of Henry the Eighth and Charles Dickens sitting having a conversation, the 'most exclusive club in London' these just cracked me up. - Zen
Don Marquis first introduced archy the cockroach and mehitabel, a cat in her ninth life, in his newspaper column, ‘The Sun Dial’ in 1916. In a previous life archy was a free verse poet, while mehitabel’s soul once belonged to Cleopatra. She is toujours gai, but archy is more philosophical. It is he who records their songs and observations on the boss’ typewriter late at night. But he is not strong enough to make capital letters so it all comes out lower case.
the main question is
whether the stuff is
literature or not.
it is.
(p.s. I copied the above bit from the back cover of 'archy and mehitabel')
excerpts from 'certain maxims of archy'
(From 'archy and mehitabel'
by don marquis)
if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it won t cheer
you up much if
you expect to go there
prohibition makes you
want to cry
into your beer and
denies you the beer
to cry into
that stern and
rockbound coast felt
like an amateur
when it saw how grim
the puritans that
landed on it were
Comments : I liked these excerpts, especially the first and the last. The last reminded me of some serious kill-joys I know, and the first was just too tongue-in-cheek to leave out of this post.
- Zen
by don marquis)
if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it won t cheer
you up much if
you expect to go there
prohibition makes you
want to cry
into your beer and
denies you the beer
to cry into
that stern and
rockbound coast felt
like an amateur
when it saw how grim
the puritans that
landed on it were
Comments : I liked these excerpts, especially the first and the last. The last reminded me of some serious kill-joys I know, and the first was just too tongue-in-cheek to leave out of this post.
- Zen
Welcome
Hello Everyone,
Most of you who read this are amongst those who are missing the wondering minstrels as much as I have been. After repeated mails to the minstrels’ owners with guest poems, have decided that I have to get my regular fix of new poems elsewhere. Hence this blog. Will post a poem here every week (or more often) to begin with. Am hoping in a few weeks others will start sending in guest poems (please mail entropymuse.ed@gmail.com) and then I can sit back and enjoy myself reading guest entries and posting them on this blog.
Rules remain the same as for the minstrels – anything is acceptable, as long as it includes a commentary from you (even one line with your opinion of the poem will do).
Hope this experiment throws up some interesting poems.
Zen.
Most of you who read this are amongst those who are missing the wondering minstrels as much as I have been. After repeated mails to the minstrels’ owners with guest poems, have decided that I have to get my regular fix of new poems elsewhere. Hence this blog. Will post a poem here every week (or more often) to begin with. Am hoping in a few weeks others will start sending in guest poems (please mail entropymuse.ed@gmail.com) and then I can sit back and enjoy myself reading guest entries and posting them on this blog.
Rules remain the same as for the minstrels – anything is acceptable, as long as it includes a commentary from you (even one line with your opinion of the poem will do).
Hope this experiment throws up some interesting poems.
Zen.
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