poems i like page 2

Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite
Iridescent-throned Aphrodite, deathlessChild of Zeus, wile-weaver, I now implore you,Don't--I beg you, Lady--with pains and tormentsCrush down my spirit,
But before if ever you've heard my pleadingsThen return, as once when you left your father'sGolden house; you yoked to your shining car yourWing-whirring sparrows;
Skimming down the paths of the sky's bright etherOn they brought you over the earth's black bosom,Swiftly--then you stood with a sudden brilliance,Goddess, before me;
Deathless face alight with your smile, you asked meWhat I suffered, who was my cause of anguish,What would ease the pain of my frantic mind, andWhy had I called you
To my side: "And whom should Persuasion summonHere, to soothe the sting of your passion this time?Who is now abusing you, Sappho? Who isTreating you cruelly?
Now she runs away, but she'll soon pursue you;Gifts she now rejects--soon enough she'll give them;Now she doesn't love you, but soon her heart willBurn, though unwilling."
Come to me once more, and abate my torment;Take the bitter care from my mind, and give meAll I long for; Lady, in all my battlesFight as my comrade.
translation info

C. S. Lewis, “Le Roi S’amuse”
Jove gazedOn woven mazesOf patterned movement as the atoms whirled.His glance turnedInto dancing, burningColour-gods who rushed upon that sullen world,Waking, re-making, exalting it anew –Silver and purple, shrill-voiced yellow, turgid crimson, and virgin blue. Jove staredOn overbearingAnd aching splendour of the naked rocks.Where his gaze smote,Hazily floatedTo mount like thistledown in countless flocks,Fruit-loving, root-loving gods, cool and greenOf feathery grasses, heather and orchard, pollen’d lily, the olive and the bean. Jove laughed.Like cloven-shaftedLightning, his laughter into brightness broke.From every dintWhere the severed splintersHad scattered a Sylvan or a Satyr woke;Ounces came pouncing, dragon-people flew,There was spirited stallion, squirrel unrespectful, clanging raven and kangaroo. Jove sighed.The hoving tide ofOcean trembled at the motion of his breath.The sigh turnedInto white, eternal,Radiant Aphrodite unafraid of death;A fragrance, a vagrant unrest on earth she flung,There was favouring and fondling and bravery and buildingand chuckling music and suckling of the young. Jove thought.He strove and wrought atA thousand clarities; from his brows sprangWith earnest mienStern Athene;The cold armour on her shoulders rang.Our sires at the fires of her lucid eyes beganTo speak in symbols, to seek out causes, to name the creatures; they became Man. World and ManUnfurled their banner—It was gay Behemoth on a sable field.Fresh-robedIn flesh, the ennobledSpirits carousing in their myriads reeled;There was frolic and holiday. Jove laughed to seeThe abyss empeopled, his bliss imparted, the throng that was his and no longer he.

Naomi Shihab Nye, “The Traveling Onion”
It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship—why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe. —Better Living Cookbook
When I think how far the onion has traveledjust to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praiseall small forgotten miracles,crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,pearly layers in smooth agreement,the way knife enters onionand onion falls apart on the chopping block,a history revealed.And I would never scold the onionfor causing tears.It is right that tears fallfor something small and forgotten.How at meal, we sit to eat,commenting on texture of meat or herbal aromabut never on the translucence of onion,now limp, now divided,or its traditionally honorable career:For the sake of others,disappear.

"Thou art He who creates the man-child in woman,Who makest seed in man,Who giveth life to the son in the body of his mother,Who sootheth him that he may not weep,A nurse [even] in the womb.Who giveth breath to animate every ojne that He maketh.When he comes forth from the body . . .On the day of his birth,Thou openist his mouth in speech,Thou suppliest his necessities.When the chicken crieth in the egg-shell,Thou givest him breath therein, to preserve him alive;When Thou hast perfected himThat he may pierce the egg,He cometh forth from the egg.To chirp with all his might;He runneth about upon his two feet,When he hath come forth therefrom.How manifold are all Thy works!They are hidden before us,O Thou sole God, whose powers no other possesseth.Thou dids't create the earth according to Thy desire,While Thou wast alone:Men, all cattle large and small,All that are upon the earth,That go about upon their feet;All that are on high,That fly with their wings.The countries of Syria and NubiaThe land of Egypt;Thou settest every man in his placeThou suppliest their necessities.Every one has his possessions,And his days are reckoned.Their tongues are divers in speech,Their form likewise and their skins,For Thou, divider, hast divided the peoples."
--excerpt from "Great Hymn to the Aten", Akhenaten, religious reforming king of Egypt, ~1300 BC

"Spelling" by Margaret Atwood
My daughter plays on the floorwith plastic letters,red, blue & hard yellow,learning how to spell,spelling,how to make spells.
I wonder how many womendenied themselves daughters,closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtainsso they could mainline words.
A child is not a poem,a poem is not a child.there is no either/or.However.
I return to the storyof the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tiedtogether by the enemyso she could not give birth.
Ancestress: the burning witch,her mouth covered by leatherto strangle words.
A word after a wordafter a word is power.
At the point where language falls awayfrom the hot bones, at the pointwhere the rock breaks open and darknessflows out of it like blood, atthe melting point of granitewhen the bones knowthey are hollow & the wordsplits & doubles & speaksthe truth & the bodyitself becomes a mouth.
This is a metaphor.
How do you learn to spell?Blood, sky & the sun,your own name first,your first naming, your first name,your first word.

C.P. Cavafy, “Ithaka”
As you set out for Ithakahope the voyage is a long one,full of adventure, full of discovery.Laistrygonians and Cyclops,angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:you’ll never find things like that on your wayas long as you keep your thoughts raised high,as long as a rare excitementstirs your spirit and your body.Laistrygonians and Cyclops,wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter themunless you bring them along inside your soul,unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.May there be many a summer morning when,with what pleasure, what joy,you come into harbors seen for the first time;may you stop at Phoenician trading stationsto buy fine things,mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,sensual perfume of every kind—as many sensual perfumes as you can;and may you visit many Egyptian citiesto gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.Arriving there is what you are destined for.But do not hurry the journey at all.Better if it lasts for years,so you are old by the time you reach the island,wealthy with all you have gained on the way,not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.Without her you would not have set out.She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

The American Vision of Abraham Lincoln AT THIS MOMENT©Nikki Giovanni 2009

At this moment
Resting in the comfort of the statueOf the 16th president of the United StatesMissingAn equally impressive representation Of his friend and advisorFrederick Douglass
We come
On this day
Recalling the difficult and divisive warWe are compelledWith a prayer in the name Of those captured and enslaved Who with heart and mind Cleared the wildernessRaised crops Brought forth familiesSubmitted their souls Before a merciful and great GodTo acknowledge that The Civil WarWas fought not to free the enslaved For they knew they were freeBut to free the nation From a terrible cancer eating at our hearts
At this moment
In which we are embarrassedBy the Governor of our fifth largest state Who appoints a man to the United States Senate To which both he and his minion agree:The Letter of the Law Is more important thanThe Spirit of the Law

Now
When we are dismayed that the accidental Governor of the Empire State can findJust one more reason to rain painAnd rejection on a family that has offered onlyGrace and graciousness
After two hundred yearsWhen we rejoice that another sonOf the Midwest has offered himselfHis wife and his two precious daughtersTo show us a better way
We gather
In recognition and understandingThat today is always and forever today Allowing us to offer this pleaFor lightAnd truthAnd GoodnessForgiving as we are forgivenBeing neither tempted nor intolerant of those who are
We come
At this momentTo renew and refurbishThe American visionOf Abraham Lincoln
12 February 2009

Richard Brautigan, “All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace”
I like to think (andthe sooner the better!)of a cybernetic meadowwhere mammals and computerslive together in mutuallyprogramming harmonylike pure watertouching clear sky.
I like to think(right now, please!)of a cybernetic forestfilled with pines and electronicswhere deer stroll peacefullypast computersas if they were flowerswith spinning blossoms.
I like to think(it has to be!)of a cybernetic ecologywhere we are free of our laborsand joined back to nature,returned to our mammalbrothers and sisters,and all watched overby machines of loving grace.
http://www.brautigan.net/plant.html

Etheridge Knight, “Feeling Fucked Up”
Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and splitand I with no way to make hercome back and everywhere the world is barebright bone white crystal sand glistensdope death dead dying and jiving droveher away made her take her laughter and her smilesand her softness and her midnight sighs—
Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the skyfuck the sea and trees and the sky and birdsand alligators and all the animals that roam the earthfuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah anddemocracy and communism fuck smack and potand red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuckgod jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixonand malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuckthe whole muthafucking thingall i want now is my woman backso my soul can sing

Do not stand at my grave and weepby Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep,I am not there; I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow,I am the diamond glints on snow,I am the sun on ripened grain,I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awaken in the morning’s hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circling flight.I am the soft star-shine at night.Do not stand at my grave and cry,I am not there; I did not die.
Mary Frye wrote the poem in 1932. As far as we know, she had never written any poetry before, but the plight of a young German Jewish woman, Margaret Schwarzkopf, who was staying with her and her husband at the time, inspired the poem. Margaret Schwarzkopf had been concerned about her mother, who was ill in Germany, but she had been warned not to return because of increasing anti-Semitic unrest that was erupting into what became known as the Holocaust. When her mother died, the heartbroken young woman told Frye that she never had the chance to “stand by my mother’s grave and shed a tear”. Frye found herself composing a piece of verse on a brown paper shopping bag.

José Rizal, “A Poem That Has No Title”
To my Creator I singWho did soothe me in my great loss;To the Merciful and KindWho in my troubles gave me repose.
Thou with that pow’r of thineSaid: Live! And with life myself I found;And shelter gave me thou
And a soul impelled to the goodLike a compass whose point to the North is bound.
Thou did make me descendFrom honorable home and respectable stock,And a homeland thou gavest meWithout limit, fair and richThough fortune and prudence it does lack.

"Thanks" by W.S. Merwin
Listenwith the night falling we are saying thank youwe are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railingswe are running out of the glass roomswith our mouths full of food to look at the skyand say thank youwe are standing by the water looking outin different directions.
back from a series of hospitals back from a muggingafter funerals we are saying thank youafter the news of the dead whether or not we knew them we are saying thank youlooking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shameliving in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank youover telephones we are saying thank youin doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevatorsremembering wars and the police at the back doorand the beatings on stairs we are saying thank youin the banks that use us we are saying thank youwith the crooks in office with the rich and fashionableunchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around usour lost feelings we are saying thank youwith the forests falling faster than the minutes of our lives we are saying thank you with the words going out like cells of a brain with the cities growing over us like the earth we are saying thank you faster and faster with nobody listening we are saying thank youwe are saying thank you and wavingdark though it is

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