December 2009
7 posts
1 tag
from Weeping Woman by Grace Nichols
Dora Maar
Pablo Picasso (1937)
2
Even my hat mocks me
laughing
on the inside of my grief –
My twisted mouth
and gnashing teeth,
my fingers fat and clumsy
as if they were still wearing
those gloves –
the bloodstained ones you keep.
What has happened
to the pupils
of my eyes, Picasso?
Why do I deserve
such deformity?
What am I now
if not a cross between
a clown and a broken...
1 tag
'Poodles' by Simon Armitage
They all looked daft but the horse-dog
looked daftest of all. The cute red bridle and swishing tail,
the saddle and stirrups, the groomed mane.
The hair round its feet had been shaved and fluffed into hooves.
Close up, on its hind, there were vampire bites where the clippers
had steered too close to the skin. Skin that was blotchy
and rude. I leaned over the rail and whispered,
...
3 tags
“Dylan Thomas was a success not because he was a great poet, but because
he read...”
– Carolyn Kizer
1 tag
'The Talisman' by M. Travis Lane
I carry for my safety
an unimportant stone,
not smooth to touch, not lovely,
but quite my own.
It’s not sharp or heavy,
but useless in my hand —
significant of nothing,
a stone I understand.
Until this nothing fails me
I’m safe, as safe as stone,
but once I give it meaning, art
will give the meaningless a heart,
and heart is nothing safe in hand,
and nothing I can...
4 tags
'Nineveh' by Agnieszka Kuciak
Dying Lioness, bas-relief from Assurbanipal’s palace in Nineveh, 668-630 BC, London, British Museum
Hunting is what Assurbanipal likes.
The wind transmits the wounded lion’s cry
through time, in depths of bas-relief. One notes
pain it it, rage, and majesty. The wind carries the “no”
of the bleeding lioness—its steadfast rebuking roar
across millennia of...
1 tag
'Little by Little' by Rachel Hadas
Let nothing be too big or small to say or see.
End of the world; cockroach on the counter;
deja vu; tail of a dream; anonymous phone call;
child asleep; kettle begins to boil.
Over the ribbon of winter river creeps the sun.
The pigeon preening on the synagogue wall
ruffles its wings and tucks its head back down.
The daily touch of hands
by gradual degrees turns white to black.
And there...
1 tag
'Christmas Day at Willesden Green' by Elaine...
for my autistic grandchild
At fourteen, his eyes are dark as wood resin,
his hair red-gold; he is an elf-child
with delicate lips, and pale, unblemished skin.
The scented candles and the roasted goose
with apples in its throat don’t interest him.
He flicks a dangled string and sets it loose
snatches a cracker biscuit, shaking off
the smoked fish, and then smiles suddenly
as if...