Poem for Sunday

Digging By Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, ...

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Published: 5 months, 1 week ago (Sat, 24 Jan 2009 21:10:56 PST); 7782 bytes

littlereview

Poem for Thursday

New Year By Rachel Hadas Blue January light, cold, scoured, clear. From the Sandia foothills looking down and back to where I came from, and the town spread out below, then back to the past year, or three or more years carrying this load, how do I feel unburdened: free and light? Unanchored, dizzy, my precarious tight- rope lowered to a mere terrestrial road? The blank new month ...

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Published: 6 months ago (Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:57:59 PST); 4395 bytes

littlereview

Give the audience snowballs, they said. It'll be cute, they said.

...thedivinegoat December 3 December 4 December 5 December 6 -- cali_zag December 7 December 8 -- fox1013 December 9 December 10 -- sink_or_swim December 11 -- cruisedirector December 12 December 13 -- pearl_o December 14 December 15 -- the_wanlorn December 16 -- ainsley December 17 -- annavtree December 18 December 19 --...

Tags: writing:fic holiday:midwinter

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Published: 7 months, 2 weeks ago (Mon, 17 Nov 2008 20:58:08 PST); 6375 bytes

cidercupcakes

Poem for Sunday

I Talk To My Inner Lover By Kabir Translated by Robert Bly I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such rush? We sense that there is some sort of spirit that loves birds and animals and the ants -- perhaps the same one who gave a radiance to you in your mother's womb. Is it logical you would be walking around entirely orphaned now? The truth is you turned away yourself, and ...

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Published: 7 months, 3 weeks ago (Sat, 15 Nov 2008 20:35:17 PST); 4239 bytes

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Poem for Thursday

Sonnet 100 By Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke In night when colors all to black are cast, Distinction lost, or gone down with the light; The eye a watch to inward senses placed, Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight, Gives vain alarums to the inward sense, Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny, Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense, Doth forge and raise impossibility: Such...

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Published: 8 months, 1 week ago (Wed, 29 Oct 2008 20:52:31 PDT); 5026 bytes

littlereview

Poem for Friday

...Marine Sanctuary, and all the aquarium displays are based on US marine sites. We saw some of the recovered parts of the Monitor at The Mariners' Museum in Newport News . http://cruisedirector.livejournal.com/808989.html http://littlereview.livejournal.com/433793.html But we did not see any eel! Apart from the snakes, dementordelta 's and my favorite animals at the aquarium were...

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Published: 1 year ago (Thu, 12 Jun 2008 20:51:54 PDT); 7320 bytes

littlereview

Poem for Tuesday

From 'The Prodigal' By Derek Walcott I Chasms and fissures of the vertiginous Alps through the plane window, meadows of snow on powdery precipices, the cantons of cumuli grumbling or closing, gasping falls of light a steady and serene white-knuckled horror of speckled white serrations, inconceivable in repetition, spumy avalanches of forgetting cloud, in the wrong heaven-a paradise of ice ...

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Published: 1 year, 2 months ago (Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:59:19 PDT); 10 Kb

littlereview

Poem for Monday

From 'The Prodigal' By Derek Walcott I In autumn, on the train to Pennsylvania, he placed his book face-down on the sunlit seat and it began to move. Metre established, carried on calm parallels, he preferred to read the paragraphs, the gliding blocks of stanzas framed by the widening windows-Italian light on the factories, October's motley in Jersey, wild fans of trees, the blue metallic ...

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Published: 1 year, 2 months ago (Sun, 27 Apr 2008 20:23:13 PDT); 11 Kb

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Poem for Wednesday

The Last Toast By Nicanor Parra Translated by Miller Williams Whether we like it or not, We have only three choices: Yesterday, today and tomorrow. And not even three Because as the philosopher says Yesterday is yesterday It belongs to us only in memory: From the rose already plucked No more petals can be drawn. The cards to play Are only two: The present and the future. And there aren't...

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Published: 1 year, 2 months ago (Tue, 15 Apr 2008 21:06:26 PDT); 11 Kb

littlereview

Poem for Saturday

Never-ending Birds By David Baker That's us pointing to the clouds. Those are clouds of birds, now we see, one whole cloud of birds. There we are, pointing out the car windows. October. Gray-blue-white olio of birds. Never-ending birds, you called the first time-- years we say it, the three of us, any two of us, one of those just endearments. Apt clarities. Kiss on the lips of hope. I ...

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Published: 1 year, 3 months ago (Fri, 07 Mar 2008 21:48:46 PST); 9454 bytes

littlereview

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