National Cat Day

Chinese Proverb  by anonymous

A lame cat
is better than a swift horse
when rats infest
the palace.

Why Can't I Leave You by Ai

Why Can't I Leave You?, Ai

You stand behind the old black mare,
dressed as always in that red shirt,
stained from sweat, the crying of the armpits,
that will not stop for anything,
stroking her rump, while the barley goes unplanted.
I pick up my suitcase and set it down,
as I try to leave you again.
I smooth the hair back from your forehead.
I think with your laziness and the drought too,
you’ll be needing my help more than ever.
You take my hands, I nod
and go to the house to unpack,
having found another reason to stay.

I undress, then put on my white lace slip
for you to take off, because you like that
and when you come in, you pull down the straps
and I unbutton your shirt.
I know we can’t give each other any more
or any less than what we have.
There is a safety in that, so much
that I can never get past the packing,
the begging you to please, if I can’t make you happy,
come close between my thighs
and let me laugh for you from my second mouth.

The Kid by Ai

The Kid

by Ai

My sister rubs the doll’s face in mud,

then climbs through the truck window.

She ignores me as I walk around it,

hitting the flat tires with an iron rod.

The old man yells for me to help hitch the team,

but I keep walking around the truck, hitting harder,

until my mother calls.

I pick up a rock and throw it at the kitchen window,

but it falls short.

The old man’s voice bounces off the air like a ball

I can’t lift my leg over.

I stand beside him, waiting, but he doesn’t look up

and I squeeze the rod, raise it, his skull splits open.

Mother runs toward us. I stand still,

get her across the spine as she bends over him.

I drop the rod and take the rifle from the house.

Roses are red, violets are blue,

one bullet for the black horse, two for the brown.

They’re down quick. I spit, my tongue’s bloody;

I’ve bitten it. I laugh, remember the one out back.

I catch her climbing from the truck, shoot.

The doll lands on the ground with her.

I pick it up, rock it in my arms.

Yeah. I’m Jack, Hogarth’s son.

I’m nimble, I’m quick.

In the house, I put on the old man’s best suit

and his patent leather shoes.

I pack my mother’s satin nightgown

and my sister’s doll in the suitcase.

Then I go outside and cross the fields to the highway.

I’m fourteen. I’m a wind from nowhere.

I can break your heart.

Twenty-year Marriage by Ai

Twenty-year Marriage

by Ai

You keep me waiting in a truck

with its one good wheel stuck in the ditch,

while you piss against the south side of a tree.

Hurry. I’ve got nothing on under my skirt tonight.

That still excites you, but this pickup has no windows

and the seat, one fake leather thigh,

pressed close to mine is cold.

I’m the same size, shape, make as twenty years ago,

but get inside me, start the engine;

you’ll have the strength, the will to move.

I’ll pull, you push, we’ll tear each other in half.

Come on, baby, lay me down on my back.

Pretend you don’t owe me a thing

and maybe we’ll roll out of here,

leaving the past stacked up behind us;

old newspapers nobody’s ever got to read again.

Conversation by Ai

Conversation

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?




Ai

Featured Poet: Ai

I only have a few poems by Ai, so I would greatly appreciate any postings!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ai_%28poet%29

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/268

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=80637

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House by Billy Collins

This was more appropriate during the summer:

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Billy Collins 

Thesaurus by Billy Collins

Thesaurus

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast
that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up
on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,
or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held,
house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs,
all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;
hairy, hirsute, woolly, furry, fleecy, and shaggy
all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,
inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile
standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

Here father is next to sire and brother close
to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.
And every group has its odd cousin, the one
who traveled the farthest to be here:
astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven
syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.
Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word.
Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever
next to each other on the same line inside a poem,
a small chapel where weddings like these,
between perfect strangers, can take place.
Billy Collins

Candle Hat by Billy Collins

Candle Hat

In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates:
Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,
Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness,
Rembrant looks relieved as if he were taking a breather
from painting The Blinding of Sampson.

But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror
and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio
addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.

He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.

You can only wonder what it would be like
to be wearing such a chandelier on your head
as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.

But once you see this hat there is no need to read
any biography of Goya or to memorize his dates.

To understand Goya you only have to imagine him
lighting the candles one by one, then placing
the hat on his head, ready for a night of work.

Imagine him surprising his wife with his new invention,
the laughing like a birthday cake when she saw the glow.

Imagine him flickering through the rooms of his house
with all the shadows flying across the walls.

Imagine a lost traveler knocking on his door
one dark night in the hill country of Spain.
"Come in, " he would say, "I was just painting myself,"
as he stood in the doorway holding up the wand of a brush,
illuminated in the blaze of his famous candle hat.
Billy Collins

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Billy Collins

Shoveling Snow With Buddha by Billy Collins

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.


All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

Billy Collins is the next featured poet

Starting tomorrow, Billy Collins will be the featured poet for a week.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billy_Collins

http://www.poemhunter.com/billy-collins/

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/278

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrEPJh14mcU

in celebration of Pres. Obama's Nobel Peace Prize

The Esquimos Have No Word for "War"
                               by Mary Oliver
Trying to explain it to them
Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene.
Their houses, like white bowls,
Sit on a prairie of ancient snowfalls
Caught beyond thaw of the swift changes
Of night and day.
They listen politely, and stride away

With spears and sleds and barking dogs
To hunt for food. The women wait
Chewing on skins or singing songs,
Knowing that they have hours to spend,
That the luck of the hunter is often late.

Later, by fires and boiling bones
In steaming kettles, they welcome me,
Far kin, pale brother,
To share what they have in a hungry time
In a difficult land. While I talk on
Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies,
Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,
They chew their bones, and smile at one another. 

A Dream of Trees by Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

Landscape by Mary Oliver

Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky--as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

October by Mary Oliver (part 7)

7

Sometimes in late summer I won't touch anything, not

the flowers, not the blackberries

brimming in the thickets; I won't drink

from the pond; I won't name the birds or the trees;

I won't whisper my own name.

                                              One morning

the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,

and didn't see me---and I thought:

so this is the world.

I'm not in it.

It is beautiful.

October by Mary Oliver (parts 4, 5, & 6)

4

It pulls me

into its trap of attention.

And when I turn again, the bear is gone.

5

Look, hasn't my body already felt

like the body of a flower?

6

Look, I want to love this world

as though it's the last chance I'm ever going to get

to be alive

and know it.

October by Mary Oliver (parts 2 & 3)

2

I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the green pine tree:

little dazzler,

little song,

little mouthful,

3

The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It

grunts into view. There is no measure

for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes--

there is no telling

the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns

and yawns.

                                     Near the fallen tree

something--aleaf snapped loose

from the branch and fluttering down--tries to pull me

into its trap of attention.

October by Mary Oliver (part 1)

1

There's this shape, black as the entrance to a cave,

A longing wells up in its throat

like a blossom

as it breathes slowly.

What does the world

mean to yo if you can't trust it

to go on shining when you're

not there? And there's

a tree, long-fallen; once

the bees flew to it, like a procession

of messengers, and filled it

with honey.

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is the featured poet for Sunday, October 4th, through Saturday, October 10th.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_oliver

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/mary_oliver

Introduction

On October 1, 2009, I gave up my FaceBook page. At that time, I had done only one Poetry Wednesday posting and had a favorable reaction.

I would like this blog to feature a different poet, every week, and have people post their favorite poem(s) of the featured poet.

Readers can also recommend poets to feature and about every three to four weeks there will be a Post a Poem by Anyone week.