Poetry for Monday, September 17

----------------------------------------------------


Mira's submission


Paradise Motel by Charles Simic


Millions were dead; everybody was innocent.
I stayed in my room. The President
Spoke of war as of a magic love potion.
My eyes were opened in astonishment.
In a mirror my face appeared to me
Like a twice-canceled postage stamp.

I lived well, but life was awful.
There were so many soldiers that day,
So many refugees crowding the roads.
Naturally, they all vanished
With the touch of the hand.
History licked the corners of its bloody mouth.

On the pay channel, a man and a woman
Were trading hungry kisses and tearing off
Each other clothes while I look on
With the sound off and the room dark
Except for the screen where the color
Had too much red in it, too much pink.



Adriana's submission


Butter by Conny Wanek


Butter, like love,

seems common enough

yet has so many imitators.

I held a brick of it, heavy and cool,

and glimpsed what seemed like skin

beneath a corner of its wrap;

the decolletage revealed

a most attractive fat!



And most refined.

Not milk, not cream,

not even creme de la creme.

It was a delicacy which assured me

that bliss follows agitation,

that even pasture daisies

through the alchemy of four stomachs

may grace a king's table.



We have a yellow bowl near the toaster

where summer's butter grows

soft and sentimental.

We love it better for its weeping,

its nostalgia for buckets and churns

and deep stone wells,

for the press of a wooden butter mold

shaped like a swollen heart.



Frank's Submission


BEAUTIFUL WOMAN

The spring
in

her step
has

turned to
fall


OLD GEEZER


The quickest
way
to change

the
world is
to

like it
the
way it

is.


COGNOSCENTI


A little
money, you

know what
money can

buy; a
lot of

money, you
know what

money can't
buy.


COOL INTIMACIES


What the power is and what
we can do to save

ourselves with or from it,
how are we to know,

receiving it sieved, in hints
and doubleblips, echoes from

dubious bluffs, silent
declarations, birds and leaves

in motion, announcements
from "bodies" and points of light:

flood or puddle, whatever
it is, it stands

in the Way: we here and
there ride, wade, drown.


MAGIC


The wind across
the street blusters
a leaf over
snow till it

scampers up a

tree, flips
head down, fluffy
tail
straight up.

-- a.r.ammons



Alice's submission


On Turning Ten


The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

-- Billy Collins



Gabe's submission


FROM St. Peter's Complaint, 1595
THE BURNING BABE
By Robert Southwell


As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorchéd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
"Alas," quoth he, "but newly born in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiléd souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I calléd unto mind that it was Christmas day.