Terezín

A history of Terezin: click here.

Terezín
by Taije Silverman

—a transfer camp in the Czech Republic

We rode the bus out, past fields of sunflowers
that sloped for miles, hill after hill of them blooming.

The bus was filled with old people.
On their laps women held loaves of freshly baked bread.
Men slept in their seats wearing work clothes.

You stared out the window beside me. Your eyes
were so hard that you might have been watching the glass.

Fields and fields of sunflowers.

Arriving we slowed on the cobblestone walkway.
Graves looked like boxes, or houses from high up.

On a bench teenage lovers slouched in toward each other.
Their backs formed a shape like a seashell.
You didn't want to go inside.

But the rooms sang. Song like breath, blown
through spaces in skin.

The beds were wide boards stacked up high on the walls.
The glass on the door to the toilet was broken.
I imagined nothing.

You wore your black sweater and those dark sunglasses.
You didn't look at me.

The rooms were empty, and the courtyard was empty,
and the sunlight on cobblestone could have been water,
and I think even when we are here we are not here.

The courtyard was flooded with absence.
The tunnel was crowded with light.
Like a throat. Like a—

In a book I read how at its mouth they played music,
some last piece by Wagner or Mozart or Strauss.

I don't know why. I don't know
who walked through the tunnel or who played or what finally
they could have wanted. I don't know where the soul goes.

Your hair looked like wheat. It was gleaming.

Nearby on the hillside a gallows leaned slightly.
What has time asked of it? Nights. Windstorms.

Your hair looked like fire, or honey.
You didn't look at me.

Grass twisted up wild, lit gold all around us.
We could have been lost somewhere, in those funny hills.

And the ride back—I don't remember.
Why was I alone? It was night, then. It was still morning.

But the fields were filled with dead sunflowers.
Blooms darkened to brown, the stalks bowed.
And the tips dried to husks that for miles kept reaching.
Those dreamless sloped fields of traveling husks.

Now that no one looking

by Adam Kirsch

Now that no one looking at the night—
Sky blanked by leakage from electric lamps
And headlights prowling through the parking lot
Could recognize the Babylonian dance
That once held every gazer; now that spoons
And scales, and swordsmen battling with beasts
Have decomposed into a few stars strewn
Illegibly across an empty space,
Maybe the old unfalsifiable
Predictions and extrapolated spheres
No longer need to be an obstacle
To hearing what it is the stars declare:
That there are things created of a size
We can't and weren't meant to understand,
As fish know nothing of the sun that writes
Its bright glyphs on the black waves overhead.

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs...

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs...
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.

Not Waving But Drowning

How many people do I see everyday who are not waving, but drowning? How often am I?

Not Waving But Drowning
by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

April Rain Song

by Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

Spilled

Another villanelle today.

Spilled
by Bruce Bennett

It's not the liquid spreading on the floor,
A half a minute's labor with the mop;
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.

The stupid broken spout that wouldn't pour;
The nasty little salesman in the shop.
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor,

A stain perhaps, a new, unwelcome chore,
But scarcely cause for sobs that will not stop.
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.

It's the disease for which there is no cure,
The starving child, the taunting brutal cop.
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor

But through a planet, rotten to the core,
Where things grow old, get soiled, snap off, or drop.
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more:

The vision of yourself you can't ignore,
Poor wretched extra clinging to a prop!
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor.
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.

If I Could Tell You

by W.H. Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Walking Poems

(photo by Sarah D.)

Walking Poems

the stories you tell with your presence
sparkle over the crowd in uncontained waves

without your knowledge
your stone ripples out
and you are received

the chaos you sense in your frame
departs from you in equations and brush strokes
you are more complete than you know

delusion: we believe our mouths only speak
forgotten: the feast of the senses,
the unwitting articulation of the body

day and night you pour forth speech,
you living piece of art

with ballads in your hair
and an epic in your eyes

4.23.09
c.l.

Double Vision

A friend once brought me a poetry anthology from a Filipino poet after she had been to the Philippines. She said she almost kept it for herself. I'm glad she gave it up.

Double Vision
by Carlomar Arcangel Daoana

I admire the mind's various
say on things:
the night is washed
by rain and angels,
stars grind in their ordeal
of fractured light, landscapes swing
with the song of cicadas.

How the mind goes after them--
architectures of air,
gossamer wings, ghosts
made out of pure ideas--
chasing them.

But I prefer the physical
fact of this world,
the heft and hardness of it,
the corrugated surfaces,
the upturned earth.

That's why when I held
my lover's palm to my face,
I thought of the network
of veins circulating blood
to this area, the wrist
like a small beating heart,
all tending their emergencies
in only to prove
the undeniability
of my presence.

Such is the unconditional
tenderness, the body
trained to inhabit completely--
sometimes out of love,
sometimes out of cruelty--
the given moment because,
unlike the mind,
it can never regenerate itself,
can never look back.

Fern Hill

This is one of my top five favorite poems.

Fern Hill
by Dylan Thomas

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

The Ploughman's Prayer to God

This is a long one.

During my junior year of college, a group of fellow poetry-lovers created a club. Though we had various discussions about the name of our gathering, it remained unassumingly the Poetry Club. We met in the basement of the old brick library, in a small room with a heavy table that heard our thoughts and told no one. It was a safe place.

One night, one of the girls brought in a discovered poem (how or where she found it I do not remember) and read it aloud. I remember it because the poem was long and beautiful, and she read it simply and honestly with a lilt in her inflection that made the world stop for a moment. Even now, it's difficult to find a good record of this poem online.

The Ploughman's Prayer to God
by Johann von Teppel

Just and eternal keeper of the world,
God of all gods,
awful and wonderful Lord of lords,
almightiest of spirits,
prince of all princes,
source from which all goodness flows,
holiest of the holy,
crown-giver and the crown,
rewarder and reward,
elector in whose hand is all election,
blesser of those to whom thou givest life,
joy and delight of the angels,
molder of forms most high,
patriarch and child,
hear me.

Oh light that needs no other light,
light that outshines and darkens all external light,
radiance from before which all other radiance flees,
radiance like to which all light is as darkness,
light beside which all is shadow,
light that said in the beginning “let there be light,”
fire that burns unquenched, everlastingly, without beginning or end,
hear me.

Holiness above all things holy,
way without false turnings to life everlasting,
best and which there is no better,
life from which all things live,
truth of very truth,
wisdom embracing all wisdom,
issue of all strength,
perceiver of all right and wrongdoing,
succor in all errors and transgressions,
quencher of all thirsts,
comforter of the sick,
seal of highest majesty,
keystone of heaven’s harmony,
knower of all hearts,
shaper of all countenances,
planet holding sway in all planets,
sovereign influence of the stars,
mighty master of the heavenly court,
law before which the orbits of heaven can nevermore bend from their fixtures,
bright sun,
hear me.

Assuagement of all fevers,
master of all masters,
only father of all creation,
ever-present watcher of all ways and at all arrivals,
almighty escort from womb to tomb,
artificer of all forms,
foundation of all good works,
lover of all truth,
hater of all corruption,
only just judge,
arbiter from whose decree no single thing may depart evermore,
hear me.

Balm of our weariness,
fast knot which none may unloose,
perfect being having power over all perfection,
very knower of all secrets and of things known to none,
giver of eternal joys,
bestower of earthly blessedness,
host, ministrant, and friend to all good men,
hunter to whom no track is hid,
mold of all thought,
judge and unifier,
measurer and container of all circles,
gracious harkener to all them that call upon thee,
hear me.

Never failing support of the needy,
comforter of them that hope in thee,
feeder of hungry,
all powerful creator of being,
from nothing and of nothing from being,
quickener of all beings momentary, temporal, or eternal,
preserver and destroyer of life,
thou who imaginest, conceiveth, giveth form to, and takest away all things,
hear me.

Everlasting light,
eternal luminary,
true-faring mariner whose vessel never founders,
ensign beneath whose banner victory is sure,
author of rightness,
architect of the foundations of the earth,
tamer of the seas,
mingler of the inconstant air,
kindler of fire,
creator of all elements,
of the thunder,
of the lightning,
of the mist,
of the hail,
of the snow,
of the rain,
of the rainbow,
of the dew and the mildew,
of the wind,
of the frost,
and of all their workings sole craftsman,
monarch of the heavenly host,
emperor in whose service none may fail,
all gentlest, all strongest, and all merciful creator,
pity and hear me.

Store from which all treasures spring,
fountain from which all pure streams flow,
shepherd from whom none goes astray,
lodestar to which all good things strain and cleave as the bees to their queen,
cause of all causes,
hear me.

Good above all goods,
most august Lord Jesus,
receive graciously the soul of my dear and best beloved wife.
Grant her eternal peace,
refresh her with the dew of thy grace,
keep her under the shadow of thy wing.
Accept her, Lord, into thy perfect satisfaction,
where the least and the greatest alike have their contentment.
Let her, oh Lord, from whom she is come,
dwell in thy kingdom with the blessed,
the everlasting spirits.
I grieve for Margaretha,
my chosen wife.
Grant her, gracious Lord,
in the mirror of thine almighty and eternal godhead,
wherein the choirs of angels have their light to see,
and contemplate herself everlasting,
and everlastingly rejoice.
May all things that live under the blazon of the eternal standard-bearer,
all creatures whatsoever,
help me to say
with heart tranquil and serene,
amen.

The Poem I Almost Did Not Write

I have been privileged to know people in real life who write better poetry than I do. This was written by my friend Laura and published in our college's literary magazine. It is still teaching me what good poetry is.

The Poem I Almost Did Not Write
by Laura P.

they hold lightbulbs high above their heads—
(they are the lovers, you know)
the glass is for how fragile, how intimately close
to dropping, dashing, smashing
against any surface, really, any one they choose,
and the light, of course, is the energy,
no matter which numbers and symbols
they use to measure its vigor,
but also (just below the surface, mind)
there is the intellectual tap dance
working to a frenzy all the thoughts they thought,
all the miles they paced and the daring adventures
love called them to in their minds
as they fell into each other’s arms
and let the lightbulbs shatter on the ground.

Silver

I found this poem in one of my English textbooks when I was young, and inexplicably fell in love with it. I hadn't read much poetry before this, and I think the alliteration and imagery captivated me. I also remember not knowing what the heck a "shoon" was.

Silver
by Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and a silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

If

I'm surprised I haven't posted this poem here before, because it bears significance as the first long poem I memorized as a child. I really like the thoughts it expresses, as well as the cadence of the stanzas. I wouldn't be surprised if you've read this one before, but it's worth another look.

If
by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Children in a Field

by Angela Shaw

They don't wade in so much as they are taken.
Deep in the day, in the deep of the field,
every current in the grasses whispers hurry
hurry, every yellow spreads its perfume
like a rumor, impelling them further on.
It is the way of girls. It is the sway
of their dresses in the summer trance-
light, their bare calves already far-gone
in green. What songs will they follow?
Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm
or harm the border promises, whatever
calm. Let them go. Let them go traceless
through the high grass and into the willow-
blur, traceless across the lean blue glint
of the river, to the long dark bodies
of the conifers, and over the welcoming
threshold of nightfall.

Favorite Song Lyrics

Today, not a poem, but a collection of some of my favorite lines in songs, which are also poetry.

Favorite Song Lyrics

If you want to kiss the sky, you'd better learn how to kneel.
--U2, "Mysterious Ways"

Every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied.
--Josh Ritter, "Kathleen" (recently discovered)

The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts and figures
and instructions for dancing
But I love it when you read to me
and you can read me anything.
--Peter Gabriel, "The Book of Love"

And maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You're my wonderwall.
--Ryan Adams cover, "Wonderwall"

Mother, don't worry
I killed the last snake that lived in the creekbed
Mother, don't worry
I've got some money I saved for the weekend
Mother, remember
being so stern with that girl who was with me?
Mother, remember
the blink of an eye when I breathed through your body?

So may the sun rise,
bring hope where it once was forgotten.
Sons are like birds, flying
upward over the mountain.
--Iron & Wine, "Upward Over the Mountain"

Hurricanes will come
Earthquakes break the walls
Oceans rise
Empires fall

Enter world, light unshown
Follow heart, follow home
Here we are, light unshown
One round heart, one round home
--The Wailin' Jennys, "Apocalypse Lullaby"

Fare thee well, my own true love
Farewell for a while; I'm going away
But I'll be back, though I go ten thousand miles
Ten thousand miles, my own true love
Ten thousand miles or more
The rocks may melt and the seas may burn
If I should not return
--Mary Chapin Carpenter, "10,000 Miles"

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise
Thou mine inheritance, now and always
Thou and thou only first in my heart
High King of heaven, my treasure thou art.
--"Be Thou My Vision"

I'd rather feel the pain all too familiar
than be broken by a lover I don't understand.
--Jars of Clay, "Jealous Kind"

If you'd call my name out loud
If you'd call my name out loud
Do you suppose that I would come running?
Do you suppose I'd come at all?
I suppose I would.
--Dispatch, "Out Loud"

She won't falter easy
She'll be careful, she'll be coy
But still she paints her heart
among the musings of a boy

At the break of morning
day awaits her when she sleeps
Deep inside her dreams
is all the beauty that she keeps

If you find her, tell her that I love her
If she hears you, ask her heart to come
--Future of Forestry, "If You Find Her"

A Secret

If you pluck a string
or sing a note, I’m yours.

Judgments crumble into dust.
I fall in love.

For I imagine the gentleness
it takes to bend melody
could be applied to my strays from pitch.

You could tune me.
You would be the first.

In the lamplight, your chords
would be deep wells of quiet.

And in the evening
you could sing me home.

4.14.09
c.l.

Yellow Bowl

Another poem of the day from poets.org.

Yellow Bowl
by Rachel Contreni Flynn

If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,

if the rug beneath us
is woven with tough flowers,
and the yellow bowl on the table

rests with the sweet heft
of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,
if my body curves over the babies,

and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its shape,
and this quiet is only quiet.

Single Young Adult

Our fathers tell us
whatever we want
can be had by effort,
and effort is the good.
Work hard, and you will attain.

So we do as they say,
and gain the same things:
steady jobs and fading dreams.
But in the spare minutes of our livelihoods,
we question the truth of these parental claims.

For not all things are born out of energy.
Hope takes leave like a bird we can’t follow.
We desperately wish our fathers were right;
that we could race doubt and win;
that we could reach out for luck and beauty
like the baseball on that summer afternoon.

If only they were right.
If only, by effort, we could leave nothing undone.
For example, if I told you your love
was at the end of this road
how fast would you run?

4.12.09
c.l.

Without You

I woke up in the sun on Tuesday without you.
Dug my feet into the empty carpet without you.
Squinted without you.
Washed my face without you.
Cold cereal without you.
Clean shirt without you.
Fresh air without you.
Life without you.

I woke up in the sun on Tuesday without you,
and tried not to weep when
my hand, flung over the side of the bed,
did not meet yours.

9.26.06
c.l.

Fractions of Flowers, Inches of Air

Fractions of Flowers, Inches of Air

Spring is like a perhaps hand…
--e.e. cummings

cummings said it better
than I ever could, so I don’t even know
why I’m trying.

All I know is
the willow on the corner
has sparked into green mist
that clings like liquid
to its uplifted limbs;

when I walk I kick up
the bright scent of hyacinths
that dances inches from the earth.;

and the forsythia has wrought
irrepressible beauty
in the junkyards and parking lots.

Everything gets a chance in April.
Seeds, young love,
and color, which is also called hope.

4.8.09
c.l.

Untitled by Gregory Orr

Today, a cheating departure from my own work, only because I can't stand not to share something this beautiful. I received this in my inbox this morning. I intend to buy the book it is excerpted from.



Untitled (This is what was bequeathed us)
by Gregory Orr

This is what was bequeathed us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.

No other world
But this one:
Willows and the river
And the factory
With its black smokestacks.

No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.

No meaning but what we find here.
No purpose but what we make.

That, and the beloved’s clear instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake.

I'll Take What I Can Get

In an absence,
you are substance.
I renounce the normal fears,
the liabilities of closeness,
and I’ll take what I can get.

Is it perilous to dive in
so recklessly?
Maybe.
But “people are better than no people”
and there you stand.

This poem isn’t even much good.
But words are better than no words
and I’ll take what I can get.

4.3.09
c.l.

Found Poem: Facebook

Found poems are verses culled from an already existing piece of writing. We practiced them several times in my college English classes. For this one, I referred to my Facebook home page, mostly status updates and comments.

What's on your mind?

i don't remember
actually sleeping last night.
back to writing
which is even harder.

up early again.
i suppose i shall take it
as it comes.
why was this so normal
ten years ago
but so challenging now?

i haven't lost it yet.
that helps a bit.
in fact, i do believe
that i much prefer it.

added, added, and updated.
it never matters,
going to or coming home from.
watching, reading, teaching,
i swim for brighter days.

4.2.09
c.l.

NaPoWriMo

This month I'm going to try to participate in NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month. The website Poets.org is challenging poetry enthusiasts to write one poem a day for the month of April.

Since I know that I won't be able to keep up with writing new material every day, I'm going to at least pledge to post one of my own poems each day, though some of them might be old. I'll try not to repeat anything I've already posted on this blog, though I may slip up.

I'm starting with my most recent poem. Happy National Poetry Month!

Nostos
for James

You told us
that one of the excesses
that can malnourish the mind
is blinding emotion.
Will you think it inappropriate, then,
that I write in this form,
considered to be the ultimate
outpouring of emotion,
to tell you that I miss
every word you said
because their worth has
sparked to pricelessness
in the interim?
The mind should point forward,
a tall ship on the memory sea,
but I have capsized.
Emotion is slower,
but will it not one day
also float me home?

3.9.09
c.l.