‘LOVE’S MEMORY’ -A POEM BY JENNIFER MOXLEY !

”Love’s Memory”

How few are the
events in human life
so needful and so
dear that they
succeed
in placating the
causes of our strife—
the empty ache and
slights of worldly
need,
the petty battles over
bits of earth,
the smalltime
mongers dueling for
the dung
of each other’s
constructions,
without breadth
or vision past the
day-to-day, the
strong
yet cowardly tyrants
of our devastated
worth.
If tragedy can awake
the sleeping clock
of our quotidian
compromise, and
fear
repeal our surety,
and we’ll not talk
of change without
them, they’re a
measure dear
for they can demolish
love—potential,
unrealized, or infirm
—which can extend
our possibilities. In
records real
love stores worth
and stems fears that
in the end
the soul’s arrest is
threaded to the
existential.
Records such as
these cannot be
destroyed,
they thrive protected
in the hearts of those
who live on, and
elsewhere, they are
employed
in reveries upon
waking, as foes
against the psychic
harm brought on by
false
friends. Fragments of
our censored inner
life
love files away from
further touch—all
falls
to matter—where
silence lives on as
safe
traces of cut desire
incised in tissue
walls.

JENNIFER MOXLEY.

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‘LOVE SONG’ -A POEM BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS !

williamseisenstadtLG

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“Love Song”
I lie here thinking of you:—
the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—
you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west!
William Carlos Williams
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‘JUST BEFORE’ -A POEM BY JORIE GRAHAM !

”Just Before”

At some point in the day, as
such, there was a pool. Of
stillness. One bent to brush
one’s hair, and, lifting
again, there it was, the
opening—one glanced away
from a mirror, and there, before
one’s glance reached the
street, it was, dilation and breath
—a name called out
in another’s yard—a breeze from
where—the log collapsing
inward of a sudden into its
hearth—it burning further,
feathery—you hear it but you
don’t
look up—yet there it
bloomed—an un-
learning—all byway no birthpain
—dew—sand falling onto sand
—a threat
from which you shall have
no reprieve—then the
reprieve—Some felt it was
freedom, or a split-second of
unearthliness—but no, it was far
from un-
earthly, it was full of
earth, at first casually full, for
some millennia, then
despertately full—of earth—of
copper mines and thick under-
leaf-vein sucking in of
light, and isinglass, and dusty
heat—wood-rings
bloating their tree-cells with
more
life—and grass and weed and
tree intermingling in the
undersoil—& the
earth’s whole body round
filled with
uninterrupted continents of
burrowing—&earthwide miles of
tunnelling by the
mole, bark bettle, snail, spider,
worm—& ants making their
cross-
nationstate cloths of
soil, & planetwide the
chewing of insect upon leaf—
fish-mouth on krill,
the spinning of
coral, sponge, cocoon—this is
what entered the pool of
stopped thought—a chain
suspended in
the air of which
one link
for just an instant
turned to thought, then time,
then heavy time, then
suddenly
air—a link of air!—& there was
no standing army anywhere,
& the sleeping bodies in the
doorways in all
the cities of
what was then just
planet earth
were lifted up out of their
sleeping
bags, & they walked
away, & the sensation of empire
blew off the link
like pollen—just like that—off it
went—into thin air—& the
athletes running their
games in Delphi entered the
zone in the
long oval of the arena where
you run in
shadow, where the killer crowd
becomes
one sizzling hiss, where,
coming round that curve the
slowness
happens, & it all goes
inaudible, & the fatigue the
urgent sprint the lust
makes the you
fantastically alone, & the bees
thrum the hillsides, & all the
blood that has been
wasted—all of it—gathers into
deep coherent veins in the
earth
and calls itself
history—& we make it make
sense—
& we are asked to call it
good.

Jorie Graham.

‘CELEBRATING CHILDHOOD’ -A POEM BY ADONIS !

adonis

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“Celebrating Childhood”

Even the wind wants
to become a cart
pulled by butterflies.
I remember madness
leaning for the first time
on the mind’s pillow.
I was talking to my body then
and my body was an idea
I wrote in red.
Red is the sun’s most beautiful
throne
and all the other colors
worship on red rugs.
Night is another candle.
In every branch, an arm,
a message carried in space
echoed by the body of the wind.
The sun insists on dressing itself
in fog
when it meets me:
Am I being scolded by the light?
Oh, my past days—
they used to walk in their sleep
and I used to lean on them.
Love and dreams are two
parentheses.
Between them I place my body
and discover the world.
Many times
I saw the air fly with two grass
feet
and the road dance with feet
made of air.
My wishes are flowers
staining my days.
I was wounded early,
and early I learned
that wounds made me.
I still follow the child
who still walks inside me.
Now he stands at a staircase
made of light
searching for a corner to rest in
and to read the face of night
again.
If the moon were a house,
my feet would refuse to touch its
doorstep.
They are taken by dust
carrying me to the air of seasons.
I walk,
one hand in the air,
the other caressing tresses
that I imagine.
A star is also
a pebble in the field of space.
He alone
who is joined to the horizon
can build new roads.
A moon, an old man,
his seat is night
and light is his walking stick.
What shall I say to the body I
abandoned
in the rubble of the house
in which I was born?
No one can narrate my childhood
except those stars that flicker
above it
and that leave footprints
on the evening’s path.
My childhood is still
being born in the palms of a light
whose name I do not know
and who names me.
Out of that river he made a
mirror
and asked it about his sorrow.
He made rain out of his grief
and imitated the clouds.
Your childhood is a village.
You will never cross its
boundaries
no matter how far you go.
His days are lakes,
his memories floating bodies.
You who are descending
from the mountains of the past,
how can you climb them again,
and why?
Time is a door
I cannot open.
My magic is worn,
my chants asleep.
I was born in a village,
small and secretive like a womb.
I never left it.
I love the ocean not the shores.

ADONIS.
(Translated by Khaled Mattawa).

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NEW WORLD ORDER ! (a poem).

NEW WORLD ORDER !

The Blocks of Power Shifting With Rapid Pace/
Taking Newer Agenda/
Alluring Players of Political Order/
Charting Course of Action/
Full of Divisive Import/
By Pushing The Boundaries of Nations/
One After The Other/

The World Seemed A Place For Peace/
When The Cold War Ended/
With A Hope For Future Fraternity Amid Nations/
That Hope Was So Short/
As It Later Appeared/
The Pattern of Peace/
Is Always So Delicate/
The Waves of War/
Forever Exciting/
Humanity,/
Might Be A Misnomer Today/
And,/
The Concept of Power/
Losing Proper Purpose/

Alas !/
Today/
Those Who Have Power/
Can’t Lead/
And,/
Those Who Want To Lead/
Have No Power!/

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MRITYUNJAY JHA
4F,ADARSH NAGAR
SAMASTIPUR
BIHAR
INDIA.
Postal Code: 848101
(+91) 9334411390.
http://facebook.com/MJ1982M
http://twitter.com/MJ1982M

‘LOVE LETTER’ -A POEM BY SYLVIA PLATH !

sylvia-plath

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“LOVE LETTER”

Not easy to state the change you
made.
If I’m alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered
by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn’t just tow me an inch,
no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald
eye
Skyward again, without hope, of
course,
Of apprehending blueness, or
stars.
That wasn’t it. I slept, say: a
snake
Masked among black rocks as a
black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no
pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to
melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned
to tears,
Angels weeping over dull
natures,
But didn’t convince me. Those
tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of
ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer
air
And the locked drops rising in
dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round
about.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and
unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems
of plants.
I wasn’t fooled. I knew you at
once.
Tree and stone glittered, without
shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as
glass.
I started to bud like a March
twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I
ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my
soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It’s a gift.

Sylvia Plath.

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