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Jun. 11th, 2007 | 12:27 am
posted by: mirmie in apoesyaday

Voyelles (Vowels)

A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,
I shall tell one day, of your mysterious origins:
A, black velvety jacket of brilliant flies
Which buzz around cruel smells,

Gulfs of shadow; E, whiteness of vapours and of tents,
Lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shiver of cow-parsley;
I, purples, spat blood, smile of beautiful lips
In anger or in the raptures of penitence;

U, waves, divine shudderings of viridian seas,
The peace of pastures dotted with animals, the peace of the furrows
Which alchemy prints on the broad studious foreheads;

O, sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,
Silences crossed by Worlds and by Angels:
O the Omega, the violet ray of Her(or His?) Eyes!

-Arthur Rimbaud

[wikipedia][poem]

edit: I meant to post this over on apoesyaweek but hit the wrong button. I'm going to leave it here and post it there, though, because I think it's a super cool poem.
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One thing and another

Apr. 16th, 2007 | 08:27 pm
posted by: ratesjul in apoesyaday

What with one thing and another, maintainers got busy and this community lapsed. These things do, from time to time.

We maintainers got to talking tonight, however ... and whilst we don't have time for the next few months to post daily, we want to restart the idea and the discovery.

So, we'd like to introduce apoesyaweek.

Eventually we'll get back to daily, but for now, let the discovery continue.

-voglia_di_notte, mirmie, ratesjul
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Evening - Gail Mazur

Nov. 13th, 2006 | 10:38 pm
posted by: voglia_di_notte in apoesyaday

Evening

Sometimes she's Confucian--
resolute in privation. . . .

Each day, more immobile,
hip not mending, legs swollen;

still she carries her grief
with a hard steadiness.

Twelve years uncompanioned,
there's no point longing for

what can't return. This morning,
she tells me, she found a robin

hunched in the damp dirt
by the blossoming white azalea.

Still there at noon--
she went out in the yard

with her 4-pronged metal cane--
it appeared to be dying.

Tonight, when she looked again,
the bird had disappeared and

in its place, under the bush,
was a tiny egg--

"Beautiful robin's-egg blue"--
she carried carefully indoors.

"Are you keeping it warm?"
I ask--what am I thinking?--

And she: "Gail, I don't want
a bird, I want a blue egg."

--Gail Mazur

[bio][poem]
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The Flea - John Donne

Nov. 12th, 2006 | 02:13 pm
posted by: voglia_di_notte in apoesyaday

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

--John Donne

[wikipedia][poem]

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Opal - Amy Lowell

Nov. 11th, 2006 | 11:59 pm
posted by: voglia_di_notte in apoesyaday

Opal

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

--Amy Lowell

[wikipedia][poem]

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Nicholas Cricket - Joyce Maxner

Nov. 8th, 2006 | 06:38 pm
posted by: ratesjul in apoesyaday

Nicholas Cricket

Nicholas Cricket plays every night
in the Bug-a-Wug Cricket Band.

Moonlight glows and summer wind blows,
rabbits come dancing on tip-tippy toes.
The music is just so grand!

Nicholas Cricket plays with all his might
in the Bug-a-Wug Cricket Band.

Little Lake shines and Little Stream winds,
peep-peep-peepers come dancing through the vines.
The music is just so grand!

Nicholas Cricket is a banjo picker
in the Bug-a-Wug Cricket Band.

Crickets play fiddles and guitars with middles
curvy and round as a rantum riddle
and ducks come dancing
ducky-hey-ducky-diddle.
The music is just so grand!

In the blue blue night
when the moon is bright
underneath the leaves of summer
if we're quiet and quick
we can find Cricket Nick
and the washboard strummers
and the slap-a-spoon drummers
and the crick-crick-crickety kazoo hummers.

We can dance all night
'til the rosy dawn comes.
The music is just so grand!

Ladybugs strut and toads sashay,
moths and mantises wing their way,
snap-turtles swing and grasshoppers sway
while Nick and the crickets
just
     play
           and
                 play.

The music is just so grand!

All the Bug-a-Wugs grow sleepy and still
and go back with the moonlight under the hill.
Back to the trees the peepers pop,
back to the hollow the rabbits hop,
back to the willows the weary ducks waddle
and back to our beds our tired legs toddle
to dream as Little Stream
winds
        its way
                    into tomorrow.

The music was just so grand!
The music was just so grand!
The music was
just
     so
         grand!


-- Joyce Maxner

[poem link]
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The Stolen Child - W B Yeats

Nov. 8th, 2006 | 07:52 am
posted by: ratesjul in apoesyaday

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.


Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.


Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,.
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.


Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he
can understand.


--W B Yeats

[wikipedia][poem link]

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A Good Year Down - Jeni Olin

Nov. 7th, 2006 | 05:50 am
posted by: ratesjul in apoesyaday

A Good Year Down

New York will not accept me at this weight &
Mothers of the disappeared don’t come ‘round
Here anymore. I said you’re housekeeping aren’t you
With Lipton tea stains & the Establishment
Seriously attracted. He said: No
I’m turning down the beds. Now it’s my turn
In bed with a beautiful American rage
Like brunettes with night sweats. My love
Semiprecious & stoned
In the shoulder season we hold on
Though I am dismal & have no dope
Siphoned off behind pink Easter
I fake an optimism
Just to breathe—Just thinking of him for once &
The Wandering Jew that ate my sunshine
But I know flowers like Zorro was my dad
Those garlands of thin hissing lasers
So with the “sexy isotherms
Of semiotics” we meet again at the Kiev
To check chemistry. They bring the lights
Down on those cherry pies & like cryogenics
It sorta works. This time my love
The salt doll of night egging us on
Straight to the zeppelin mooring
With she-has-a-bit-of-the-neardamned-in-her-
Like-when-a-cloud-dies construed as
Well, all right, I’ve seen worse.

--by Jeni Olin

[poem link]
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