Friday, June 6, 2014

Still I Rise

by Maya Angelou
found here.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you? 
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But stil, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

My 71st Year

by Walt Whitman
found here.

After surmounting threescore and ten,
With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows,
My parents’ deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of ‘63 and ‘4,
As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or as haply after battle,
At twilight, hobbling, answering yet to company roll-call, Here, with vital voice,
Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Zeroing In

by Denise Levertov, from Breathing the Water, 1984
‘I am a landscape,’ he said,
‘a landscape and a person walking in that landscape.
There are daunting cliffs there,
and plains glad in their way
of brown monotony. But especially
there are sinkholes, places
of sudden terror, of small circumference
and malevolent depths.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘When I set forth
to walk in myself, as it might be
on a fine afternoon, forgetting,
sooner or later I come to where sedge
and clumps of white flowers, rue perhaps,
mark the bogland, and I know
there are quagmires there that can pull you
down, and sink you in bubbling mud.’
‘We had an old dog,’ he told her, ‘when I was a boy,
a good dog, friendly. But there was an injured spot
on his head, if you happened
just to touch it he’d jump up yelping
and bite you. He bit a young child,
they had to take him down to the vet’s and destroy him.’
‘No one knows where it is,’ she said,
‘and even by accident no one touches it.
It’s inside my landscape, and only I, making my way
preoccupied through my life, crossing my hills,
I myself without warning touch it,
and leap up at myself--’
‘--or flinch back
just in time.’
‘Yes, we learn that.
It’s not terror, it’s pain we’re talking about:
those places in us, like your dog’s bruised head,
that are bruised forever, that time
never assuages, never.’

Friday, November 22, 2013

the big one

by Charles Bukowski, from The Pleasures of the Damned, 2007
he buys 5 cars a month, details them, waxes and buffs
them out, then
resells them at a profit of one or two grand.
he has a nice Jewish wife and he tells me that he
bangs her until the walls shake.
he wears a red cap, squints in the light, has a regular
job besides the car gig.
I have no idea of what he is trying to accomplish and maybe he
doesn’t either.
he’s a nicer fellow than most, always good to see him,
we laugh, say a few bright lines.
each time
after I see him
I get the blues for him, for me, for all of us:
for want of something to do
we keep slaying our small dragons
as the big one waits.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Into the Twilight

by W. B. Yeats, from A Poet to His Beloved: Early Love Poems of W.B Yeats, 1985.
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped on hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding his lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

Monday, November 18, 2013


Rainier Maria Rilke, from Rilke’s Book of Hours, 1996, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

You come and go. The doors swing closed
ever more gently, almost without a shudder.
of all who move through the quiet houses,
you are the quietest.
We become so accustomed to you,
we no longer look up
when your shadow falls over the book we are reading
and makes it glow. For all things
sing you: at times
we just hear them more clearly.
Often when I imagine you
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer
and I am dark, I am forest.
You are a wheel at which I stand,
whose dark spokes sometimes catch me up,
revolve me nearer to the center.
Then all the work I put my hand to
widens from turn to turn.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Every Day

by Jonathan Walton, from The Second Verse, 2006
The eye of heaven
pours its luminance
upon the Earth
and stirs its inhabitants
into a new beginning
Beaks are released
from the tufts of wings
and nature’s chorus
surrenders new songs
for a new day
Eyes of all kinds
rise to find light
filling all spaces
‘tis a blessed sight
To behold this new day
begun in the same way
it may seem routine
and hold no special place
But every single time
that light cracks the east sky
it is the most amazing moment
up to that point in life
Because without that awakening
That initial opening of your eyes
There is no success or excellence
no chance of opportunity
Each and every day
dawn stretches her arms
out over the mountains
and down into the valleys
Into each inlet
and across every island
Around every sound
and through each isle
We all have the greatest
reason to smile
Because endless--
are our possibilities
is our potential
Life is waiting for us
And we must be ready to meet it.