December 0

Blog Archive

Thu, 24.09.2009

THE SONG TURNING BACK INTO ITSELF 2 (A song for little children) by Al Young.

Always it’s either a beginning or some end:
the baby’s being born or its parents are
dying, fading on like the rose of the poem withers,
its light going out while gardens come in to bloom
Let us stand on street-corners
in the desolate era & propose
a new kind of crazyness
Let us salute one another
one by one two by two
the soft belly moving toward
the long sideburns
the adams apple or no apple at all…

Reference:
Al Young

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Thu, 24.09.2009

THE BLUES DON’T CHANGE by Al Young.

And I was born with you, wasn’t I, Blues?
Wombed with you, wounded, reared and forwarded
from address to address, stamped, stomped
and returned to sender by nobody else but you,
Blue Rider, writing me off every chance you
got, you mean old grudgeful-hearted, table-
turning demon, you, you sexy soul-sucking gem.

Blue diamond in the rough, you are forever.
You can’t be outfoxed don’t care how they cut
and smuggle and shine you on, you’re like a
shadow, too dumb and stubborn and necessary
to let them turn you into what you ain’t
with color or theory or powder or paint.

That

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Thu, 24.09.2009

THE SONG TURNING BACK INTO ITSELF 2 (A song for little children) by Al Young.

Always it’s either a beginning or some end:
the baby’s being born or its parents are
dying, fading on like the rose of the poem withers,
its light going out while gardens come in to bloom

Let us stand on street-corners
in the desolate era & propose
a new kind of crazyness

Let us salute one another
one by one two by two
the soft belly moving toward
the long sideburns
the adams apple or no apple at all….

Reference:
Al Young

learn more
Thu, 24.09.2009

YES, THE SECRET MIND WHISPERS (for Bob Kaufman) by Al Young.

Poetry’s a tree
forever at your door
neither scratching nor
knocking but everywhere
eager to force its way
into the soft warm room
of your ornery old heart,
slipping
its fat pink tongue
into the sensitive linings
of your weary young ear

A tree bearing blossoms, a flower
surfacing in a canal of blood,
the dream auto with dream motor
that idles eternally but has
no moving parts, no fumes just
fragrances beneficial to breathe

It breathes mystery this tree
but no more so
than moons over midnights seas
or the breast of a woman/child
to whom menstruation’s

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New Poem Each Day

Poetry Corner

So she sd, if u lose me, u lose a good thing. and he sd, u’re right but there are so many good things what cld the loss of... NEXT DOOR by Lani Mataki.
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