poetry and poems - st jordis day_2

  

  

L O N E L I N E S S  

meaning number 1 in the poem   --    

At livingpoetry blog_

if you read everything between the parenthesis,

 you read "a leaf falls." 

The rest spells "oneliness."

 If you add the beginning "l" to the "oneliness

--that is,

 everything not in parenthesis--

you get "loneliness." 

This poem is heartbreaking. 

Upon first reading, I thought, how clever. 

 But the more I read it, the more it got to me. 

The form illustrates falling, motion, 

slimness, even termination. 

The lines are long--not just the poem as a whole, 

but the letters in the poem--so many l's and f's. 

Long, even fluid lines,

 all leading down. 

AND   my selected  POEM:   

For those of us who say to ourselves:We don't get   forgetfulness  

   text

Forgetfulness          

 by Billy Collins                      

The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, 

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. 

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. 

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. 

It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart. 

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. 

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

21 Dec 2012 - Fire and ice - doomsday - R Frost

Rober Frost

    

   

POETRY LINK 

Some say the world will end in fire

Some say in ice.

Enjoy the comments on the poem here

Some say the world will end in fire,

 Some say in ice

From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Telephone Conversation by Wole Soyinka

Telephone Conversation
by Wole Soyinka (1936-...)


The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent.
The landlady swore she lived Off premises.

Me: "Madam," I warned, "I hate a wasted journey—I am African."
lady: "HOW DARK?" . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" (Considerate she was, varying the emphasis) "ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?"
me: "You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
lady: “AHA...”
"West African sepia"--and as afterthought , "Down in my passport."
....Silence ...
"WHAT'S THAT?" conceding "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS."
"Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?"
"Not altogether. Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused-- Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"- -"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather See for yourself?"

Now the poem of our Nigerian Nobel Prize -1986


The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey—I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A.* Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"