Monday, December 31, 2012

Seeing It Out With Good Friends

A Song for New Year's Eve

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William Cullen Bryant


Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay— 
     Stay till the good old year, 
So long companion of our way, 
     Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 
          Oh stay, oh stay, 
One little hour, and then away.

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, 
     Has now no hopes to wake; 
Yet one hour more of jest and song 
     For his familiar sake. 
          Oh stay, oh stay, 
One mirthful hour, and then away.  

The kindly year, his liberal hands 
     Have lavished all his store. 
And shall we turn from where he stands, 
     Because he gives no more? 
          Oh stay, oh stay, 
One grateful hour, and then away.  

Days brightly came and calmly went, 
     While yet he was our guest; 
How cheerfully the week was spent! 
     How sweet the seventh day's rest! 
          Oh stay, oh stay, 
One golden hour, and then away.  

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep 
     Beneath the coffin-lid: 
What pleasant memories we keep 
     Of all they said and did! 
          Oh stay, oh stay, 
One tender hour, and then away.  

Even while we sing, he smiles his last, 
     And leaves our sphere behind. 
The good old year is with the past; 
     Oh be the new as kind! 
          Oh stay, oh stay, 
One parting strain, and then away.

Product Details
-more from William Cullen Bryant

To My Faithful Readers...

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People of the Year

To the Garbage Collectors in Bloomington, Indiana, the First Pickup of the New Year

bed, bedroom, couple, happy, intimacy, love
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Philip Appleman


(the way bed is in winter, like an aproned lap,
like furry mittens,
like childhood crouching under tables)
The Ninth Day of Xmas, in the morning black
outside our window: clattering cans, the whir
of a hopper, shouts, a whistle, move on ...
I see them in my warm imagination
the way I’ll see them later in the cold,
heaving the huge cans and running
(running!) to the next house on the street.

My vestiges of muscle stir
uneasily in their percale cocoon:
what moves those men out there, what
drives them running to the next house and the next?
Halfway back to dream, I speculate:
The Social Weal? “Let’s make good old
Bloomington a cleaner place
to live in—right, men? Hup, tha!
Healthy Competition? “Come on, boys,
let’s burn up that route today and beat those dudes
on truck thirteen!”
Enlightened Self-Interest? “Another can,
another dollar—don’t slow down, Mac, I’m puttin’
three kids through Princeton?”
Or something else?
Terror?

A half hour later, dawn comes edging over
Clark Street: layers of color, laid out like
a flattened rainbow—red, then yellow, green,
and over that the black-and-blue of night
still hanging on. Clark Street maples wave
their silhouettes against the red, and through
the twiggy trees, I see a solid chunk
of garbage truck, and stick-figures of men,
like windup toys, tossing little cans—
and running.

All day they’ll go like that, till dark again,
and all day, people fussing at their desks,
at hot stoves, at machines, will jettison
tin cans, bare evergreens, damp Kleenex, all
things that are Caesar’s.

O garbage men,
the New Year greets you like the Old;
after this first run you too may rest
in beds like great warm aproned laps
and know that people everywhere have faith:
putting from them all things of this world,
they confidently bide your second coming.
 
Long Island Poets: An Anthology : Featuring Works by Philip Appleman, Jane Augustine, George Bradley, Edward Butscher, Maryann Calendrille...
-Explore more poetry from Philip Appleman

On Our Reflection of The Year




New Year's Poem

amazing, awesome, bed, bedroom, blonde
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Margaret Avison

The Christmas twigs crispen and needles rattle
Along the window-ledge.
A solitary pearl
Shed from the necklace spilled at last week’s party
Lies in the suety, snow-luminous plainness
Of morning, on the window-ledge beside them.
And all the furniture that circled stately
And hospitable when these rooms were brimmed
With perfumes, furs, and black-and-silver
Crisscross of seasonal conversation, lapses
Into its previous largeness.
I remember
Anne’s rose-sweet gravity, and the stiff grave
Where cold so little can contain;
I mark the queer delightful skull and crossbones
Starlings and sparrows left, taking the crust,
And the long loop of winter wind
Smoothing its arc from dark Arcturus down
To the bricked corner of the drifted courtyard,
And the still window-ledge.
Gentle and just pleasure
It is, being human, to have won from space
This unchill, habitable interior
Which mirrors quietly the light
Of the snow, and the new year.
Always Now: The Collected Poems, Vol. 1
-from Always Now,
 Vol I



Goodbye, Old Friend

The Old Year

 
boy, double exposure, sunset
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John Clare

The Old Year's gone away
     To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
     Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
     In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
     In this he's known by none.

All nothing everywhere:
     Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
     And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
     In every cot and hall--
A guest to every heart's desire,
     And now he's nought at all.

Old papers thrown away,
     Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
     Are things identified;
But time once torn away
     No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
     Left the Old Year lost to all.

-Explore More Of John Clare
 

Les Mis...


 
 
 
It was so good I can't even talk about it. It was beyond analysis....
 
 Just amazing!
 
Poetry Points:
10/10
 
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Sunday, December 30, 2012

Target, Ice Cream, and Oh Yeah...


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To The Year -

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Your Very Own Manuscript...

Let No Man

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Jorge Luis Borges


Let no one reduce to tears or reproach
This statement of the mastery of God,
Who, with magnificent irony, gave
Me at once both books and night

Of this city of books He pronounced rulers
These lightless eyes, who can only
Peruse in libraries of dreams
The insensible paragraphs that yield

With every new dawn. Vainly does the day
Lavish on them its infinite books,
Arduous as the arduous manuscripts
Which at Alexandria did perish.

Of hunger and thirst (a Greek story tells us)
Dies a king amidst fountains and gardens;
I aimlessly weary at the confines
Of this tall and deep blind library.

Encyclopedias, atlases, the East
And the West, centuries, dynasties
Symbols, cosmos and cosmogonies
Do walls proffer, but pointlessly.

Slow in my shadow, I the hollow shade
Explore with my indecisive cane;
To think I had imagined Paradise
In the form of such a library.

Something, certainly not termed
Fate, rules on such things;
Another had received in blurry
Afternoons both books and shadow.

Wandering through these slow corridors
I often feel with a vague and sacred dread
That I am another, the dead one, who must
Have trodden the same steps at the same time.

Which of the two is now writing this poem
Of a plural I and of a single shadow?
How important is the word that names me
If the anathema is one and indivisible?

Groussac or Borges, I see this darling
World deform and extinguish
To a pale, uncertain ash
Resembling sleep and oblivion

Product Details
-Explore More of Jorge Luis Borges

On Resolve...

This year The Poetrycooker has Three New Year's Resolutions...

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  1. To smile at least once at everyone I see - every day.
  2. To do all things with passion and bravery.
  3. To actively take part in my own happiness and  to be willing to admit that it is okay to do that.
  4. To inspire these three things in others.

So, those are my resolutions...what are yours?

Just Them Take You There -

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What's In Your Heaven?

book, erase una vez...
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“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
Jorge Luis Borges

Because You're Beautiful.

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On Your Wonder

Acrobat
all eyes on me in the center of, balloons, blog, bokeh, carnival, circus
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 Elise Paschen


The night you were conceived
we balanced underneath a tent,

amazed at the air-marveler,
who, hand-over-hand, seized the stars,

then braved the line to carry home
a big-top souvenir umbrella.

Earth-bound a year, you dare
gravity, sliding from the couch

to table. Mornings, on tiptoe, 
stretching fingers, you grab 

Saturn, Venus and the moons 
raining down from the sky of ceiling.

Elise Paschen, with her
mother Maria Tallchief
 

Saturday, December 29, 2012

On The Moment You Realize...

Not the Song, but After
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Nicholas Friedman

 
Now everywhere the pageantry of youth
is on display:
The squeal of bike chains spinning through the gray
plays fugue to puddle-froth;

The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April
ushers spring
with lavender dripped from the upturned wing
of wind-swept Gabriel.

A youngish pair walks wired at the arms—
she casually ribbing
him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing
their step to spare the worms

stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter
rises and goes
drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows
love’s not the song, but after—

like the mute, remembered chorus of the rain
that stains the walk
long after falling, or the lifeless stalk
still hoisting its head of grain.

Uneasy now, she loosens from his hand.
Their dark familiars
stare back, reflected by the passing cars,
with speechless reprimand.

Before the chill, each chartered hell grows hotter,
yet every burn
will teach him how to run—and how to turn
her wine back into water.
 
Pn Review Magazine Issue 01
-from PN Review
Subscribe Here
 
 

On Originality


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On The Things We Did This Year...

 
 

A Good Year Down

polyvore, city, cute, doodle
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by Jeni Olin

 
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.


A Valentine To Frank O'Hara 1st (first) edition by Olin, Jeni published by Smokeproof Press (1999) [Paperback]
More Olin on Amazon

A Clean Slate Coming

 

In Memoriam,
[Ring out, wild bells]

 
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Lord Alfred Tennyson


Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
   For those that here we see no more;
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.


Famous Poet quotation on Love,Alfred Lord Tennyson Card
-Explre More ALT Products on Amazon

Friday, December 28, 2012

Just Close Your Eyes And. . .


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Watch it Instantly on Amazon

Turbo

 
Turbo Poster
Looks like it's going to be another winner for Dreamworks...
 
 If the studio makes good on the promise  made in this adorable tralier- the race between Dreamworks uber-rival Pixar is on again!
 
 

 

Across the Sky

I only just found out that Adrienne Rich died in March. She is has always been one of my favorite poets. This post is for her.

Planetarium

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Adrienne Rich

Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750—1848)
astronomer, sister of William; and others.
 
A woman in the shape of a monster
a monster in the shape of a woman
the skies are full of them

a woman ‘in the snow
among the Clocks and instruments
or measuring the ground with poles’

in her 98 years to discover
8 comets

she whom the moon ruled
like us
levitating into the night sky
riding the polished lenses

Galaxies of women, there
doing penance for impetuousness
ribs chilled
in those spaces of the mind

An eye,

‘virile, precise and absolutely certain’
from the mad webs of Uranusborg

encountering the NOVA

every impulse of light exploding

from the core
as life flies out of us

Tycho whispering at last
‘Let me not seem to have lived in vain’

What we see, we see
and seeing is changing

the light that shrivels a mountain
and leaves a man alive

Heartbeat of the pulsar
heart sweating through my body

The radio impulse
pouring in from Taurus

I am bombarded yet I stand

I have been standing all my life in the
direct path of a battery of signals
the most accurately transmitted most
untranslatable language in the universe
I am a galactic cloud so deep so invo-
luted that a light wave could take 15
years to travel through me And has
taken I am an instrument in the shape
of a woman trying to translate pulsations
into images for the relief of the body
and the reconstruction of the mind.
 
The Fact of a Doorframe: Poems Selected and New 1950-1984

On Making It There

New Year

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Bei Dao

 
Translated By David Hinton and Yanbing Chen
 
 
a child carrying flowers walks toward the new year
a conductor tattooing darkness
listens to the shortest pause

hurry a lion into the cage of music
hurry stone to masquerade as a recluse
moving in parallel nights

who's the visitor? when the days all
tip from nests and fly down roads
the book of failure grows boundless and deep

each and every moment's a shortcut
I follow it through the meaning of the East
returning home, closing death's door
Landscape Over Zero (Mandarin Chinese and English Edition)
-from Landscape Over Zero

Thursday, December 27, 2012

On Pulling a Wake

 

Bridge & Swimmer

dusk, girl, lake, photography, reeds
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Forrest Gander


Our eye goes past the hieroglyphic tree to the swimmer
carving a wake in the water. And almost to the railroad bridge
from which the swimmer might have dived. Then, as though
come to the end of its tether,
our gaze returns, pulling toward the blemish
on the surface of the print. An L-shaped chemical dribble,
it sabotages the scene’s transparence
and siphons off its easy appeal.
At the same time, the blemish
joins together the realms
of seer and swimmer
in our experience of plunging
into and out of the image.
-from Eye Against Eye

Introducing Chloé!


Hey, who's she?


This is an Chloé, (she's an asterisk). Chloé is our resident tour guide here at The Poetrycooker and on our new page - Chloé's World, she will be sharing some of our favorite places from around the web!

Did you know that Chloé has made an appearance in nearly every post since The Poetrycooker started back in September 2011? I think it's time she got her own page, don't you?

Chloé has a pretty cool trick up her sleeve -  click on her anytime she appears and and she will direct you to the source for each piece of material!

 

Let's Trip Out

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On The Fearful Ending

Thomas Hardy wrote "The Darkling Thrush" on December 30, 1900 to express his feelings about the close of the nineteenth century.

The Darkling Thrush

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Thomas Hardy


I leant upon a coppice gate 
    When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
    The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
    Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
    Had sought their household fires. 

The land's sharp features seemed to be
    The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
    The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
    Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
    Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
    The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
    Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
    In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
    Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
    Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
    Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
    His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
    And I was unaware.
Complete Poems of Thomas Hardy
-Explore More of Thomas Hardy
 

On the Closing of a Year

Burning the Old Year

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Naomi Shihab Nye

 
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
 
-from Words Under The Words

Because You're Going To Make It

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You're Not Alone

Psalm

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by Jonah Winter


Emptying the trash,
going to sleep at night,
just daring to speak 
in any language to anyone:

Our prayers are answered,
even if the words we say
                  are just dreamt-of
admissions of love to strangers,
unsent letters
shoved away, forgotten, at dawn,
like street lights turned off
as the sky begins to gray
                 above the black fields--
all of this is being written down somewhere.


See. Even that ladder leaning up against the barn
wants to make you feel better.
See how easily the dew collects on its white slats,
the way the morning hardly breathes?

See that man who drinks himself to sleep, 
how his face is pressed against the kitchen table--
see how the light from his kitchen shines through the window 
                                            of the old farmhouse?
Somebody sees that light.


Amnesia
-from Amnesia

Before You Look...

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“A glance leaves an imprint on anything it's dwelt on.”
 
 
Joseph Brodsky
Joseph Brodsky