Burned Man by David Huddle. Share When I was twelve, a man was burned not quite to death at my father's factory.
Recovered enough to walk the town, he didn't know what to do with himself—a ghost whose scarred, fire bubbled face made you look away, though not my father who felt responsible and so wouldn't refuse the man's eyes when they fell upon him. Grudge, thought the accident his own fault, and sought my father out as the one whose eyes told him yes, he was still alive. So they held long conversations on the post office stoop, which I observed from the car where I waited, where I could read my father's stiff shoulders, the way he clutched the mail, how he tilted his head, even his smile that was in truth a grimace. What my mother knew—my father had to let himself be tortured once or twice a week, whenever Bernard Sawyers saw him in town, lifted his claw of a hand, rasped out his greeting that sounded like a raven that'd been taught to say They'd stand there talking in the town's blazing sunlight, the one whom fire and the other invisibly.
I Eat Poetry. What's Genocide? Their high school principal told me I couldn’t teach poetry with profanity so I asked my students, “Raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Holocaust.” in unison, their arms rose up like poisonous gas then straightened out like an SS infantry “Okay.
Please put your hands down. Now raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Rwandan genocide.” blank stares mixed with curious ignorance a quivering hand out of the crowd half-way raised, like a lone survivor struggling to stand up in Kigali “Luz, are you sure about that?” “No.” “That’s what I thought.” “Carlos—what’s genocide?” They won’t let you hear the truth at school if that person says “fuck” can’t even talk about “fuck” even though a third of your senior class is pregnant. I can’t teach an 18-year-old girl in a public school how to use a condom that will save her life and that of the orphan she will be forced to give to the foster care system— “Carlos, how many 13-year-olds do you know that are HIV-positive?” Splash - Charles Bukowski. The illusion is that you are simply reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem. this is a beggar's knife. this is a tulip. this is a soldier marching through Madrid. this is you on your death bed. this is Li Po laughing underground. this is not a god-damned poem. this is a horse asleep. a butterfly in your brain. this is the devil's circus. you are not reading this on a page. the page is reading you. feel it?
It's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room. this is not a poem. poems are dull, they make you sleep. these words force you to a new madness. you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a blinding area of light. the elephant dreams with you now. the curve of space bends and laughs. you can die now. you can die now as people were meant to die: great, victorious, hearing the music, being the music, roaring, roaring, roaring. Charles Bukowski : Inner Peace - Poems Only. James Merrill's "Lost In Translation" with link to audio. Hear Merrill read the first four stanzas through the wonders of RealPlayer.
For Richard Howard Diese Tage, die leer dir scheinen und wertlos für das All, haben Wurzeln zwischen den Steinen und trinken dort überall. A card table in the library stands ready To receive the puzzle which keeps never coming. Daylight shines in or lamplight down Upon the tense oasis of green felt. Full of unfulfillment, life goes on, Mirage arisen from time's trickling sands Or fallen piecemeal into place: German lesson, picnic, see-saw, walk With the collie who "did everything but talk"— Sour windfalls of the orchard back of us. A summer without parents is the puzzle, Or should be. He's in love, at least. Out of the blue, as promised, of a New York Puzzle-rental shop the puzzle comes— A superior one, containing a thousand hand-sawn, Sandal-scented pieces. Mademoiselle does borders— (Not so fast. The beauty, the balance, the Brazilians by robert martin - Hello Poetry.