Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Mario Benedetti / Don't Save Yourself


Don't Save Yourself

by Mario Benedetti

Don't stay motionless

by the side of the road, don't suspend joy

or love halfheartedly don't save yourself now or ever. don't save yourself. don't fill yourself
with calm. don't reserve a still corner in this world don't let your eyelids droop heavy like judgements don't forsake your lips don't go to sleep

without heavy eyes, don't consider yourself bloodless

Don't judge yourself

without time. But if, despite it all, you can't help it and you suspend joy and you love halfheartedly and you save yourself, and you become calm, reserve a still corner in the world let your eyelids droop heavy as judgements and remain without lips and sleep without cause, imagine yourself bloodless, judge yourself in haste and Stay motionless by the side of the road and you save yourself

then Do not stay with me.




Sunday, May 19, 2019

The Saturday Poem / With Joe on Silver Street

Joe Orton

The Saturday Poem: With Joe on Silver Street

by Helen Tookey

Tuesday 1 August 1967Saturday 1 February 2014 
Said goodbye to Kenneth this morning. He seemed odd. On the spur of the moment I asked if he wanted to come home to Leicester with me. He looked surprised and said, 'No.'
– from the diary of Joe Orton
In scratty fake-fur jackets, jaunty caps
and baseball boots we saunter Silver Street,
skiving our ls: it's Siwver Street to slack-
mouthed Midlanders like us, who can't be arsed
with alveolar laterals. Of course,
RADA and elocution did the trick,
but still you keep a hint of Saffron Lane –
it charms the pants off Peggy and the rest,
just like the coat: 'Cheap clothes suit me,' you smirked,
'It's cos I'm from the gutter'; and it works,
they're all down on their knees, lapping it up.
Sometimes I think I hate you, Joe: I can
be cruel, but cruelty is something pure
for you, a fire that kills and makes things clean
and true; and I know anger, but the rage
that shoots your star high through the London nights
is something I'm afraid to face. You've travelled
far beyond me, Joe, and you don't plan
on coming back, I know; but here we are
on Silver Street, and look, in black and white,
that little word you never had the time
to strike out from those last blind lines, Joe: home.
 From Missel-Child (Carcanet, £9.95). 


Saturday, May 11, 2019

Diana Krall / Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhqSL4yW4n4

Diana Krall 
 Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word
by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

What I've gotta do to make you love me
What I've gotta do to make you care
What do I do when lightening strikes me
And I wake up and find that you are not there

What do I do to make you want me
What I've gotta do to be heard
what do I say when it's all over
And sorry seems to be the hardest word

chorus
It's sad, so sad
It's a sad sad situation
And it's getting more and more absurd
It's sad, so sad
Why can't we talk it over
Oh, it seems to me
Sorry seems to be the hardest word

What do I do to make you love me
What I've gotta do to be heard
What do I do when lightening strikes me
What've I gotta do
What've I gotta do?
When sorry seems to be the hardest word


YAHOO




Monday, May 6, 2019

Bill Coyle / Respiratory

Paul Klee


Respiratory

On the stone patio
koi mill in their pond.
What do kept goldfish know
of anything beyond?
They know in any case
that certain shadows cast
upon the water’s face
have fed them in the past,
so that when anyone
leans over the low wall
they rush to him as one
to see what crumbs might fall.
Today is a good day
to stay indoors and warm,
the sky, granite and gray,
hung with its forecast storm.
When rain and leaves flash by
your window they appear
to my abstracted eye
as snow, already here.


Saturday, May 4, 2019

Geoffrey Brock / One morning


One morning

The boy is wide awake:
he climbs into our bed
and clambers toward my head,
wielding a yellow rake.
Combing my hair, the boy
giggles with every stroke.
His is a simple joke:
he knows his plastic toy
is not a comb, my hair
is not disheveled sand,
and yet his furrowed mind
has seen a likeness there—
delight grows from small seeds.
And for now I won’t worry
what else might, as we hurry
toward what the future breeds.