nevver:

Résumé, Dorothy Parker

Doing The Poem

jegibbs:

I am a poet.
look at me poem.
can you poetry?
it is easy.
you don’t need a resume or
take any classes,
just some words and
with in minutes
you can poem too and
write trite things about
being a poet.

theparisreview:

“It’s the most astonishing line break I’ve ever encountered. It’s the sound of a culture’s poetic history cracking in half.”Glyn Maxwell on Ivor Gurney’s poem “To His Love.”

theparisreview:

“It’s the most astonishing line break I’ve ever encountered. It’s the sound of a culture’s poetic history cracking in half.”

Glyn Maxwell on Ivor Gurney’s poem “To His Love.”

theparisreview:

“There is something inaccessible yet buoyant about these pieces of poetry, written on scraps that often look like the wings of paper birds.” 
Read more of this week’s staff picks, including Emily Dickinson’s “envelope writings,” Barbara Cooney’s Miss Rumphius, and the television show A Young Doctor’s Notebook.

theparisreview:

“There is something inaccessible yet buoyant about these pieces of poetry, written on scraps that often look like the wings of paper birds.” 

Read more of this week’s staff picks, including Emily Dickinson’s “envelope writings,” Barbara Cooney’s Miss Rumphius, and the television show A Young Doctor’s Notebook.

It is true that the mathematician who is not somewhat of a poet, will never be a perfect mathematician. — Karl Theodor Weierstrass

If I could be reincarnated, which I can’t, I’d come back as a person who could write poetry like Ray Carver.

It was November 1968. I was in Vietnam and it was my last Sunday there. I went to the base chapel to give thanks for what I presumed was my safe deliverance from the war. I was surprised when I found I was the only person at church services. I have always been perplexed by that. Some people say war makes you more religious.

I’ve been a devout atheist for the past fourteen years. I am comforted and consoled by it. I laugh the same laugh and cry the same tears as I always did. I am and will always be worm’s meat and I don’t mind. The well written sentence in a good poem and the proof of a profound math theorem that even I can understand still delight me and make me feel somewhat divine.

view with a grain of sand: 100 of Wislawa Szymborska’s best poems. It doesn’t get any better.

view with a grain of sand: 100 of Wislawa Szymborska’s best poems. It doesn’t get any better.

Every day is a good day for poetry especially if the ancient Chinese masters wrote the poems.

Every day is a good day for poetry especially if the ancient Chinese masters wrote the poems.

vintageanchor:


The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas lightHe did a lazy sway …He did a lazy sway …To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody.O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.Sweet Blues!Coming from a black man’s soul.O Blues!In a deep song voice with a melancholy toneI heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,Ain’t got nobody but ma self.I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’And put ma troubles on the shelf.”Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.He played a few chords then he sang some more—“I got the Weary BluesAnd I can’t be satisfied.Got the Weary BluesAnd can’t be satisfied—I ain’t happy no mo’And I wish that I had died.”And far into the night he crooned that tune.The stars went out and so did the moon.The singer stopped playing and went to bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

vintageanchor:

The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway …
He did a lazy sway …
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.