March 4, 2009

Money don't get me down but I can't make it last
I bite my nails and if that fails I go get myself stoned
But when I do I think of you and head myself back home



Skimble

Cold Morning
-- by Eamon Grennan

Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things

in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it
as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone,
telling its tale of how hard the night had to be

for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood
no match for the mindless chill that's settled in,
a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff

from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze
glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped
on every window, its petrifying breath a cage

in which all the warmth we were is shivering.


Detail
-- by Eamon Grennan

I was watching a robin fly after a finch—the smaller
chirping with excitement, the bigger, its breast blazing, silent
in light-winged earnest chase—when, out of nowhere
over the chimneys and the shivering front gardens,
flashes a sparrowhawk headlong, a light brown burn
scorching the air from which it simply plucks
like a ripe fruit the stopped robin, whose two or three
cheeps of terminal surprise twinkle in the silence
closing over the empty street when the birds have gone
about their business, and I began to understand
how a poem can happen: you have your eye on a small
elusive detail, pursuing its music, when a terrible truth
strikes and your heart cries out, being carried off.


Absences
-- by Donald Justice

It’s snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano -- outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.

Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen.

And I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Is that haiku? If so, I say we burn Bush alive...

Sincerely,
Sherwood Anderson

11:14 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

The Tortured Memos - NY Times editorial.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/04/opinion/04wed1.html?ref=opinion

I'm sure you already read it but thought I'd add it, just for the record.

12:33 PM  
Blogger skimble said...

I don't link to you enough but I love this blog.

6:24 PM  

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