Magpies by Judith Wright

Screen Shot 2016-09-02 at 11.30.54 AMScreen Shot 2016-09-02 at 11.31.35 AM

Photos by Patrick Ingremeau and The Wildlife Studio

Along the road the magpies walk

with hands in pockets, left and right.
They tilt their heads, and stroll and talk.
In their well-fitted black and white

they look like certain gentlemen who seem most nonchalant and wise
until their meal is served – and then
what clashing beaks, what greedy eyes!

But not one man that I have heard
throws back his head in such a song
of grace and praise – no man nor bird.
Their greed is brief; their joy is long.
For each is born with such a throat
as thanks his God with every note.

Judith Wright’s poem Magpies

Advertisements

New Year’s poems. Happy 2015!! 1/3

and to the start of one new year…

Welcoming in plenty
of new year’s rain
Rackety house!

old blue pine
embarking on a new year
how many spring mists?

New Year’s Day–
everything is in blossom!
I feel about average

After this night
a new year dawns
children

Year’s end,
all corners
of this floating world, swept

warmly
I greet the new year
temple verandah

Issa
.

Goodnight to the Season
(Thus runs the world away.—Hamlet) and slightly changed for my own fun.

Goodnight to the Season!—another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and scents, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse?
Will its jeans be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married—or buried?—no matter:
Goodnight to the Season, Goodnight!

By Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Auld Lang Syne
“the song that nobody knows.”

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Chorus.-For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Written down by Robert Burns

Lula Lowe Weeden- Black Poet full of surprises and twists!

Do you know of the poet Lula Lowe Weeden? She is amazing and has these surprises in her poems!

“Robin Red Breast”

Little Robin red breast,
I hear you sing your song.
I would love to have you put it into my little cage,
Into my little mouth.

“Dance”

Down at the hall at midnight sometimes,
You hear them singing rhymes.
These girls are dancing with boys.
They are too big for toys.

From “Caroling Dusk: an Anthology of Verse by Black Poets.” Edited by Countee Cullen.

NEW and USED: http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=12331091523

Poems about the body: African-American poet, Yusef Komunyakaa.

Image

Poems about the body: African-American poet, Yusef Komunyakaa.

[…]
I love my crooked feet
shaped by vanity & work
shoes made to outlast
belief. The hardness
coupling milk it can’t
fashion. I love the lips,
salt & honeycomb on the tongue.
The hair holding off rain
& snow. The white moons
on my fingernails. I love
how everything begs
blood into song & prayer
inside an egg. A ghost
hums through my bones
like Pan’s midnight flute
shaping internal laws
beside a troubled river.
I love this body
made to weather the storm
in the brain, raised
out of the deep smell
of fish & water hyacinth,
out of rapture & the first
regret. I love my big hands.
I love it clear down to the soft
quick motor of each breath,
the liver’s ten kinds of desire
& the kidney’s lust for sugar.
This skin, this sac of dung
& joy, this spleen floating
like a compass needle inside
nighttime, always divining
West Africa’s dusty horizon.
I love the birthmark
posed like a fighting cock
on my right shoulder blade.
I love this body, this
solo & ragtime jubilee
behind the left nipple,
because I know I was born
to wear out at least
one hundred angels.

Moon in virgo- James Lee Jobe

You are not beaten. The simple music rises up,

children's voices in the air, sound floating out

across the land and on to the river beyond,

over the valley's floor. No, you cannot go back

for those things you lost, the parts of yourself

that were taken, often by force. Like an animal

in the forest you must weep it all away at once,

violently, and then simply live on. The music here

is Bach, Vivaldi; a chorale of children, a piano,

a violin. Together, they have a certain spirit

that is light, that lets in light, joyful, ecstatic.

"Forgive," said The Christ, and why not? Every day

that you still breathe has all the joy

and murderous possibilities of your bravest dream.

Forgive. Breathe. Live. The moon has entered Virgo,

the wind shifts, blows up from the Delta, cools this valley,

and you are not beaten; the children sing, it is Bach,

and you are brave, alive, and human.