Eating Poetry

End of term, will a six-pack do us
while we speed-read Upton Sinclair Lewis?
So far behind, can we possibly ever
catch up on E. A. Robinson Jeffers?
Who said it was going to be multiple choice
on the later work of O. Henry James Joyce?
What’s the plot of The Rise of Silas Marner? Who
remembers the Swiss Family Robinson Cru-
soe? Midnight—late. One A.M.—tardy.
Was Laurence Sterne? Was Thomas Hardy?
And hey—was John Gay?
Oh, let’s take a break and all get mellow,
take our chances on Henry Wordsworth Longfellow,
and maybe later give a lick and a promise
to the earlier lyrics of Bob Dylan Thomas.

By Philip Appleman

That Halloween I wore your wedding dress,
our children spooked & wouldn’t speak for days.
I’d razored taut calves smooth, teased each blown tress,
then—lipsticked, mascaraed, & self-amazed—
shimmied like a starlet on the dance floor.
I’d never felt so sensual before—
Catholic schoolgirl & neighborhood whore.
In bed, dolled up, undone, we fantasized:
we clutched & fused, torn twins who’d been denied.
You were my shy groom. Love, I was your bride.

by Michael Waters

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

by William Carlos Williams

One man on his own can be quite good fun
But don’t go drinking with two -
They’ll probably have an argument
And take no notice of you.

What makes men so tedious
Is the need to show off and compete.
They’ll bore you to death for hours and hours
Before they’ll admit defeat.

It often happens at dinner-parties
Where brother disputes with brother
And we can’t even talk among ourselves
Because we’re not next to each other.

Some men like to argue with women -
Don’t give them a chance to begin.
You won’t be allowed to change the subject
Until you have given in.

A man with the bit between his teeth
Will keep you up half the night
And the only way to get some sleep
Is to say, ‘I expect you’re right.’

I expect you’re right, my dearest love.
I expect you’re right, my friend.
These boring arguments make no difference
To anything in the end.

By Wendy Cope

Maybe my mother spoiled me
I’m obstinate

I want every moment to be
as gorgeous as crayons are
I want to draw pictures on lovely white sheets of paper
to paint clumsy freedom
to draw an eye that never weeps
a sky, a feather and a leaf pertaining to the sky
to paint green night and pale apple

I want to paint portraits of the morning
to draw smiles witnessed by the morning dew
to draw the freshest, most painless love
to draw the lover of my mind’s eye

I want to paint distant landscapes
to draw the clear horizon and the surf
to draw many surging streams
to draw mountains coated with pastel fuzz
let every trepidation of a quiet spring
mark the birth of a tiny flower

I want to draw the future
I have not met her yet, but I know she is a beauty
I sketch the cape she wears in autumn
and the burning candles and the maple leaves
draw the feastday morning when I wake up early
a festival decked out in candy wrappers
and pictures from fairy tales of the North

I want to draw windows all over the earth
To let eyes accustomed to the darkness learn the habit of light
I want to draw the wind, mountain peaks
Paint the dreams of the people of the East
To colour in the sea

And last of all on some stray corner of the sheet
I want to draw myself, koala bear
perched in a dour forest, on a bough, in a daze
with no home, no heart left behind in a far off land
with only an abundance of dreams
like berries and big eyes

I hope, ponder, but do not know why
no one gives me crayons
not even a moment of coulor
I only have me
my fingers and my pains
I can only tear off strip after strip
of lovely clean paper
to flutter off in search of butterflies
to fade from today

I am a child, Mother Wit’s spoiled brat
I am obstinate.

By Gu Cheng
Translated by Renditions Paperbacks
Adapted by Mike Johnson
Submitted by Exchanging

Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:

Playing with Gentle Glass Things
A

Computer Magic
A

Writing Letters to Those You Love
A

Finding out about Fish
A

Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty
A+!

Richard Brautigan

Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty’s defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

By John Milton

At the edge of the forest
In the middle of the darkness
There is a hand,
As cold as copper,
Like a river
Stretched over wide stones.
Despite the hard rocks
And the furious wind
I love her
Like a flock of birds
Or a mild herd come to drink
For the exquisite rage
And sleek moss of her art.
There is something about a poem
That is violent
That is just another way to die,
Each time we realize our mysteries
We are weakened.
When I am writing I often scatter
Across a lascivious empire
Of passionate flowers.
They all seem so subversive
Even the ones with all their clothes on
They are so obsessed with the minute
Implication of who they are.
I believe if there is a struggle
It should go on
Where real lovers are.
I no longer regret
That I have smelted into one piece
For the sake of this poem.

By Primus St. John

by Frank O'Hara
           
           
   I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
   which is typical
   and not just of modern life
             
   mud clambers up the trellis of my nerves
   must lovers of Eros end up with Venus
   muss es sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you
   
   how I hate disease, it's like worrying
   that comes true
   and it simply must not be able to happen
   
   in a world where you are possible
   my love
   nothing can go wrong for us, tell me


   [1960]