deanna young: two poems

about poetry.

Mostly

what i want in this

is recognition, my words to greet you

from a distance

with a wave, to be friends up close.

To be honey

spiralling onto toast, that gold

and translucent

a strand of truth, words the taste

of what they say, pure

honey on your tongue, to come

from clover

via bees. To be food.

Young, Deanna. "Mostly" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.

Poemophobia

There are people walking the streets of the city

reciting poems under their breath. Poems

they have written or read, made up of words

so specific, none could be changed without grave damage

to the whole; nor the soul of the matter explained

without some great symphony of nakedness writhing.

They walk by your doorstep, you do not wave.

You suspect they might be crazy, and they might.

You distrust the subtle movements of their lips

and I don't blame you. I would do the same.

What choice do we have in a world of door-to-door

sermons, dressed up like truth in black and white.

I hear you. No poems are safe. Good night.

Young, Deanna. "Poemophobia" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.

czeslaw milosz!

here is milosz' craftsman (and there will be more):

Craftsman, prepare your instruments.

A tall echo comes down the mountain; you hear the roaring of spring torrents.

The beauty of the earth reveals itself for the first time to children's eyes just as it did once to yours.

Craftsman, you are building a star that will journey in the sky of those now being born,

While you withdraw without regret, thinking how difficult it was to live a life.

And to learn that we do not get what we wanted, and that the two greatest virtues are resignation and persistence.

Also that consciousness brings no solace, since it is the consciousness of a clown turning somersaults on a stage, hungry for applause.

You acquired unwelcome knowledge, of yourself and others; you are filled to the brim with pity and wonder.

May those who are destined to pick up your labor start where you finished, master of vanquished despair.

Praising, renewing, healing. Grateful because the sun rose for you and for others.

Milosz, Czeslaw. "Craftsman" New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 2001.

a spring poem

perhaps my favourite e. e. cummings poem:

Spring is like a perhaps hand

(which comes carefully

out of Nowhere)arranging

a window,into which people look( while

people stare

arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange

thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps

Hand in a window

(carefully to

and fro moving New and

Old things,while

people stare carefully

moving a perhaps

fraction of flower here placing

an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

cummings, e. e. "Spring is like a perhaps hand" 100 selected poems. New York: Grove Press, Inc., 1959.

a double dose of emily

emily town by anne carson (one of my favourite poets. ever.)

"Riches in a little room."

Is a phrase that haunts.

Her since the voltage of you.

Left.

Snow or a library.

Or a band of angels.

With a message is.

Not what.

It meant to.

Her.

and my choice of companion poem, by emily dickinson.

I died for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?

"for beauty," I replied.

"And I for truth,--the two are one;

We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,

We talked between the rooms,

Until the moss had reached our lips,

And covered up our names.

Carson, Anne. "Emily Town" The Best American Poetry 1990. Don Mills: Collier Macmillan Canada, Inc., 1990.

Dickinson, Emily. "I died for beauty" Emily Dickinson: Collected Poems. New York: Barnes & Noble, Inc., 1993.

the second coming

yeats' the second coming:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight; somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?