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Okay, so I’ve decided to go with a classic today.  It probably doesn’t need a lot of introduction.

***

Easter, 1916

 

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
.
That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone’s in the midst of all.
.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Tonight’s featured poet is yet another one of my former students — because, frankly, I love being able to showcase these amazing people here, people who were talented and accomplished before I’d ever met them and who have gone on to continue doing exceptional things. I was lucky to have the chance to work with them when they were in high school, and I’m fortunate still that they’ve chosen to stay in touch.

Hannah Rosenthal is an officer in the U.S. Army, serving her second tour right now overseas. Even when she was in ninth grade, her writing and personality and work ethic demonstrated a willingness to serve and a selflessness that was unusual among other, more typical students in her age group. She won numerous writing awards as a student and then distinguished herself further her senior year by being, if I’m not mistaken, the first girl from our school to be accepted to West Point, the school where she matriculated.

***

Never Let Me Go

 

Days last twenty-four hours in the tradition
we clench so tightly our fists mottle gray
from unswayed overuse. We say the sky is blue
because that beautiful color lowers the massive
panorama close enough for us to see, but still too high
to touch. We don wings with hearts of stone

and the mechanics of birds, but birds with stones
for souls and pebbles in their blood, propelling tradition
closer and closer to the stars we can’t even count, their high
shine and brilliant composure blinding us to the gray
puddle of grit they actually are. For centuries massive
mysteries have mystified and choked us until we are blue

in the face. We fail to realize that our oceans have no blue
left in them, only the sick grease of oil washing up on the stones
along the tarred seashores, pulling the massive
net of ozone slowly to the ground. This is our tradition,
and we cannot let it go. Our appetite for the itchy gray
of sophisticated ruin goes unparalleled amongst the high

ranks of nature and order and whatever higher
calling we choose to believe in or disregard. The blue
dyes of nature bleed slowly into an overly sanitized gray
conjecture, like watching a picture-perfect girl turn to stone.
Imagine photographs with all the color and tradition
washed out, the road open to men with massive

guns and only their carnality left inside. The massive
implications of our ways lead us blind into a high
stakes game of spin the time-bomb, like a kiss of tradition
horribly misplaced. Today, we see the sky as an ocean of blue
filled with dreams. Today will never last forever. The stone
castles will crumble into dust, the same gritty texture of gray

as the stars we honor at night. Cormac McCarthy saw the world gray
with ash, from sunrise to sunset, if the sun could overcome the massive
hole in its fiery heart. When the brightest star turns to stone,
we might finally see the world out of its high
rolling clothes, dressed down to basic faded blue,
the original color of health and peace. Sadly, tradition

barrels on. Blue skies always give way to gray misery because
we have forever played the stakes too massive, too high
for any other tradition to overcome what is set in stone.

 

Tonight’s featured poet is Mike Alexander. I first came across Mike in the mid-1990s when he was going by M. Alexander and reading regularly on the poetry scene here in Houston. We ended up reading on the same stage more than once, and I became a fan of his work.

Those of you in H-town can catch him reading tomorrow afternoon as well, at the New Book New Poems Reading at 2:00 at the Houston Public Library (500 McKinney 77002). Here’s a link to the Facebook event page. Also sharing their work at this shindig will be Robin Davidson and Peter Hyland. The event will be up on the 4th floor of the main building. Check it out!

You may also find Mike’s book RETROgrade at P & J Poetics.

***

Le Coup de Vent: Mistral Noir

 

This is a drunkard’s dance.

.                                        Courbet’s terrain
distorts a sober regiment of oaks,
into a bacchanal of greens, the strain
apparent in the pressure of brush strokes
& knifework. Boughs, unnaturally skewed,
leaves shaking. Wind-swept canvas, it evokes
the pagan frenzy of a nymph pursued
by satyrs,
.                    Orphic lute,
.                                        ecstatic cries.

The landscape sprawls, unfettered, like a nude
discarding her quotidian disguise,
more sacred now she’s shown herself profane.

Inebriated by a beauty eyes
cannot explain, she drops what veils remain,
& spins,
.                    the painter’s brush
.                                        her weather-vane.

 

I suppose it wouldn’t be right to get through National Poetry Month without featuring a little slam.  When I was in my 20s and thought the world was laid before me, I briefly considered trying my hand at poetry slam so I could go on tour like a rock star. No kidding. It was happening in other parts of the country, so no reason I couldn’t do it, too, right? Well, except that I never really got the hang of the slam myself. Just not my style most of the time, much as I like being in the audience.

This fantastic video came across my screen today, and I had to share.

Click here to watch this awesome poetry slam video. (I don’t know why it’s only letting me post the link rather than the video itself.)

The performers Amina Iro and Hannah Halpern presented this poem at the Brave New Voices 2013 Quarter Finals in Washington, D.C.

Tonight’s featured poet is James Houlihan, a man I greatly admire not only because he is a very esteemed colleague at the school where I teach, not only because he was a very esteemed professor at the university I attended, not only because he’s a polyglot, but also because he’s brilliant as well as personable.

His author’s resumé is two pages long, but here are some of the highlights:  numerous translations, essays, and individual poems in numerous different publications, and three books of poetry, which are Unified Field (Wooten Press, 1985), Driving Cabeza (Inleaf Press, 2000), and Thirty-One Superior Poems of our Time (Inleaf Press, 2004).

***

J’s Further Appearances

 

What can you say to me

When I came through the ice-blue window?

I came for beauty

Where did you think I came from?

That place I appeared and you answered

Is deserted now

Here it’s not metaphor, it’s moral

Every soul guides a chariot with two winged horses

It must be what appears is what I can understand

Condescended to by imagination

I must look like a dragonfly all right angles

Swallowing gnats above a bluish pool.

Why aren’t you listening?

Humans can’t see for very long

Suddenly there are lilies, but where lilies vanished

A misunderstood saint.

 

Today’s featured poet is Brian Lu, another (former) student of mine who wrote exceptional poetry that I was sometimes jealous of because it was so thoughtful and adept.  This poem, “Re,” draws on Asian influences regarding death and the afterlife and reincarnation.  It’s one of my favorites of his, and he wrote it in tenth grade.

When I asked him to send me a bio, this is what I got:  “I enjoy having my back cracked when my friends hug me and eating fried eggs with cheese for weekend brunch. I have an art blog that I really should update.”  And here’s the link to it

***

Re

 

Men and women no longer with beating
heart or rushing blood or warm skin realize real rest
as they ramble down crowded glowing streets
talk of nothing for the sake of nothing          and wallow in steaming bath houses
all the while happy          euphoric          ecstatic          doing anything but thinking

The glorious hammer does not so much waltz near the mind or bother the thought
because as is life          repose in the heavens is preteritely short

Well          this is death          but not really death as the dead will soon live again
upon the resonating gong of a bronze bell rung

Guests of death will be ushered into a line loose like string
and one by one the magnificent hammer will crash upon memories          thoughts          skulls
erasing men and women into infant boys and girls who leave
to be birthed again          rising like bald featherless phoenixes
happily remembering nothing

 

Today’s featured poet is the marvelous woman who brought The Milk of Female Kindness to the light of day; the anthology was her brainchild.

Kasia James writes primarily speculative fiction but has started to wonder if it is her mission in life to complete books in as many different genres as possible. She is the author of The Artemis Effect, which is an optimist’s science-fiction dystopia, and was contributing editor of The Milk of Female Kindness — An Anthology of Honest Motherhood

She lives in Melbourne, Australia, with a hydrologist, an ankle-biter, and a big black cat called George.  Enjoy her blog here.

***

Train Traveller

Whisker rasped whisky
Dirty camouflage reflected in sunglasses
Rumbling with surprising calm
Before the amber bottle

 

 

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