(poem of the day) Hands by Sarah Kay

Hands

Sarah Kay

Advertisements

(poem of the day) The Karlevi Runestone

The Karlevi runestone in Vickleby Parish, Mörbylånga Municipality, Öland, Sweden.

“This stone is placed in memory of Sibbi the good, Fuldarr’s son, and his retinue placed on … …

He lies concealed,
he who was followed
by the greatest deeds (most men knew that),
a chieftain (battle-tree of [the Goddess] Þrúðr)
in this howe;
Never again shall such a battle-hardened sea-warrior (Viðurr-of-the-Carriage of [the Sea-king]
Endill’s mighty dominion ( = God of the vessels of the sea) ),
rule unsurpassed over land in Denmark.”
Karlevi Runestone

(poem of the day) ‘A Lesson in Drawing’ by Nizar Qabbani

A Lesson in Drawing

Nizar Qabbani

My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the color gray I dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.
Astonishment fills his eyes:
“… But this is a prision, Father,
Don’t you know, how to draw a bird?”
And I tell him: “Son, forgive me.
I’ve forgotten the shapes of birds.”
***
My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.
I hold the pen
and draw a gun.
My son mocks my ignorance,
demanding,
“Don’t you know, Father, the difference between a
wheatstalk and a gun?”
I tell him, “Son,
once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks
the shape of the loaf
the shape of the rose
But in this hardened time
the trees of the forest have joined
the militia men
and the rose wears dull fatigues
In this time of armed wheatstalks
armed birds
armed culture
and armed religion
you can’t buy a loaf
without finding a gun inside
you can’t pluck a rose in the field
without its raising its thorns in your face
you can’t buy a book
that doesn’t explode between your fingers.”
***
My son sits at the edge of my bed
and asks me to recite a poem,
A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow.
My son licks it up, astonished, saying:
“But this is a tear, father, not a poem!”
And I tell him:
“When you grow up, my son,
and read the diwan of Arabic poetry
you’ll discover that the word and the tear are twins
and the Arabic poem
is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers.”
***
My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in
front of me
and asks me to draw a homeland for him.
The brush trembles in my hands
and I sink, weeping.

مع تحيات موقع : أدب
www.adab.com

(poem of the day) ‘Explorer of Aromas’ by Toyin Adewale Gabriel

 Explorer of Aromas
English: Political map of the 36 States of Nig...

English: Political map of the 36 States of Nigeria (English) Deutsch: politische Karte Nigerias (Englisch) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As the fire devours the grass,
as flames consume the matchsticks,

the street swallows my steps,
my voice dissolves in soil.

I know the green bile of hunger.

I know the triumph of dust,

the sneering arrogance of the sun,
on the carcasses of sodden

rats. l have dined on dried dogs,
flavoured with acrid urine.

And at the feet of elaborate remnants,
I find the most high remains,

Of chicken thighs unloved by excess.
I, the explorer of aromas,

wading through the maze of rice,
delighting in trash. l say your refuse

can is finger-licking good.
They say the rich also cry,

dancing to soothe their shame,
their throbbing sores.

(poem of the day) ‘A Miracle for Breakfast’ by Elizabeth Bishop

A Miracle for Breakfast

by Elizabeth Bishop

At six o’clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
–like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb

Coffee cup

Coffee cup (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds–along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
–I saw it with one eye close to the crumb–

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

(poem of the day) ‘STRAY BULLETS (OKA RE/VISION)’ by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm

*nb: the current plight/fight of the Musqueam in Vancouver, BC, reminds me of this writer and Oka

my touch is a history book
full of lies and half-forgotten truths
written by others
who hold the pens
and power

my heart is a stray bullet
ricocheting in an empty room

my head was sold
for the first shiny trinket
offered

my beliefs were bought cheap
like magic potions at a travelling road show
with promises
everyone wants to believe
but only a fool invests in

my name was stolen
by bandits in black robes
my world was taken
for a putting green

http://www.poetrymap.ca/profile.php?PoetID=45

on twitter, follow the breaking news of this historic event #Musqueam @cusnaum