11.16.2009

happy is always successful

from my very beloved Hilary, who sends me poems in the mail:


1 comment:

Brabbling said...

Great poem.

Reminds me of one of my favorites(when I used to read poetry and write it and study it somewhat in college, and when I pull off the shelf the book of poetry that is beautiful and magnificent and food for my heart and gut):

Why I Am Not a Painter
by
Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems,I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

---------

Here's one other poem:

The Hanging Man
by
Sylvia Plath

By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid:
A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.

A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.

------

She must have lived hard and intense. I mean... wow. Pow-er-ful.

"You Can Have It" by Philip Levine is excellent.

I enjoy a helluva lotta poems by Robert Creeley. Two by him:

The Rescue
by
Robert Creeley

The man sits in a timelessness
with the horse under him in time
to a movement of legs and hooves
upon a timeless sand.

Distance comes in from the foreground
present in the picture as time
he reads outward from
and comes from that beginning.

A wind blows in
and out and all about the man
as the horse ran
and runs to come in time.

A house is burning in the sand.
A man and horse are burning.
The wind is burning.
They are running to arrive.

----

I Know a Man
by
Robert Creeley

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,--John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.

-----

That last poem almost always makes me laugh. Out loud.

Poetry. I've forgotten/neglected poetry. Thanks for the reminder.

All my best.

Mike Sz. from Brooklyn