November | 2015 | michael9murray

Archive for November, 2015

MORNING BLUES

Posted: November 28, 2015 in Chat
Tags: concrete poetry, contemporary poetry, fun, Poetry

The sky in the east arose creased and awry
The sky in the east was like a beast in a sty
The sky in the east was like the yeast of a sigh
The sky in the east like a feast in a pig sty
The sky in the east leased day to the whole sky
The sky in the east like a wildebeest in the day’s eye
The sky in the east flooded the east with its dye
The sky in the east muddied the priest with a lie
The sky in the east was fleeced and hung out to dry
The sky in the east chose the least easy way to die
The sky in the east made the day out of yeast and mud pie
The sky in the east called the police to the sun’s lay-by
The sky in the east ceased to ask why
The sky in the east broke up, released its bluefly
The sky in the east did the very least to comply
The sky in the east pieced together an alibi
The sky in the east said an arriviste was nearby
The sky in the east creased into a rude reply
The sky in the east was released with a cry
The sky in the east gave out, ceased, began to die
The sky in the east made way for the priest guy
The sky in the east decided at least to try
The sky in the east greased the pan for the pie
The sky in the east ceased its long goodbye

The day in the east is Rising now come what may
The day in the east is RISING no matter what you say
The day in the east iS RISING And you can’t make it stay
The day in the east IS RISING AND will not go away
The day in the east iS RISEN And that way will stay
The day in the west wilL SET And go away
The day in the west forget’s everYthing you say
The day in the west is always overtaken this way

THE DIAMETER OF THE BOMB

Posted: November 19, 2015 in Chat

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around those, in a larger circle
of pain and time,two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And i won’t even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God.

Yehuda Amichai

THE TRAVELLING PLAYERS

Posted: November 6, 2015 in Chat
Tags: contemporary British poetry, contemporary poetry, fun in poetry, Poetry

I was the new louche lover
of a wealthy lady, young still; her husband
filthy with family money.
Seduced her discreetly in front of all,
her husband seeing business only.

Scene two, and already
my undertones sly, heavy with allure
but generous with praise
to entertain wife and husband seperately.
Then two pan-handlers
suddenly on stage. Quickly we adjusted,
improvising –
now two young movie hopefuls,
their idea quite compelling:
a giant ape and a helpless lady,
an impecunious hero.

My lover gave her most yearning of looks,
I saw her lonely youth in this:
father a widower, wealthy in Springport;
shipped in her dresses from Paris.
Across the tracks a young lieutenant, wounded;
meetings in coffee bars,
toying with fears, he finding his heart again.
Did I remember? she asked.

The youngest of the gatecrashers
a handsome South-Asian man
now lost to his family; how it broke
our stage hearts to see him
so abandoned, and so, knowingly
bought into the story.
Under the guise of our lover’s trysts
worked up plot-lines:
a wealthy ruthless backer, leading lady,
the hero handsome, poor.
The backer bought the two strangers out,
the lady stood by him;
the hero kept on, it was well meant,
for entertainment.

The IRS brought down the tycoon.
Tied up in regulations,
gave up the movie business for oil,
smoothing the wheels
of industry, governments, all for to get
his armaments shipped.

Later in our Sunday clothes, the playwright
furious we ruined his script.