futures
and now my love, these words
painted in an imperfect world
cannot be more than
graffiti on a subway wall
but is Wordsworth
not graffiti
on a subway wall
is Hitler ever dead
ever a burned corpse in an old film
ever dead
ever waiting
or
in the matter itself
always there
the laws of science say that all is decay
all is decay
so what are we to do
what is the element which is our catalyst
try anyway
that is what we are to do
say it anyway
do it anyway
be the ball
***
Worry and debate
sends hope far away
seldom do windows open into
reality
seldom do poets cry for nothing
for hope maybe
for love surely
for nothing never.
Simply write he says
simply write.
Do not stop to think.
Thinking is out of vogue with me.
Carry me there to the edge of
the water
to the side of the cliff
so I may see the river
so that I may hope again
hope for the natives who walked these ways
hope for me
again
***
Richard Vallance”s recent translation into an English quatrain of Arthur Rimbaud”s “Ophelia”:
Richard Vallance, translator. Ophelia, d”après, Ophélie d”Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
Ophelia
In black waves becalmed where stars fell asleep,
Ophelia lily-like dreams dreams too white.
Where she slowly floats, through her tresses seep
The forest”s morts still serenading night.
It”s been some thousand years since she has passed,
The phantom waif, along that long black stream,
And some thousand years since those eyes were glassed
With madness murmured in her faded dream.
The wind will kiss her breasts where it unfolds
Fair tresses cradled in that lapping pond;
Will weeping willows dare touch rippling folds
Her cold raiments trail round every tired frond?
The waterlilies weep around her bier;
Now and then she stirs in her alder”s shade
That must comfort her in her wildest fear,
While silver stars sing her their serenade.
© by Richard Vallance 2004 (All Rights Reserved) *
***
There was once a poetry blog
that nobody posted to.
They found its remains
In a red wheelbarrow
***
Quickly
by David Michael Jackson
Write fast
don”t stop
let me hear those keys click
don”t you dare look up
you might miss this moment
out there
some where.
my soul on the paper
life ticks and tocks
the time away
slowly
one long endless moment
at a
time
waiting
waiting
for
something.
Don”t look up
you might
miss it.
This moment
p a s s e s
now this other moment
r e p l a c e s it
Each long
moment laughs at the setting sun
and
life passes
so
quickly.
***
Carry Me Home
By David Michael Jackson
Carry me home
home to the creek
and the water
and the leaves on the trees.
Carry me home
past the worry and the frantic pace to
the water and the dew on the grass
and the summer days
when grasshoppers are plentiful bait for
the fishes.
Carry me home to the field
and the newly plowed earth
and that smell of the soil
recently
turned
so that I may replant myself with hope
for a new
harvest,
so that I may kill the weeds which have grown over me until
I cannot see the light.
Carry me home past the roads, past
the buildings, past the red lights.
Carry me home through the darkness of a thousand nights spent
grasping for something which is not there, something which
could
never be there or
anywhere
Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved
***