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Poetry Monster

Yours & Mine poem – Alice Fulton

Through your lens the sequoia swallowed me

like a dryad. The camera flashed & forgot.

I, on the other hand, must practice my absent-

mindedness, memory being awkward as a touch

that goes unloved. Lately your eyes have shut

down to a shade more durable than skin’s. I know you

love distance, how it smooths. You choose an aerial view,

the city angled to abstraction, while I go for the close

exposures: poorly-mounted countenances along Broadway,

the pigweed cracking each hardscrabble backlot.

It’s a matter of perspective: yours is to love me

from a block away & mine is to praise the grain-

iness that weaves expressively: your face.

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1983, Dance Script with Electric Ballerina (University of Illinois Press)

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Alice Fulton

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Woman In Front Of Poster Of Herself poem – Alice Notley

Said I shouldn’t.

Fingering me.

Everything I did.

A litter of chewed knucklebones

I’ve spread them out over the

rectangular floor as regularly as

I can; so I can account for them.

Her hands are crossed over

her breasts and each holds

a feather; her face has no features

Have I come to beg

What do I wish — to be

judged?

Is it an accumulation

of what I’ve said, that

counts, that I’m counting

is it all alphabet and abacus

everything rhymed?

You still don’t have a face.

Suddenly she has the face of a

cat.

No that’s a different

goddess.

I tell you this

bloodthirsty

jaguar…

I don’t have any idea what my word is, I

mean fault. Is it a word or an act. The

whole thrill is ripping me apart

Inside these

words there’s nothing but a pumping

bloodsoaked…

but clearly, everything I said, did,

was a long shot

We didn’t hear a word

What have you ever heard?

Now I’m here — black-caped in a

chair. Animal staring at me

I sink into your disaffected

ambiance to name.

What emotional

charges

have been laid on me from

earliest times

and my own

earliest

resulting in the bone strewn carpet

I had to grow the dice

of accounting to your love; for

you made me speak to you

lovingly; or did I do that naturally

oh just, bloodthirsty face

who doesn’t have to understand.

I don’t know who I’m speaking to

is pushing me

Judgment maybe it’s when being

fragile I

hallucinate you best

I don’t want to use my name!

‘Where I was born we girls ran

free. and named ourselves,’

Justice says.

She may kill me,

it depends on whether she’s hungry

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Copyright ©: 
Alice Notley

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Velocity Of Money poem – Allen Ginsberg


I’m delighted by the velocity of money as it whistles through the windows

of Lower East Side

Delighted by skyscrapers rising the old grungy apartments falling on

84th Street

Delighted by inflation that drives me out on the street

After all what good’s the family farm, why eat turkey by thousands every

Thanksgiving?

Why not have Star Wars? Why have the same old America?!?

George Washington wasn’t good enough! Tom Paine pain in the neck,

Whitman what a jerk!

I’m delighted by double digit interest rates in the Capitalist world

I always was a communist, now we’ll win

an usury makes the walls thinner, books thicker & dumber

Usury makes my poetry more valuable

my manuscripts worth their weight in useless gold –

Now everybody’s atheist like me, nothing’s sacred

buy and sell your grandmother, eat up old age homes,

Peddle babies on the street, pretty boys for sale on Times Square –

You can shoot heroin, I can sniff cocaine,

macho men can fite on the Nicaraguan border and get paid with paper!

The velocity’s what counts as the National Debt gets higher

Everybody running after the rising dollar

Crowds of joggers down broadway past City Hall on the way to the Fed

Nobody reads Dostoyevsky books so they’ll have to give a passing ear

to my fragmented ravings in between President’s speeches

Nothing’s happening but the collapse of the Economy

so I can go back to sleep till the landlord wins his eviction suit in court.

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The White Cliffs

by Alice Duer Miller

I

I have loved England, dearly and deeply,

Since that first morning, shining and pure,

The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply

Out of the sea that once made her secure.

I had no thought then of husband or lover,

I was a traveller, the guest of a week;

Yet when they pointed ‘the white cliffs of Dover’,

Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.

I have loved England, and still as a stranger,

Here is my home and I still am alone.

Now in her hour of trial and danger,

Only the English are really her own.

II

It happened the first evening I was there.

Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.

At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—

Lives there a novel-reader who has not

At some time wept for those delightful girls,

Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,

In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,

Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks

Hearts just as hot – hotter perhaps than those

Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?

Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill

Loving against her noble parent’s will

A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm

Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm

At Lady Ivry’s ball the dreadful night

Before his regiment goes off to fight;

And see him the next morning, in the park,

Complete in busbee, marching to embark.

I had read freely, even as a child,

Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde

But many novels of an earlier day—

Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,

Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton’s Red As a Rose,

Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows

What others. Now, I thought, I was to see

Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,

I cared for none and no one cared for me.

III

A light blue carpet on the stair

And tall young footmen everywhere,

Tall young men with English faces

Standing rigidly in their places,

Rows and rows of them stiff and staid

In powder and breeches and bright gold braid;

And high above them on the wall

Hung other English faces-all

Part of the pattern of English life—

General Sir Charles, and his pretty wife,

Admirals, Lords-Lieutenant of Shires,

Men who were served by these footmen’s sires

At their great parties-none of them knowing

How soon or late they would all be going

In plainer dress to a sterner strife-

Another pattern of English life.

I went up the stairs between them all,

Strange and frightened and shy and small,

And as I entered the ballroom door,

Saw something I had never seen before

Except in portraits— a stout old guest

With a broad blue ribbon across his breast—

That blue as deep as the southern sea,

Bluer than skies can ever be—

The Countess of Salisbury—Edward the Third—

No damn merit— the Duke— I heard

My own voice saying; ‘Upon my word,

The garter!’ and clapped my hands like a child.

Some one beside me turned and smiled,

And looking down at me said: “I fancy,

You’re Bertie’s Australian cousin Nancy.

He toId me to tell you that he’d be late

At the Foreign Office and not to wait

Supper for him, but to go with me,

And try to behave as if I were he.”

I should have told him on the spot

That I had no cousin—that I was not

Australian Nancy—that my name

Was Susan Dunne, and that I came

From a small white town on a deep-cut bay

In the smallest state in the U.S.A.

I meant to tell him, but changed my mind—

I needed a friend, and he seemed kind;

So I put my gloved hand into his glove,

And we danced together— and fell in love.

IV

Young and in love-how magical the phrase!

How magical the fact! Who has not yearned

Over young lovers when to their amaze

They fall in love and find their love returned,

And the lights brighten, and their eyes are clear

To see God’s image in their common clay.

Is it the music of the spheres they hear?

Is it the prelude to that noble play,

The drama of Joined Lives? Ah, they forget

They cannot write their parts; the bell has rung,

The curtain rises and the stage is set

For tragedy-they were in love and young.

V

We went to the Tower,

We went to the Zoo,

We saw every flower

In the gardens at Kew.

We saw King Charles a-prancing

On his long-tailed horse,

And thought him more entrancing

Than better kings, of course.

At a strange early hour,

In St. James’s palace yard,

We watched in a shower

The changing of the guard.

And I said, what a pity,

To have just a week to spend,

When London is a city

Whose beauties never end!

VI

When the sun shines on England, it atones

For low-hung leaden skies, and rain and dim

Moist fogs that paint the verdure on her stones

And fill her gentle rivers to the brim.

When the sun shines on England, shafts of light

Fall on far towers and hills and dark old trees,

And hedge-bound meadows of a green as bright—

As bright as is the blue of tropic seas.

When the sun shines, it is as if the face

Of some proud man relaxed his haughty stare,

And smiled upon us with a sudden grace,

Flattering because its coming is so rare.





The copyright of the poems and quotes published in Best Poems belong to their respective owners. All other texts and material on this website is copyrighted.


by Alicja Kuberska

Carmine roses bloom in the midst of winter ,

Drowsy violets peak from under leaves

And daisies stand white in the grass.

The sun heats the earth

And brightens short days with a warm glow.

I notice tenderly embraced lovers in a park.

Gracious fate gives them one more chance

For an unexpected meeting.

Eyes, surrounded by rays of wrinkles, laugh.

Wind ruffles hair, tosses delicate

Silver threads of gossamer.

And so, unannounced, tardy love arrived

They have the choice of a new path,

Maybe a last chance for happiness.

Life took away their naïve faith

And burned away old feelings.

It left them some dreams

And much hope for a better tomorrow

They are lost in thoughts

Doubts and fears spring up

From the shadows like ghouls

The head says: no….it’s not worth it….think it over…

The heart says-yes…go forwards…fall in love..

Nature has stopped the hands of the clock.

Red hearts bloom.

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Poland

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Copyright ©: 


Alicja Kuberska


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The Melancholy of Birth


In white beds by white walls

a fresh candle flickers

as it rises and as it stalls

and the baby

turned to its side

a heart born on a sleeve

with no place to hide

and if there’s one thing

it doesn’t need

that’s another life to lead

no mother could simply walk by

for this was a child

with eyes of stone worn

against tides of change

and this child born to die

was never to wear away

and the mother transfixed

with white palms to clear glass

the baby lay still

fists clenched around thumbs

at peace, a mask already held well

yet surmass this small flame

that holds the one light

through falls

through triumphs

births, deaths

and endless lifetimes

the baby reaches to a mother

whose fingers already burn

a mind racing, thoughts chafing

for a detachment

she will never feel again

a new life consuming

old phases exhuming

stripping, ripping away every why

grieving it’s leaving

and in it’s blaze

a natal love, like that fire

lapping both their lives away

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Copyright ©: 


Alissia Lyons

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The islands of happiness

by Alicja Kuberska

dreams come true in the Bahamas

let’s go there

where the wind brushes the green hair of palm trees

the huge ocean murmurs sleepily

the golden sand remembers footprints

and the sun disappears in blue water in the evening

before the black butterfly appears

we have time to write a few lines of a poem

and to share our thoughts like a slice of bread

only there

we can entrust our secrets to the stars

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Alicja Kuberska

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Alicja Kuberska


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The Internet Romance

by Alicja Kuberska

He awakened hope inside her, and she believed in a lucky lot.

Once again, she felt beautiful, desirable – the contemporary Queen of Sheba.

For her, the flowers bloomed in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,

Roses diffused their intoxicating perfume, and the nightingales sang at night.

The stars foretold happiness, the moon plated her dreams with silver.

In the mornings she would find a cup of coffee in the online chat,

And a magnificent bouquet of flowers with an attached love letter.

Magic carpets fell at her feet, and silks enveloped her.

He left without a word, melted into the ether like every mirage.

She awoke when he sent a bill for the time they spent together

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Poland

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Copyright ©: 


Alicja Kuberska


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Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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The End of the World


The end of the world was dreary

And teary, and eerie and grey

As some did run to their loved ones,

Others did cry in dismay

They trampled, and wrestled and panicked

not knowing just what they should do

The people of Earth, they spent their last minutes

Wondering… before all their lives they saw through

If I had a last moment to live

I think I’d sit and wonder as well

How do you spend such a moment?

It’s human, it’s futile, death’s spell

As the ships descend through the atmosphere,

As the zombies, they leap from the earth

Tsunamis, eruptions, corruptions commandeer

And our lives are burned at the hearth

As bushfires roar across golden planes,

As disease stamps out our last breath,

As our own stupidity strikes finally again,

We contemplate, we internalise our own death

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Copyright ©: 


Alissia Lyons

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Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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The Terms In Which I Think Of Reality poem – Allen Ginsberg


Reality is a question

of realizing how real

the world is already.

Time is Eternity,

ultimate and immovable;

everyone’s an angel.

It’s Heaven’s mystery

of changing perfection :

absolute Eternity

changes! Cars are always

going down the street,

lamps go off and on.

It’s a great flat plain;

we can see everything

on top of a table.

Clams open on the table,

lambs are eaten by worms

on the plain. The motion

of change is beautiful,

as well as form called

in and out of being.

Next : to distinguish process

in its particularity with

an eye to the initiation

of gratifying new changes

desired in the real world.

Here we’re overwhelmed

with such unpleasant detail

we dream again of Heaven.

For the world is a mountain

of shit : if it’s going to

be moved at all, it’s got

to be taken by handfuls.

Man lives like the unhappy

whore on River Street who

in her Eternity gets only

a couple of bucks and a lot

of snide remarks in return

for seeking physical love

the best way she knows how,

never really heard of a glad

job or joyous marriage or

a difference in the heart :

or thinks it isn’t for her,

which is her worst misery.

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Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

Parallel Translations of Poetry

Poems by Author and Category

The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works