Poetry

[Poem] ‘A Visit From St Nicholas’ by Clement Clarke Moore

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

You may well know this poem by another name: ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas‘:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

[Poem] ‘A New Jerusalem’ by Alasdair Sclater

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

Our favorite Eastern Orthodox bard brings more profundity to our blog:

Every election comes a movement
If your vote for us
The New Jerusalem will stand
Your life will so much better be
In all your voting for us
For arise we will to serve you
In the New Jerusalem we will make
Get rid of the old
Bring in the new
And a New Jerusalem will rise
With your votes in our bag

Speak in so any ages
The world that comes
In the paean of greed
The politicians make their graves

For afterwards
Gone will be the Jerusalem
Broken will be the promises everywhere
In the dust that they speak
Will nobody remember

All the promises they made
When they needed the vote
All the words so cheap they said
On the doorsteps as they came
Seeking the votes in the elections made

Nowadays all are so immune
We see them coming a mile off
Speakers of the lie and the half truth
They will bring the new
And all they face is the tide of unbelief

So degenerate they stand
In the years of last year’s manifestoes
Speakers of promises
They could not keep

And the world has moved on
They will have to change the script
So much has passed
So little changed
And all of us see one party in there
Only the government
Without a care
For the likes of us
On whom they rely
For the votes next election
So they can abuse and enslave

[Poem] ‘Dawn Breaks In Krusevac’ by Alasdair Sclater

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

Facebook’s Eastern Orthodox Christian bard has posted a new poem in honor of his trip to Serbia:

Summer speaks

In the game of the dawn

Speaks the world in birdsong chorus

So wonderful stand the trees

In the window framed

Framed in the memory that speaks

The beauty of the new day

Cooing of the doves

In the beauty of their calls

So wonderful in the speech of morning made

And in the distance the sound of trucks

All is calm and all is peace

In the speech of the day made whole

Breaks the light

On the horizon distant

In the beauty and the wonder spoken well

And all about

The new day comes

In it wonderful possibilities now spoken

Tweet the birds

In the new game of territories

All the world spoken in want

And n the times

When comes he day

All in its wonderful possibilities given

Sun again to stalk the land

Further will run the river

The Rasina now in spate

Speaking all the water that in this country

The problem of floods made

And yet speak the sounds so peacefully

In all its glory the world made

In so much wonder a new day spoken

Bless the return of the sun

In its life

Greet the day so strong in possibilities

A new world can be made

In the beauty of the day that comes

After the darkness of the night

And life begins again

[Poem] Paul Celan – La Rose de Personne

/ Rudy Carrera

Avec toutes les pensées je suis sorti
hors du monde : tu étais là,
toi, ma silencieuse, mon ouverte, et —
tu nous reçus.

Qui dit que tout est mort pour nous
quand notre œil s’éteignit ?
Tout s’éveilla, tout commença.

Grand, un soleil est venu à la nage, claires,
âme et âme lui ont fait face, nettes,
impératives, elles lui ont tu
son orbe.

Sans peine,
ton sein s’est ouvert, paisible,
un souffle est monté dans l’éther,
et ce qui s’est nué, n’était-ce pas,
n’était-ce pas forme, et sortie de nous,
n’était-ce pas
pour ainsi dire un nom ?

[Poetry] ‘Letter to Marianna Kijanowska’ by Volodymyr Bilyk

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

I don’t get to run into much that would, at least where I live, be termed ‘hipster poetry’, but thanks to my Facebook colleague, Ukrainian poet and musician Volodymyr Bilyk, I have a chance to sample a taste:

Not sure if it really means something
But i have to write this:
you are in some way almost shriekingly anti-strange
and it dissappoints me so much that it makes me curious in a scientific way
and i think i’m having not-so-over-the-top insulting stroke of faux faith in complexity
all because of you

Ask me “why” before you’ll ask me “what”

Well…
I have no clue how to explain it
i know nothing about that
so let it be the poem
at least on that terms it seems to be coherent

shriekingly as screamingly but with the double entendre and ox breath on the corner after a fight
anti-strange as friction but in terms of knowing
curiosity as brave attempt and scientific just to kill-off rampart interest of instinct

and please dont laugh at it

not-so-over-the-top insulting stroke is the stroke as usual but only when you get used to them –
althrough it remains the same in every form it gets.
faux faith is like old-age faith, it even fools you in the same manner as encyclopedic explanation of faith fools its natural understanding

my faith in complexity happened
because i dont believe that it cant be so simple. You cant be like an early records of Einstuerzende Neubauten. You can’t be just like you are and nothing more. You can’t not hide something in the very deep of you. you cant have no second bottom. It’s impossibly ridiculous
and even if you laugh and answer me so clever i will say you “cool” i just think that it happens like that all the way through.

and still it makes me wonder insultingly
but what exactly?
but i have written what already
maybe the second of one which is second one

But i think i just had written it to be misunderstood
in a world-weary way of course

So let it be the letter
And let it be my pay-off for the mad ununderstandung
And still i havent quoted Cohen’s song.

So long…
and be THRAKATTAK

Anyone who references King Crimson in poetry is okay in my book.

[Poem] ‘Water’ by Ellen Conserva

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

I’m blessed to know quite a few friends who are quite good at writing. Here’s my dear friend, Ellen, touching her inner Neruda:

Your banks are dry and brittle
Deep grooves in the bed
Sticks and stones
Dusty alone
Lifeless leaves spread
 
Your wind is hot and yellow
It blows from east to west
Cloud and dirt
You sting, you hurt
In skin you press
 
Your vessel fallen on its side
Nothing there to slake
Hollow and hard.
Throat charred
Thirsty ache
 
In my flowing tears
Surging spring
My rain, my wet
Sweet sweat.
Fullness I bring
 
I fill your cracks
Your deep grooves
And empty spaces.
In all those places
I meander and move
 
I fill your clouds
And breath
And wind
With mist.
And kiss
Your death
 
I empty myself
To fill you up
I take your shame and shape
Redeem the rape
Become the cup
 
When I am present
Your wind is gentle rain
Your chalice full
Ripe for a pull
Your self I will sustain.
 
Invite the water
Beseech the swell
That pours you over.
No seeking cover
Drown in my well.