True Poems, with a Morrissey flavour

[goinghome]

strange ending, no? Seems to be condoning and believing that war is still the way to peace, even though it is war that has killed this child.

Could translation be off? A word other than fight would seem like a better choice, though maybe the poet trusts that after what's gone before, readers understand it cannot be a violent fight he's referring to, but more one of perseverance?

An anonymous pantoum, Beyond the Grave

 

[ZOOM FROM GLOOM]

Could translation be off? A word other than fight would seem like a better choice,

Yeah. Because the whole poem is against the
violence of war, of fighting, then at the end the poet wants more fighting to stop the other fighting.

How ‘bout …

All that I need is that for peace
You love today you love today
So that the children of this world
Can live and grow and laugh and play

?

though maybe the poet trusts that after what's gone before, readers understand it cannot be a violent fight he's referring to, but more one of perseverance?

An anonymous pantoum, Beyond the Grave


View attachment 91496

 

[goinghome]

But the fact that no one is ever going to take those lyrics to heart and actually live them is what makes it pie-in-the-sky. Humans being intractably what they are, that song is a non-starter. Even if people get over their larger differences, they'll tear each other to pieces over micro-aggressions. One thing is for sure about Imagine: it doesn't have a Morrissey flavor.

Chat GPT can readily imagine that alternative world in full detail - https://www.thepulse.one/p/chatgpt-imagines-a-world-where-power And Chat CPT is us. So we might make it through okay in spite of ourselves

Night Feed​

by Eavan Boland

This is dawn.
Believe me
This is your season, little daughter:
The moment daisies open,
The hour mercurial rainwater
Makes a mirror for sparrows.
It's time we drowned our sorrows.

I tiptoe in.
I lift you up
Wriggling
In your rosy, zipped sleeper.
Yes this is the hour
For the early bird and me
When finder is keeper.

I crook the bottle.
How you suckle!
This is the best I can be:
Housewife
To this nursery
Where you hold on,
Dear life.

A silt of milk.
The last suck.
And now your eyes are open
Birth-coloured and offended.
Earth wakes.
You go back to sleep.
The feed is ended.

Worms turn.
Stars go in.
Even the moon is losing face.
Poplars stilt for dawn
And we begin
The long fall from grace.
I tuck you in.

Yeah. Because the whole poem is against the
violence of war, of fighting, then at the end the poet wants more fighting to stop the other fighting.

How ‘bout …

All that I need is that for peace
You love today you love today
So that the children of this world
Can live and grow and laugh and play

?

That works better, doesn't it? And chimes with laugh. You're a poet, Zo'G. who probably knows it!

 

[Lucifer Sam]

Chat GPT can readily imagine that alternative world in full detail - https://www.thepulse.one/p/chatgpt-imagines-a-world-where-power And Chat CPT is us. So we might make it through okay in spite of ourselves

ChatGPT is us? It's our creation, sure, but it isn't human. If we "make it though" by having our individual consciousnesses made digital somehow, and live forever in a virtual reality, as the Singularity theorists think we will, I'm okay with that. As I recall, one of the philosophers who considered this kind of utopia was David Pearce, a vegan who thinks we should be carbon-based life forms to the least extent possible. Basically he'd have us be "brains in vats taking drugs and plugged into VR."

 

[nicky wire's legs]

ChatGPT is us? It's our creation, sure, but it isn't human. If we "make it though" by having our individual consciousnesses made digital somehow, and live forever in a virtual reality, as the Singularity theorists think we will, I'm okay with that. As I recall, one of the philosophers who considered this kind of utopia was David Pearce, a vegan who thinks we should be carbon-based life forms to the least extent possible. Basically he'd have us be "brains in vats taking drugs and plugged into VR."

that sounds f***ing awful. id way sooner the human race all kill themselves than devolve into that. and NO i dont want to discuss it!

 

[Pav1ova]

I’m yearning, the way animals yearn...
by Sophia Parnok (translated by Rainie Oet)

I’m yearning, the way animals yearn,
With each yearning bone in my back,
And my heart — is like a door’s bell
That someone keeps ringing.

Quiver, empty bell,
Ring your alarm, trembling…
It’s time to head to the dump! And I’m not sorry
To end our shared life before it ends me…

So long, my graying Muse,
The fire of my departed days.
To my exhausted heart
You were once the music of musics!

I no longer bow at your bed.
I no longer listen for your sighs.
It’s terrible, but: I no longer love you,
Not even with the passion of hate.

 

[nicky wire's legs]

I’m yearning, the way animals yearn...
by Sophia Parnok (translated by Rainie Oet)

I’m yearning, the way animals yearn,
With each yearning bone in my back,
And my heart — is like a door’s bell
That someone keeps ringing.

Quiver, empty bell,
Ring your alarm, trembling…
It’s time to head to the dump! And I’m not sorry
To end our shared life before it ends me…

So long, my graying Muse,
The fire of my departed days.
To my exhausted heart
You were once the music of musics!

I no longer bow at your bed.
I no longer listen for your sighs.
It’s terrible, but: I no longer love you,
Not even with the passion of hate.

is your name pavlova?! that's my favourite name!!

 

[Pav1ova]

is your name pavlova?! that's my favourite name!!

That's my last name, yes. Thank you

 

[Pav1ova]

This one is somewhat sarcastic in its spirit but still.
Don’t leave your room, don’t commit that fateful mistake…
by Joseph Brodsky (translated by Thomas de Waal)

Don’t leave your room, don’t commit that fateful mistake.
Why risk the sun? Just settle back at home and smoke.
Outside’s absurd, especially that whoop of joy,
you’ve made it to the lavatory--now head back straight away!

Don’t leave your room, don’t go and hail a taxi, spend,
the only space that matters is the corridor, its end
a ticking meter. She comes by, all ready for caressing,
mouth open? Kick her straight out, don’t even start undressing.

Don’t leave your room, just say you have the influenza.
A wall and table are the most fascinating agenda.
Why leave this place? Tonight you will come home from town
exactly as you were, only more beaten down.

Don’t leave your room. Go dance the bossa nova,
shoes without socks, your body bare and coat tossed over.
The hallway holds its smells of ski wax and boiled cabbage,
writing even one letter more is excess baggage.

Don’t leave your room. Do you still look handsome?
Just ask the room… Incognito ergo sum,
as petulant Substance once remarked to Form.
It’s not exactly France outside. Don’t leave your room!

Don’t be an idiot! You’re not the others, you’re an exclusion!
Choreograph the furniture, essay wall-paper fusion.
Make that wardrobe a barricade. The fates require us
to keep out Cosmos, Chronos, Eros, Race and Virus!

 

[Pav1ova]

I like the fact...
By Marina Tsvetaeva (Translated by Andrey Kneller)

I like the fact that you’re not mad about me,
I like the fact that I’m not mad for you,
And that the globe of planet earth is grounded
And will not drift away beneath our shoes.
I like the fact that I can laugh here loudly,
Not play with words, feel unabashed and loose,
And never flush with stifling waves above me
When we brush sleeves, and not seek an excuse.
I like the fact that you don’t feel ashamed
As you, before my eyes, embrace another,
I like the fact that I will not be damned
To hell for kissing someone else with ardor,
That you would never use my tender name
In vain, that in the silence of the church’s towers,
We’ll never get to hear the sweet refrain
Of hallelujahs sung somewhere above us.
With both my heart and hand, I thank you proudly
For everything, — although you hardly knew
You loved me so: and for my sleeping soundly,
And for the lack of twilight rendezvous,
No moonlit walks with your two arms around me,
No sun above our heads or skies of blue,
For never feeling — sadly! — mad about me,
For me not feeling — sadly! — mad for you.

 

[goinghome]

ChatGPT is us? It's our creation, sure, but it isn't human. If we "make it though" by having our individual consciousnesses made digital somehow, and live forever in a virtual reality, as the Singularity theorists think we will, I'm okay with that. As I recall, one of the philosophers who considered this kind of utopia was David Pearce, a vegan who thinks we should be carbon-based life forms to the least extent possible. Basically he'd have us be "brains in vats taking drugs and plugged into VR."

To the question, can tech save humanity, some say it could help if we make it behave - https://www.damemagazine.com/2021/06/07/can-tech-actually-save-humanity/


The Poverty Line

by the Bengali poet Tarapada Roy, translated from Bangla by Shahidul Alam.

I was poor. Very poor.
There was no food to quell my hunger
No clothes to hide the shame of my naked body
No roof above my head.

You were so kind.
You came and you said
‘No. Poverty is a debasing word. It dehumanizes man. You are needy.’
My days were spent in dire need.
My needy days, day after day, were never-ending.

As I grew weaker Again you came.
This time you said.
‘Look, I’ve thought it over,
“Needy” is not a good word either.
You are destitute.’

My days and my nights, like a deep longing sigh,
Bore my destitution.
Cowering in the burning heat,
Shivering in the cold winter nights,
Drenched in the never-ending rains.
I went from being destitute to greater destitution.
But you were tireless. Again you came.
This time you said
‘There is no meaning to this destitution. Why should you be destitute?
You have always been denied. You are deprived, the ever deprived.

There was no end to my deprivation.
In hunger and in want, year after year,
Sleeping in the open streets under the relentless sky
My body a mere skeleton
Was barely alive.
But you didn’t forget me.
This time you came with raised fist
In your booming voice, you called out to me.
Rise, rise the exploited masses.

No longer did I have the strength to rise.
In hunger and in want, my body had wasted.
My ribs heaved with every breath.
Your vigour and your passion
Were too much for me to match.

Since then many more days have gone.
You are now more wise, more astute.
This time you brought a blackboard.
Chalk in hand, you drew this glistening bright long line.
This time you had really taken great pain.
Wiping the sweat from your brow, you beckoned me.
‘Look. See this line.
Below, far below this line, is where you belong.’

Wonderful!
Profusely, Gratefully, Indebtedly, I thank you.
For my poverty, I thank you.
For my need, I thank you.
For my destitution, I thank you.
For my deprivation, I thank you.
For my exploitedness, I thank you.
And most of all, for that sparkling line.
For that glittering gift.
O great benefactor! I thank you.

 

[Pav1ova]

Wonderful!
Profusely, Gratefully, Indebtedly, I thank you.
For my poverty, I thank you.
For my need, I thank you.
For my destitution, I thank you.
For my deprivation, I thank you.
For my exploitedness, I thank you.
And most of all, for that sparkling line.
For that glittering gift.
O great benefactor! I thank you.

This hit me like a train. Damn, the whole poem did.

I hope you don't mind some more Marina. I believe this one was written about Sophia Parnok when they were girlfriends, and oh the homophobia of some of the 'literary analysis' I read...

Beneath the plush plaid’s sweet caresses...
By Marina Tsvetaeva (Translated by Andrey Kneller)

Beneath the plush plaid’s sweet caresses,
I piece together last night’s dream.
Who’s been defeated? — Who’s successful? —
What has it been?

Rethinking everything once more,
I’m tortured and the pain persists.
In this, for which I know no word,
Did love exist?

Who was the hunter? — And — the prey?
The roles reversed and all was blurred!
What did the cat perceive today
Just as it purred?

When our two wills clashed in this battle,
Who in whose hands was but a ball?
Whose heart had burst into a gallop?
Do you recall?

And after all, — what has it been?
That makes me miss it so and need it?
I still don’t know: oh, did I win?
Was I defeated?

 

[Optimistic Fool]

A little bit cheese ball
But

 

[goinghome]

Here​

by Grace Paley​

Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be

at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration

that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips.

 

[Optimistic Fool]

Here​

by Grace Paley​

Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be

at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration

that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips.

I keep thinking about this poem. I despise the thought of growing old and having an old husband but if having this attitude is possible, for I've always wanted to know what an old woman thinks of her old husband, though I could guess pretty well, but then I won't mind that thought so much.

 

[goinghome]

Exposure​

BY WILFRED OWEN

Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us . . .
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . .
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.

Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?

The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . .
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
But nothing happens.

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew,
We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,
But nothing happens.

Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces—
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.
—Is it that we are dying?

Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,—
We turn back to our dying.

Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.

Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,
Shrivelling many hands, and puckering foreheads crisp.
The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp,
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
But nothing happens.


(I think this poem is about someone going through the process, moment to moment, of becoming traumatised?)

 

[hand in glove]

Exposure​

BY WILFRED OWEN

Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us . . .
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . .
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.

Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?

The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . .
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
But nothing happens.

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew,
We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,
But nothing happens.

Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces—
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.
—Is it that we are dying?

Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,—
We turn back to our dying.

Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.

Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,
Shrivelling many hands, and puckering foreheads crisp.
The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp,
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
But nothing happens.


(I think this poem is about someone going through the process, moment to moment, of becoming traumatised?)

My uncle was in the Korean War and he used to talk about how bitterly cold it would get. How they would spend many days and nights in one spot before moving on to the next. It was exhausting and he said that you could lose time easily. Always afraid of what might happen or if anything would happen at all. One day my uncle and his mates were ambushed by the enemy. He was lucky. He buried himself beneath the snow in a trench, but his best friend was burned alive. I know the scream haunted him for the rest of his life. I can’t even imagine it. He was hiding under that snow for nearly three days before he was found barely alive and taken to the hospital.

This poem reminded me of the things my uncle used to tell us. He was such a humble and sweet man, but there was trouble behind his eyes. He committed suicide in 1986.

I think the narrator of this poem has gone through something similar, but he died in the trenches. The “burying party” has discovered them and will dig their graves tonight.

 

[goinghome]

My uncle was in the Korean War and he used to talk about how bitterly cold it would get. How they would spend many days and nights in one spot before moving on to the next. It was exhausting and he said that you could lose time easily. Always afraid of what might happen or if anything would happen at all. One day my uncle and his mates were ambushed by the enemy. He was lucky. He buried himself beneath the snow in a trench, but his best friend was burned alive. I know the scream haunted him for the rest of his life. I can’t even imagine it. He was hiding under that snow for nearly three days before he was found barely alive and taken to the hospital.

This poem reminded me of the things my uncle used to tell us. He was such a humble and sweet man, but there was trouble behind his eyes. He committed suicide in 1986.

I think the narrator of this poem has gone through something similar, but he died in the trenches. The “burying party” has discovered them and will dig their graves tonight.

Sorry, Hand in Glove. That's a sad story. How could war not disturb those who live through it? Too many do - or don't. That your uncle spoke about the experience is often not the case. One way or the other, it seems to create hell inside.

Even though listening to parts makes me feel uneasy, I rate Low in High School as maybe Morrissey's most important album, for addressing how war affects people, and how violence is set to contrast with very tender intimate moments; the worst and best potentials of humanity. War is a racket.

This poem has some similarities to the last one. It could have been written around the same time. I have an inkling there was mutual appreciation between this poet and Oscar Wilde? I think it has an impressively crisp and modern polish, and goes in a slightly Gothic direction.

Walls​

by C. P. Cavafy
1863 –1933

translated from the modern Greek by John Cavafy

Without reflection, without mercy, without shame,
they built strong walls and high, and compassed me about.
And here I sit now and consider and despair.
It wears away my heart and brain, this evil fate:
I had outside so many things to terminate.
Oh! why when they were building could I not beware!
But never a sound of building, never an echo came.
Insensibly they drew the world and shut me out.

 

[hand in glove]

Sorry, Hand in Glove. That's a sad story. How could war not disturb those who live through it? Too many do - or don't. That your uncle spoke about the experience is often not the case. One way or the other, it seems to create hell inside.

Even though listening to parts makes me feel uneasy, I rate Low in High School as maybe Morrissey's most important album, for addressing how war affects people, and how violence is set to contrast with very tender intimate moments; the worst and best potentials of humanity. War is a racket.

This poem has some similarities to the last one. It could have been written around the same time. I have an inkling there was mutual appreciation between this poet and Oscar Wilde? I think it has an impressively crisp and modern polish, and goes in a slightly Gothic direction.

Walls​

by C. P. Cavafy
1863 –1933

Without reflection, without mercy, without shame,
they built strong walls and high, and compassed me about.
And here I sit now and consider and despair.
It wears away my heart and brain, this evil fate:
I had outside so many things to terminate.
Oh! why when they were building could I not beware!
But never a sound of building, never an echo came.
Insensibly they drew the world and shut me out.

Thanks. Well, he was my favorite uncle. He even gave me his dog tags. I would ask him questions and he would answer, so that is probably one of the reasons why he did talk about it

I will have to listen to Low In High School over the weekend, by itself. Really get a feel for what you’re saying. I’ve never noticed it before.

As for the poem - it certainly makes me think of Oscar for sure…

 

[goinghome]

Your uncle sounds like a nice man who could have done without battle fatigue, hand in glove,. I hope you discover gems anew in LIHS, and would be curious to find out how you get on. Meantime, a poem not to deny but hopefully to help dispel pain related to our topic.

The Low Road
by Marge Piercy

What can they do
to you? Whatever they want.
They can set you up, they can
bust you, they can break
your fingers, they can
burn your brain with electricity,
blur you with drugs till you
can’t walk, can’t remember, they can
take your child, wall up
your lover. They can do anything
you can’t stop them
from doing. How can you stop
them? Alone, you can fight,
you can refuse, you can
take what revenge you can
but they roll over you.

But two people fighting
back to back can cut through
a mob, a snake-dancing file
can break a cordon, an army
can meet an army.

Two people can keep each other
sane, can give support, conviction
love, massage, hope, sex.
Three people are a delegation,
a committee, a wedge. With four
you can play bridge and start
an organization. With six
you can rent a whole house,
eat pie for dinner with no
seconds, and hold a fund raising party.
A dozen make a demonstration.
A hundred fill a hall.
A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;
ten thousand, power and your own media;
ten million, your own country.

It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say ‘We’
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.

(from The Moon is Always Female 1996)