Written by
Pablo Neruda |
The artichoke
of delicate heart
erect
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a pot.
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
|
Written by
Theodore Roethke |
I study the lives on a leaf: the little
Sleepers, numb nudgers in cold dimensions,
Beetles in caves, newts, stone-deaf fishes,
Lice tethered to long limp subterranean weeds,
Squirmers in bogs,
And bacterial creepers
Wriggling through wounds
Like elvers in ponds,
Their wan mouths kissing the warm sutures,
Cleaning and caressing,
Creeping and healing.
|
Written by
Charles Bukowski |
I can't have it
and you can't have it
and we won't
get it
so don't bet on it
or even think about
it
just get out of bed
each morning
wash
shave
clothe
yourself
and go out into
it
because
outside of that
all that's left is
suicide and
madness
so you just
can't
expect too much
you can't even
expect
so what you do
is
work from a modest
minimal
base
like when you
walk outside
be glad your car
might possibly
be there
and if it is-
that the tires
aren't
flat
then you get
in
and if it
starts--you
start.
and
it's the damndest
movie
you've ever
seen
because
you're
in it--
low budget
and
4 billion
critics
and the longest
run
you ever hope
for
is
one
day.
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
a cold bright sun
two days to christmas
a first-quarter moon
at a good vantage-point
a small white coffin
driven slowly uphill
from the cemetery gate
to the minimal grave
fifty people attending
unexpected collection
of nettle-stung hearts
at a barely-lived dying
a shuffling past yews
thoughts finding rhythm
a lightness that bred
from a silent aceptance
a red-arrowed plane
in single formation
scissored the sky's blue
above the procession
sagittarian arrow
a sizzling of fire
an unconscious dipping
of wings in salute
to a baby whose burning
from birth to departing
took thirteen fast days
from rain into sunshine
till almost the hilltop
the hole with its mound
a circle of people
shared its raw hollow
no vicar no service
a speaking of poems
cotoneaster sprigs
dropped into the grave
the red plane returned
cut its own circle
honoured the sunlight
and passed by the moon
from a treetop nearby
a sharp-singing blackbird
trilled its objective
gold-beaked lullay
the grave was filled in
the high hill deserted
and down in the valley
a rare christmas came
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