minutesofhoney

Archive for February, 2012|Monthly archive page

from A Cup of Sun

In Poetry on February 28, 2012 at 2:18 pm

by Joan Walsh Anglund

A bird does not sing
because he has an answer.

He sings
because he has a song.

Sonnet

In Music, Poetry on February 22, 2012 at 11:16 am

Harpo from Horse Feathers (1932), “Everyone Says I Love You”

Harpo quickly takes a seat between the spent guffaws
And brushes solemn majesty on forty-seven strings
His mouth is still as usual, but his hands sing.
What could be more water-true than everything this was?
 
In dashing turn and rivet rise I pause
To play my heart, whose winter wore a sting,
Whose tuning matched a well-thrown Groucho zing,
A madcap game of dash and broken laws.
 
It’s time There called my balconies to sound
And sat beside the trees of shading pine
Too long have I been neither Here nor thine,
A spinning top flung outward, up, and down.
Sit patient, now: strum pause and present rhyme – 
In music lost is found an interlude for he who plays the clown.
 

P. Tuesday, II

In Poetry on February 14, 2012 at 1:17 pm

IV (from Little Gidding) – T.S. Eliot

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre –
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.

Poem Tuesday

In Poetry on February 7, 2012 at 3:07 pm

In an effort to instill regular readership, one must offer regular reading material.  So!  Welcome to my word-home, far-flung friends.  Poetry Tuesdays is now…a thing!  And just like we were holding hands above the alter, I promise to think thoughts and write them down.  Come wrapping round my door these winter nights.  I’ll put on jazz records and your boots’ll sog the corner; we’ll share that blanket! and Barry’s tea will warm our hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Wait

I am sore with the wait.
My gums itch and I ply
myself out from another day
of the night
of the morning
of waking up
alone
passing love around my teeth
like a stone
too smooth to swallow
too hard to eat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Refill?  Next week, same time, same place?