Category: poems read in 2007 and recorded in my E'n'M notebook


Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form—no object of the world,
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere
confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space—ample the field and
nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left
from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim shall duly flame
again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings
and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring’s invisible land
returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and
corn.

I Came to buy a smile — today —
But just a single smile —
The smallest one upon your face
Will suit me just as well —
The one that no one else would miss
It shone so very small —
I’m pleading at the “counter” — sir —
Could you afford to sell —
I’ve Diamonds — on my fingers —
You know what Diamonds are?
I’ve Rubies — live the Evening Blood —
And Topaz — like the star!
‘Twould be “a Bargain” for a Jew!
Say — may I have it — Sir?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

    • charles bukowski

    Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I’ve tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To know that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice.

    dreams

    by  langston hughes

    Hold fast to dreams

               For if dreams die
              Life is a broken-winged bird

    That cannot fly.

    Hold fast to dreams

                   For when dreams go
                   Life is a barren field

    Frozen with snow

    The art of losing isn't hard to master;
    so many things seem filled with the intent
    to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
    
    Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
    of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
    The art of losing isn't hard to master.
    
    Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
    places, and names, and where it was you meant
    to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
    
    I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
    next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
    The art of losing isn't hard to master.
    
    I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
    some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
    I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
    
    --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
    I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
    the art of losing's not too hard to master
    though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.