Satrurday Poems- The Guardian Review
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
[u[align=left]]The Saturday poem: From the Garden, with the Mushroom
by Ian McMillan[/u]
What I recall is this; it was autumn,
And there had been an eclipse during which
I stood with my dad in the garden
And we watched as the street grew darker
Than it should have, than it ever did.
Now it was at least one day later
And my dad walked in with a mushroom
That had illustrated the lawn’s green canvas
Since the eclipse turned the sky’s tone
A dirty colour. He passed the mushroom over.
It felt like the skin of someone who lived
In a place where no light gleamed. Whatever
I write now, all these long years after
Can never describe the mushroom’s scent
As I held it to my nose: earth and water,
And freshness, beauty. I held it to my lips
And bit it, much to my dad’s horror.
It tasted like the stillness of a fading eclipse.
• From To Fold the Evening Star, New and Selected Poems by Ian McMillan (Carcanet, £9.99). To order a copy for £7.99 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846.
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https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... e-mushroom
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
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h The Saturday poem: El Desdichado
by Katharine Towers
On failing to translate Nerval
Not that I had wished to meet the Widower
nor any man who calls himself the Unconsoled.
But there he was, stepping from the wreckage of his tower,
harp pressed against his dusty heart.
He’s dead, of course, but not beyond desiring
the flower that will comfort him,
a view of the sea where Posillipo leans down
and an arbour of roses to sit under.
Anyone can dream in the element of water.
We simply let its burly chords assuage us,
though few will trust its tunes for long.
And although he’ll never truly live –
not as he once lived in that other language –
I’ve heard the tearful music of his lyre.
• From The Remedies by Katharine Towers (Picador, £9.99). To order a copy for £8.19 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book *service on 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... ine-towers
[align=left]
h The Saturday poem: El Desdichado
by Katharine Towers
On failing to translate Nerval
Not that I had wished to meet the Widower
nor any man who calls himself the Unconsoled.
But there he was, stepping from the wreckage of his tower,
harp pressed against his dusty heart.
He’s dead, of course, but not beyond desiring
the flower that will comfort him,
a view of the sea where Posillipo leans down
and an arbour of roses to sit under.
Anyone can dream in the element of water.
We simply let its burly chords assuage us,
though few will trust its tunes for long.
And although he’ll never truly live –
not as he once lived in that other language –
I’ve heard the tearful music of his lyre.
• From The Remedies by Katharine Towers (Picador, £9.99). To order a copy for £8.19 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book *service on 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... ine-towers
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- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
[align=left]
The Saturday poem: My father cannot stop
by Lavinia Greenlaw
When his mind perceives itself failing
like an engine questioning its parts
everything stops
and he sees what it will be like when everything stops.
The problem is that nothing stops.
Time does not remain
and terror prompts him to do what he can to be stopped.
And so he keeps setting out
– without keys or money or a plan –
casting himself upon the world, sure that it will come:
the divine hand that reaches down to switch off the engine,
the point of arrest, the rest.
• Lavinia Greenlaw’s film, ‘The Sea Is an Edge and an Ending’, is being screened at the Estuary festival, which opens today. estuaryfestival.com
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... a-greenlaw
The Saturday poem: My father cannot stop
by Lavinia Greenlaw
When his mind perceives itself failing
like an engine questioning its parts
everything stops
and he sees what it will be like when everything stops.
The problem is that nothing stops.
Time does not remain
and terror prompts him to do what he can to be stopped.
And so he keeps setting out
– without keys or money or a plan –
casting himself upon the world, sure that it will come:
the divine hand that reaches down to switch off the engine,
the point of arrest, the rest.
• Lavinia Greenlaw’s film, ‘The Sea Is an Edge and an Ending’, is being screened at the Estuary festival, which opens today. estuaryfestival.com
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... a-greenlaw
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
[align=left] The Saturday Poem: Turning
by Rebecca Watts
The Guardian Review, Saturday 29 October 2016
Now it’s autumn
and another year in which I could leave you
is a slowly sinking ship.
The air has developed edges
and I am preparing to let myself lie
in a curtained apartment,
safe in the knowledge that strangers
have ceased to gather and laugh
in the lane below
and the brazen meadow no longer
presumes to press its face to the window
like an inquisitor.
Soon even the river will evince a thicker skin,
my breath each morning will flower white,
and all of summer’s schemes will fly like cuckoos.
The leaves are turning and the trees
are shaking them off. Bonfire smoke
between us like a promise lingers.
• From The Met Office Advises Caution (Carcanet, £9.99). To order a copy for £8.19 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... ecca-watts
by Rebecca Watts
The Guardian Review, Saturday 29 October 2016
Now it’s autumn
and another year in which I could leave you
is a slowly sinking ship.
The air has developed edges
and I am preparing to let myself lie
in a curtained apartment,
safe in the knowledge that strangers
have ceased to gather and laugh
in the lane below
and the brazen meadow no longer
presumes to press its face to the window
like an inquisitor.
Soon even the river will evince a thicker skin,
my breath each morning will flower white,
and all of summer’s schemes will fly like cuckoos.
The leaves are turning and the trees
are shaking them off. Bonfire smoke
between us like a promise lingers.
• From The Met Office Advises Caution (Carcanet, £9.99). To order a copy for £8.19 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/ ... ecca-watts
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
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The Saturday poem: Tanager
by Billy Collins
Saturday 11 February 2017 11.00 GMT
If only I had not listened to the piece
on the morning radio about the former asylum
whose inmates were kept busy
at wooden benches in a workshop
making leather collars and wristbands
that would later be used to restrain them.
And if only that had not reminded me,
as I stood facing the bathroom mirror,
of the new state prison whose bricks had been set
by prisoners trucked in from the old prison,
how sweet and free of static my walk
would have been along the upland trail.
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Nothing to spoil the purity of the ascent –
the early sun, wafer-white,
breaking over the jagged crest of that ridge,
a bird with a bright-orange chest
flitting from branch to branch with its mate,
and a solitary coyote that stopped in its tracks
to regard me, then moved on.
Plus the cottonwood fluff snowing sideways
and after I stood still for a while,
the coyote appearing again in the distance
before vanishing in the scrub for good.
That’s the kind of walk it might have been.
• From The Rain in Portugal by Billy Collins (Picador £9.99). To order a copy for £8.49 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... ly-collins
The Saturday poem: Tanager
by Billy Collins
Saturday 11 February 2017 11.00 GMT
If only I had not listened to the piece
on the morning radio about the former asylum
whose inmates were kept busy
at wooden benches in a workshop
making leather collars and wristbands
that would later be used to restrain them.
And if only that had not reminded me,
as I stood facing the bathroom mirror,
of the new state prison whose bricks had been set
by prisoners trucked in from the old prison,
how sweet and free of static my walk
would have been along the upland trail.
Sign up to our Bookmarks newsletter
Read more
Nothing to spoil the purity of the ascent –
the early sun, wafer-white,
breaking over the jagged crest of that ridge,
a bird with a bright-orange chest
flitting from branch to branch with its mate,
and a solitary coyote that stopped in its tracks
to regard me, then moved on.
Plus the cottonwood fluff snowing sideways
and after I stood still for a while,
the coyote appearing again in the distance
before vanishing in the scrub for good.
That’s the kind of walk it might have been.
• From The Rain in Portugal by Billy Collins (Picador £9.99). To order a copy for £8.49 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... ly-collins
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
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[color=brown]The Saturday poem: One Night Comes Like a Blessing
by Grace Nichols
Saturday 25 February 2017 11.00 GMT
Like a cruel lover or spiteful mistress
No-Sleep demands my restless attentiveness.
No-Sleep prefers me stripped –
a dark projectionist
winding and unwinding the reel of my thoughts.
An old grained movie I can’t switch off –
a starring of loves and loss, TV footage,
soft tears, mortifications, smothered laughs.
Then, one night comes like a blessing.
A visitation of wings that sees me falling.
Whoever wants me now, I am swimming
towards my House of Dreams.
Let no one disturb this peace.
Let no one shake me
even from the branches of nightmares.
Come morning I am reborn again –
a fresh-faced Eve – emerging from the rib’s shadow –
ready to meet the daily pandemonium of living.
• From The Insomnia Poems by Grace Nichols (Bloodaxe £9.95). To order a copy for £8.46 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... ce-nichols[/color]
[color=brown]The Saturday poem: One Night Comes Like a Blessing
by Grace Nichols
Saturday 25 February 2017 11.00 GMT
Like a cruel lover or spiteful mistress
No-Sleep demands my restless attentiveness.
No-Sleep prefers me stripped –
a dark projectionist
winding and unwinding the reel of my thoughts.
An old grained movie I can’t switch off –
a starring of loves and loss, TV footage,
soft tears, mortifications, smothered laughs.
Then, one night comes like a blessing.
A visitation of wings that sees me falling.
Whoever wants me now, I am swimming
towards my House of Dreams.
Let no one disturb this peace.
Let no one shake me
even from the branches of nightmares.
Come morning I am reborn again –
a fresh-faced Eve – emerging from the rib’s shadow –
ready to meet the daily pandemonium of living.
• From The Insomnia Poems by Grace Nichols (Bloodaxe £9.95). To order a copy for £8.46 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... ce-nichols[/color]
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
[align=left][u]The Saturday Poem
Saturday 18 March 2017
Bluegrass
by Richard Osmond
IM Earl Scruggs
He played the banjo like a whiskey distiller
slitting open a sack of grain:
swiftly, with a workman’s knack, spilling gold
in brilliant unquantifiable cascades.
In bluegrass we are moved
by no phrase in particular
but by the general principle
that small things in great number
behave as fluid.
He played the banjo
like a small boy in North Carolina
watching God move on the face of the cornfield.
[align=left]https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/mar/18/saturday-poem-bluegrass-by-richard-osmond
Saturday 18 March 2017
Bluegrass
by Richard Osmond
IM Earl Scruggs
He played the banjo like a whiskey distiller
slitting open a sack of grain:
swiftly, with a workman’s knack, spilling gold
in brilliant unquantifiable cascades.
In bluegrass we are moved
by no phrase in particular
but by the general principle
that small things in great number
behave as fluid.
He played the banjo
like a small boy in North Carolina
watching God move on the face of the cornfield.
[align=left]https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/mar/18/saturday-poem-bluegrass-by-richard-osmond
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
[align=left][align=left]The Saturday poem: Concerning loss and theft
by Henry Normal
The Gurdian Review, Saturday 13 May 2017
I’ve lost something valuable or had it stolen
So I’m forced to retrace my mundane actions
these tiny harbingers whose whispers
now mock with megaphones
The margin of error
I’ve recently allowed myself
widens from the gap at back of a settee
to the Grand Canyon
Re-assessing even the most casual of contact
my mistrust embitters charity
I’ve become Machiavelli dusting for prints
undermining all integrity in trial by memory
No matter whether it turns up
or not
I feel I’ve lost something valuable
or had it stolen
• Travelling Second Class Through Hope is published by Flapjack.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... nry-normal
by Henry Normal
The Gurdian Review, Saturday 13 May 2017
I’ve lost something valuable or had it stolen
So I’m forced to retrace my mundane actions
these tiny harbingers whose whispers
now mock with megaphones
The margin of error
I’ve recently allowed myself
widens from the gap at back of a settee
to the Grand Canyon
Re-assessing even the most casual of contact
my mistrust embitters charity
I’ve become Machiavelli dusting for prints
undermining all integrity in trial by memory
No matter whether it turns up
or not
I feel I’ve lost something valuable
or had it stolen
• Travelling Second Class Through Hope is published by Flapjack.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... nry-normal
- إبراهيم جعفر
- مشاركات: 1948
- اشترك في: الاثنين نوفمبر 20, 2006 9:34 am
[align=left]The Saturday poem: Dear Felix
by Jackie Kay
Jackie Kay
Saturday 27 May 2017 10.00 BST Last modified on Saturday 27 May 2017 10.04 BST
Here you are Felix, looking into the future
You never got to have,
Your mum smiling at your side,
Your dark brown eyes, warm, kind.
Here you are again, Felix,
Coming into empty rooms,
Filling them with light,
Walking across the fields in the early light,
Crossing the old lines
Your spirit lifted, your parting gift, this:
A legacy of kindness.
A new friend in the wilderness.
If you could come back, Felix,
You’d know how much you were missed, are loved;
Whether the moon is full or crescent,
Your absence is a presence.
You would take it back if you could,
Turn back, turn around, come back.
If they could they would take it back;
The mean things they never meant to mean.
In your name and with you in mind,
We will, Felix: we will promise to be kind.
From the anthology Ten Poems of Kindness (Candlestick Press, £4.95). The poems were chosen by Jackie Kay and published in memory of 17-year-old Felix Alexander, who took his own life last year after being subjected to a campaign of bullying at school. To order a copy for £4.21 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... jackie-kay
by Jackie Kay
Jackie Kay
Saturday 27 May 2017 10.00 BST Last modified on Saturday 27 May 2017 10.04 BST
Here you are Felix, looking into the future
You never got to have,
Your mum smiling at your side,
Your dark brown eyes, warm, kind.
Here you are again, Felix,
Coming into empty rooms,
Filling them with light,
Walking across the fields in the early light,
Crossing the old lines
Your spirit lifted, your parting gift, this:
A legacy of kindness.
A new friend in the wilderness.
If you could come back, Felix,
You’d know how much you were missed, are loved;
Whether the moon is full or crescent,
Your absence is a presence.
You would take it back if you could,
Turn back, turn around, come back.
If they could they would take it back;
The mean things they never meant to mean.
In your name and with you in mind,
We will, Felix: we will promise to be kind.
From the anthology Ten Poems of Kindness (Candlestick Press, £4.95). The poems were chosen by Jackie Kay and published in memory of 17-year-old Felix Alexander, who took his own life last year after being subjected to a campaign of bullying at school. To order a copy for £4.21 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/ ... jackie-kay