I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
I have been one acquainted with the night.
----------
[first read on Academy of American Poets; available for free online]
Showing posts with label cities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cities. Show all posts
4.07.2012
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight by Vachel Lindsay
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down,
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play,
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us:—as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long,
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks of men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why;
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free:
A league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that things must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?
----------
[poem is in the public domain]
4.05.2012
Reality Demands by Wisława Szymborska
Reality demands
that we also mention this:
Life goes on.
It continues at Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There’s a gas station
on a little square in Jericho,
and wet paint
on park benches in Bila Hora.
Letters fly back and forth
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a moving van passes
beneath the eye of the lion at Cheronea,
and the blooming orchards near Verdun
cannot escape
the approaching atmospheric front.
There is so much Everything
that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.
Music pours
from the yachts moored at Actium
and couples dance on their sunlit decks.
So much is always going on,
that it must be going on all over.
Where not a stone still stands
you see the Ice Cream Man
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been
Hiroshima is again,
producing many products
for everyday use.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,
of the mornings
that make waking up worthwhile.
The grass is green
on Maciejowice’s fields,
and it is studded with dew,
as is normal with grass.
Perhaps all fields are battlefields,
all grounds are battlegrounds,
those we remember
and those that are forgotten:
the birch, cedar, and fir forests, the white snow,
the yellow sands, gray gravel, the iridescent swamps,
the canyons of black defeat,
where, in times of crisis,
you can cower under a bush.
----------
[This is just one variation/translation from Polish. This translation is my favorite; and all variations are available for free online.]
that we also mention this:
Life goes on.
It continues at Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There’s a gas station
on a little square in Jericho,
and wet paint
on park benches in Bila Hora.
Letters fly back and forth
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a moving van passes
beneath the eye of the lion at Cheronea,
and the blooming orchards near Verdun
cannot escape
the approaching atmospheric front.
There is so much Everything
that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.
Music pours
from the yachts moored at Actium
and couples dance on their sunlit decks.
So much is always going on,
that it must be going on all over.
Where not a stone still stands
you see the Ice Cream Man
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been
Hiroshima is again,
producing many products
for everyday use.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,
of the mornings
that make waking up worthwhile.
The grass is green
on Maciejowice’s fields,
and it is studded with dew,
as is normal with grass.
Perhaps all fields are battlefields,
all grounds are battlegrounds,
those we remember
and those that are forgotten:
the birch, cedar, and fir forests, the white snow,
the yellow sands, gray gravel, the iridescent swamps,
the canyons of black defeat,
where, in times of crisis,
you can cower under a bush.
----------
[This is just one variation/translation from Polish. This translation is my favorite; and all variations are available for free online.]
3.28.2012
Apples by Brittany Good
Where I come from the air reeks of apples.
Against the gnarled trees rest burned-out car frames,
charred balls of boredom.
Milton used to stand, withered and frail,
on the decaying sidewalk in front of the town library,
waving sweetly to the passing cars.
He has faded to a breath of dust by now — a pale apparition.
The roads, speckled with crooked lines, twist and contort
through ragged mountains.
Not in Boston, where the homeless seem like artists
who have lost their way.
Walking through Beacon Hill, I twist my ankles
on the cobblestone streets.
I pass a woman so perfectly contrived —
a Burberry jacket to match
her microscopic dog’s Burberry sweater.
I finger the frosty wrought-iron gates,
warped metal snakes of the wealthy.
As I stand in front of the 7-Eleven,
its wood-carved, gold-accented sign
creaking in the bleak Boston wind,
I spot a man across the street.
He’s donning khaki overalls
splattered in blue, red, and green paint,
dragging viciously on his Marlboro Red,
his eyes like two rotting apples.
I think of home.
----------
Against the gnarled trees rest burned-out car frames,
charred balls of boredom.
Milton used to stand, withered and frail,
on the decaying sidewalk in front of the town library,
waving sweetly to the passing cars.
He has faded to a breath of dust by now — a pale apparition.
The roads, speckled with crooked lines, twist and contort
through ragged mountains.
Not in Boston, where the homeless seem like artists
who have lost their way.
Walking through Beacon Hill, I twist my ankles
on the cobblestone streets.
I pass a woman so perfectly contrived —
a Burberry jacket to match
her microscopic dog’s Burberry sweater.
I finger the frosty wrought-iron gates,
warped metal snakes of the wealthy.
As I stand in front of the 7-Eleven,
its wood-carved, gold-accented sign
creaking in the bleak Boston wind,
I spot a man across the street.
He’s donning khaki overalls
splattered in blue, red, and green paint,
dragging viciously on his Marlboro Red,
his eyes like two rotting apples.
I think of home.
----------
[first read in Mastodon Dentist number five; used with permission of author via Propaganda Press]
3.27.2012
Fog by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
----------
[poem is in multiple collections in print and for free online]