I’m going to cheat here.

I’m pretty sure that this means a poem being performed by the poet or a poetry reading of sorts.

But I’m going to post a poem that has been put into music and I simply love watching it.

The poem is

I Carry Your Heart With Me - E E Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

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And this here is the performance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PqSZzmUMHM

 

This was a tough one and it created a roadblock in the progression of the 30 day exercise. I still cant quite make up my mind (a poem about indecisiveness would work) but I got this. I love her humorous style of writing. Although this isnt exactly a self portrait, I think the spirit of it serves the purpose.

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If I were in charge of the world - Judith Viorst

If I were in charge of the world
I’d cancel oatmeal,
Monday mornings,
Allergy shots, and also Sara Steinberg.

If I were in charge of the world
There’d be brighter night lights,
Healthier hamsters, and
Basketball baskets forty eight inches lower.

If I were in charge of the world
You wouldn’t have lonely.
You wouldn’t have clean.
You wouldn’t have bedtimes.
Or “Don’t punch your sister.”
You wouldn’t even have sisters.

If I were in charge of the world
A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts would be a vegetable
All 007 movies would be G,
And a person who sometimes forgot to brush,
And sometimes forgot to flush,
Would still be allowed to be
In charge of the world.

It’s about the pathetic thrills of an ageing man. Trust Bukowski to make it so funny.

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Who in the Hell is Tom Jones? - Charles Bukowski

I was shacked with a
24 year old girl from
New York City for
two weeks- about
the time of the garbage
strike out there, and
one night my 34 year
old woman arrived and
she said, “I want to see
my rival.” she did
and then she said, “o,
you’re a cute little thing!”
next I knew there was a
screech of wildcats-
such screaming and scratch-
ing, wounded animal moans,
blood and piss…
I was drunk and in my
shorts. I tried to
seperate them and fell,
wrenched my knee. then
they were through the screen
door and down the walk
and out into the street.
squadcars full of cops
arrived. a police heli-
coptor circled overhead.
I stood in the bathroom
and grinned in the mirror.
it’s not often at the age
of 55 that such splendid
things occur.
better than the Watts
riots.
the 34 year old
came back in. she had
pissed all over her-
self and her clothing
was torn and she was
followed by 2 cops who
wanted to know why.
pulling up my shorts
I tried to explain.

This one’s pretty simple and not explicit at all. But I find this poem strangely erotic, charged with anticipation.

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Indian Summer - Eileen Carney Hulme

Like a deep blue wave
of passion
you shore into the room
where I sit waiting quietly,
open-booked.

We have moved through days,
loss, pain
to hold this moment,
this picture postcard seascape
of gentle harbouring.

You say
‘I knew you were here
I could smell you’
and effortlessly I sway
to seal my fate.

You taste of ocean,
avenues of grassy dunes,
like a magician
you pluck a tiny pebble
from my hair-

Ancient survivor, sun-kissed
on this summer afternoon,
unconditionally
I step out of my dress
into your dream.

This could be many poems.

But none so much as Milton’s poems. I sincerely believe his intention was to confuse.

Poems like L’Allegro mean nothing to me. But here’s a shorter one that is equally confounding.

I do understand the words and even phrases, but as a whole it makes no sense. Maybe its just me.

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Hail, Holy Light - John Milton

HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born,
Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam’d? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,
Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’d
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
With other notes then to th’ Orphean Lyre
I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,
Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou
Revisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,
Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath
That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget
Those other two equal’d with me in Fate,
So were I equal’d with them in renown.
Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men
Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair
Presented with a Universal blanc
Of Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d,
And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou Celestial light
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.

Problem is, I have way too many favorites.

So I’m just going to pick my favorite local poet which is an easier choice. I know I’ve sung his praises here before, but what can I say? He’s good. He speaks to me.

As a kid, I used to listen to this guy on radio but then he disappeared and one day, many years later, I spotted this book at Odel with his name on the cover. Curiosity over the name made me pick up and flip through China Bay Blues, but I purchased the book only much later. Needless to say I was hooked from the very first poem.

This one I particularly love.

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Patriot - Afdhel Aziz

Someone asks me, casual dinner party jest

As the crab claws are cleared away

‘So will you die for your country?’

Surprised , I counter

‘Surely its better to live for it’

Flippant, my glib mouth fires back

But later, the drive home I think

Of patriots, priests and politicians

Would I be the first to the front

With my finger on the trigger?

Or would I move to another land

And nurse the memory with my

Television dinner

The channels flickering

While I think of beaches and winds

I left behind?

Love is sacrifice

But which comes first

Which comes fierce

My country or me?

She couldnt have, because this is a fairly new poem. But I would have been inspired. On the other hand, I am already something like this so my mother must have taught me similar things anyway.

I love the sheer energy of this poem. Little extreme perhaps, but thats Blackman’s poetic license.

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Daughter - Nicole Blackman

One day I’ll give birth to a tiny baby girl
and when she’s born she’ll scream and I’ll make sure
she never stops.

I will kiss her before I lay her down
and will tell her a story so she knows
how it is and how it must be for her to survive.

I’ll tell her about the power of water
the seduction of paper
the promise of gasoline
and the hope of blood.

I’ll teach her to shave her eyebrows and
mark her skin.

I’ll teach her that her body is
her greatest work of art.

I’ll tell her to light things on fire
and keep them burning.

I’ll teach her that the fire will not consume her,
that she must take it and use it.

I’ll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything
to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,
just as long as she feels something.

I’ll help her do her best work when it rains.
I’ll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.
I’ll teach her to develop all her selves,
the courageous ones,
the smart ones,
the dreaming ones
the fast ones.

I’ll teach her that she has an army inside her
that can save her life.

I’ll tell her to say Fuck like other people say The
and when people are shocked
to ask them why they so fear a small quartet
of letters.

I’ll make sure she always carries a pen
so she can take down the evidence.
If she has no paper, I’ll teach her to
write everything down on her tongue
write it on her thighs.

I’ll help her to see that she will not find God
or salvation in a dark brick building
built by dead men.

I’ll explain to her that it’s better to regret the things
she has done than the things she hasn’t.

I’ll teach her to write her manifestos
on cocktail napkins.
I’ll say she should make men lick her enterprise.

I’ll teach her to talk hard.
I’ll tell her that her skin is the
most beautiful dress she will ever wear.

I’ll tell her that people must earn the right
to use her nickname,
that forced intimacy is san ugly thing.

I’ll make her understand that she is worth more
with her clothes on.

I’ll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast
and she has no use for a pen
that she must quit her job
run out of the house in her bathrobe,
leaving the door open.
I’ll teach her to follow the words.

I’ll tell her to stand up
and head for the door
after she makes love.
When he asks her to
stay she’ll say
she’s got to
go.

I’ll tell her that when she first bleeds
when she is a woman,
to go up to the roof at midnight,
reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

I’ll teach her to be whole, to be holy,
to be so much that she doesn’t even
need me anymore.
I’ll tell her to go quickly and never come back.
I will make her stronger than me.

I’ll say to her never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Dont think I need an explanation for this one.

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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair - Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

This one’s easy. With much thanks to a school literature text book, I couldnt forget this poem if I tried.

Many interpretations exist and some fail to do justice to this poem that has so many layers.

Well, I may be wrong, but this is my own take on it;

The poet is attracted to something or someone that he well acknowledges belongs to another man.

But he feels safe admiring it because the other man remains completely unaware.

The ‘little horse’ he refers to is possibly his own conscience which is surprised by this sudden event because he usually acts sensibly. It ‘shakes the harness bells’ in protest to remind him that he’s being distracted.

Yet he remains mesmerized by this mysterious beauty until finally, he is roused by the righteous call of obligation.

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Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.  

 .
My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.  

 .
He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.  

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

On the 5th of March 1986, Major General Mamman Jiya Vatsa was executed in Calabar, Nigeria by the government for the alleged involvement in a coup. Unfortunately, I happened to be there, within earshot in fact. I remember how we were all huddled in a group, adults twisting their hands in agitation as the gunshots cracked through air.

I was too young to feel much, but I was upset because they were killing a man who was already a hero to me. Not because of his military or political achievements, but because I owned books written by him and one book of poems written by children who he trained and inspired under his ‘writer’s village’ scheme.

So every time I read this poem I think of the poet who died. 

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The Dead Poet - Lord Alfred Douglas

I dreamed of him last night, I saw his face
All radiant and unshadowed of distress,
And as of old, in music measureless,
I heard his golden voice and marked him trace
Under the common thing the hidden grace,
And conjure wonder out of emptiness,
Till mean things put on beauty like a dress
And all the world was an enchanted place.

And then methought outside a fast locked gate
I mourned the loss of unrecorded words,
Forgotten tales and mysteries half said,
Wonders that might have been articulate,
And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds.
And so I woke and knew that he was dead.