21st Century Literature discussion

O elegant giant

And Jehovah. And Alzheimer. And a diamond of extraordinary size on the
hand of a starving child. The quiet mob in a vacant lot. My father asleep in a
chair in a warm corridor. While his boat, the Unsinkable, sits at the bottom
of the ocean. While his boat, the Unsinkable, waits marooned on the shore.
While his boat, the Unsinkable, sails on, and sails on.

http://www.pw.org/content/space_in_ch...

What an apposite image: the craft 'Alzheimer' as unsinkable.

Sophia wrote: "What an apposite image: the craft 'Alzheimer' as unsinkable."

I agree, quite relevant.

The call of the one duck flying south

so far behind the others
in their neat little v, in their
competence of plans and wings, if
you didn’t listen you would think
it was a cry for help
or sympathy—
friends! friends!—
but it isn’t.
Silence of the turtle on its back in the street.
Silence of the polar bear pulling its wounded weight onto the ice.
Silence of the antelope with a broken leg.
Silence of the old dog asking for no further explanation.
How
was it I believed I was
God’s favorite creature? I,
who carry my feathery skeleton across the sky now, calling
out for all of us. I, who am doubt now, with a song

http://womensvoicesforchange.org/poet...

After Ken Burns

The beautiful plate I cracked in half as I wrapped it in tissue paper—
as if the worship of a thing might be the thing that breaks it.

This river, which is life, which is wayfaring. This river,
which is also sky. This dipper, full of mind, which is

not only the hysterical giggling of girls, but the trembling
of the elderly. Not only

the scales, beaks, and teeth of creatures, but also
their imaginative names (elephant, peacock) and their
love of one another, the excited
preparations they sometimes make
for their own deaths.

It is as if some graceful goddess, wandering in the dark, desperate with thirst, bent down and dropped that dipper
clumsily in this river. It floated away. Consciousness, memory, sensory information, the historians and their glorious war . . .
The pineal gland, tiny pinecone in the forehead, our third eye: Of course

it will happen here. No doubt. Someday, here,

in this little house,
they will lay the wounded side by side. The blood
will run into the basement through the boards. Their ghosts are already here, along
with the cracked plate wrapped in old paper in the attic,

and the woman who will turn one day at the window to see
a long strange line of vehicles traveling slowly toward her door, which

she opens (what choice does she have?) although she has not yet been born.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetr...

Riddle

I am the mirror breathing above the sink.

There is a censored garden inside of me.

Over the worms someone has thrown
a delicately embroidered sheet, and
also the child at the rummage sale—

more souvenirs than memories.

I am the cat buried beneath the tangled ivy. And also

the white weightless egg floating over it, which is
the cat’s immortal soul. Snow

where there were leaves.
Empty plastic cups after the party on the beach.
The ash rising above the fire, like a flame.
The Sphinx with so much sand
blowing vaguely in her face. The last
shadow that passed over the blank
canvas in the empty art museum.

I am the impossibility of desiring the person you pity.

The petal of the Easter lily—

O, that ghost of a tongue.
O, that tongue of a ghost.
What would I say if I spoke?

I am the old lady in a wheelchair
in the corner of the nursing home, like

a star flung up into the infinite, the infinite, cold
silent darkness of this universe. I am

that old woman as a little girl
in brilliant shoes
some beautiful summer afternoon,
laughing bitterly.

http://cat.middlebury.edu/~nereview/2...

Near-misses

The truck that swerved to miss the stroller in which I slept.
My mother turning from the laundry basket just in time to see me open
the second-story window to call to the cat.
In the car, on ice, something spinning and made of history snatched me
back from the guardrail and set me down later between two gentle trees.
And that time I thought to look both ways on the one-way street.
And when the doorbell rang, the time I didn’t answer, and just before
I slipped
one night into a drunken dream
I remembered to blow out the candle on the table beside me.
It’s a miracle, I tell you, this woman scanning the cans on the grocery
store shelf. Hidden in the inner workings of a mysterious
clock are her many
deaths. And yet
the whole world is piled up before her on a banquet table again today.
The timer, broken. The sunset
smeared across the horizon in the girlish cursive of the ocean.
Her body, proof. The way
it moves a little slower every day. And
the cells, ticking away.
A crow in a grave pecking steadily at a sweater.
The last hour waiting patiently on a tray for her in the future.
The spoon slipping quietly into the soup.

http://willowsprings.ewu.edu/authors/...

Thing Two wrote:

"How
was it I believed I was
God’s favorite creature? I,
who carry my feathery skeleton across the sky now, calling
out for all of us. I, who am doubt now, with a song

Aren't these lines, amazing?

Thing Two wrote: "After Ken Burns

The beautiful plate I cracked in half as I wrapped it in tissue paper—
as if the worship of a thing might be the thing that breaks it...

Their ghosts are already here, along
with the cracked plate wrapped in old paper in the attic

The image of a cracked plate is so telling...

Thing Two wrote: "Riddle"

Did you solve it, anyone?

Thing Two wrote:

It’s a miracle, I tell you, this woman scanning the cans on the grocery
store shelf. Hidden in the inner workings of a mysterious clock are her many
deaths. And yet
the whole world is piled up before her on a banquet table again today.

I think this is my favourite near-miss, but how to choose, how to choose?

The key to the tower

There was never
There was never
A key to the tower

There was never a key to the tower, you fool

It was a dream
It was a dream
A mosquito's dream

A mosquito dreaming in a cage for a bird

It's October
It's October
The summer's over

Your passionate candle in a pumpkin's head
And the old woman's hand in this photograph
Appears to be nailed to the old man's hand

And the sky
And the sky
And the sky above you

Is a drunken loved one asleep in your bed

And the tower
And the tower
And the key to the tower

There was never a key to the tower, I said

And this insistence
This insistence
It will only bring you sorrow

Your ridiculous key, your laughable tower

But there was
There was
A tower there

I swear

And the key
And the key
I still have it here somewhere

http://poems.com/poem_print.php?date=...

Will we be having more poetry group reads in the future?

:) Well ... I had to take a leave do to some family/personal issues, and Sophia is in a similar boat. I'll probably be back at this after Thanksgiving, but I'll be flying solo. Want to help?

I'd love to help! I've really enjoyed the poetry discussions here.

That sounds excellent!