Poem of the Week
For the cultural elitist
(I'm looking at you blankfist. you really thought the act could fool anyone?)
CAT IN AN EMPTY APARTMENT
Die — you can't do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here,
but nothing is the same.
Nothing has been moved,
but there's more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.
Footsteps on the staircase,
but they're new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.
Something doesn't start
at its usual time.
Something doesn't happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.
Every closet has been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken,
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.
Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.
-- Wislawa Szymborska
(I'm looking at you blankfist. you really thought the act could fool anyone?)
CAT IN AN EMPTY APARTMENT
Die — you can't do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here,
but nothing is the same.
Nothing has been moved,
but there's more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.
Footsteps on the staircase,
but they're new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.
Something doesn't start
at its usual time.
Something doesn't happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.
Every closet has been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken,
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.
Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.
-- Wislawa Szymborska
10 Comments
rougyI like. Thanks for taking the time to peg that in.
The last great book of poems that I read was Ted Hughes' Birthday Letters.
Here's one I wrote a few weeks ago:
No poems
No words
A muse asleep
A desire spent
The calm seas
Of an uncertain
Middle age
This ink
And this page
Feels wasted
With a little industry
It could still be
A paper plane
And fly far, far away.
Farhad2000That was really nice Rougy.
I really enjoyed the recent stuff I heard from Oz - http://www.videosift.com/video/Oz-The-Poet-on-Cigarettes
For me I have always held a love for the poetry of T.S. Eliot, the first poem I ever read and was to recite to class was Rhapsody on a Windy Night. I still love it to this day, an extract:
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
http://www.poetry-archive.com/e/rhapsody_on_a_windy_night.html
NicoleBee*quality
siftbotAwarding bluecliff with one star point for this contribution to Sift Talk - declared quality by NicoleBee.
EdeotWish I was clever
But I can't be serious
So I'll say penis
rasch187Nature is a temple where living columns
Let slip from time to time uncertain words;
Man finds his way through forests of symbols
Which regard him with familiar gazes.
SagemindLife and time, suicide clash,
Grab a knife and start to slash.
Cut the canvas, shred it neat.
Spill your blood where the colours meet.
SagemindSummon something in my mind
summoned strength I try to find.
I hold on tight and try to fly
relaxed, defeated, I start to cry.
Alas this life is has beaten me,
Beyond a pulp, though I can’t see.
I crane my neck to see the light,
I claw and scrape and try to fight.
I slip, and slide back down the bank,
I dig and scream, my life is rank.
I stand and herald a life that’s torn,
My life, these shackles that I’ve worn.
Hold me down and weight me under,
Shake my soul and crown like thunder.
Waves of passion suck me dry,
I lose my mind and start to die.
I don’t know how to shirk this weight,
For I am strong, but it is great.
I falter as it shuts me down,
And forever wear my tarnished crown.
ThrobbinI have killed.
I have helped kill.
I have killed part of myself.
I cannot change this. I...
I must seek Buddha.
I must seek Christ
-Janeane Garofalo
rougy>> ^Throbbin:
I have killed.
I have helped kill.
I have killed part of myself.
I cannot change this. I...
I must seek Buddha.
I must seek Christ
-Janeane Garofalo
Half Baked, the movie
Stoner's film I've not yet seen
Recently Netflixed
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