By Rita Dove, here's a timely poem:

Rosa

How she sat there,
the time right inside a place
so wrong it was ready.

That trim name with
its dream of a bench
to rest on. Her sensible coat.

Doing nothing was the doing:
the clean flame of her gaze
carved by a camera flash.

How she stood up
when they bent down to retrieve
her purse. That courtesy.

Posted by: annika at 09:44 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Think about it.

Posted by: annika at 06:40 PM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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1 Pretty randy. I like the way the action just takes off in the second line.

Posted by: gcotharn at October 20, 2005 07:43 PM (z1J0S)

2 If a chihuahua wrote Haiku Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip

Posted by: Jake at October 20, 2005 08:06 PM (r/5D/)

3 mrow miau me wow miau? FFT! Rrow sss yowl mrow-wow yow! Prrrm mrowm miau mau mi?

Posted by: Desert Cat at October 20, 2005 08:35 PM (xdX36)

4 I'm still laughing, "think about it" hooked me. I'll be giggling all day over that one.

Posted by: Casca at October 21, 2005 06:19 AM (qBTBH)

5 HAHAHAHHAHAH...me too! And I have a big meeting today, I just know woof woof woof will flash across my mind at some point and then I'll be laughing out loud for reasons no one else will know.

Posted by: dawn summers at October 21, 2005 07:34 AM (SOf9N)

6 many disturbing dog Haiku dreams last night thanks alot a's j.

Posted by: d-rod at October 21, 2005 09:46 AM (ci7UZ)

7 At least they're not writing limericks...

Posted by: BobG at October 21, 2005 03:15 PM (/UKvh)

8 If you'd bought my book, you'd have seen I did the chicken haiku back in 2001. Ah, sadness. How to market... how to market... Kevin

Posted by: Kevin Kim at October 21, 2005 08:36 PM (1PcL3)

9 Forgot to mention-- in Korea, the dog's bark is either "mung-mung!" or "wah-wah!" mung mung mung mung mung! wa wa wa wa wa wa wa! mung mung wa wa mung! Kevin

Posted by: Kevin Kim at October 22, 2005 02:45 AM (TDwc6)

10 Nuts-- that last line should be changed. The real poem is: mung mung mung mung mung! wa wa wa wa wa wa wa! mung mung wa wa ... ...stew Now it's Korean. Kevin (yes, I've eaten boshin-t'ang, and I have no regrets... mm, good doggie)

Posted by: Kevin Kim at October 22, 2005 02:51 AM (TDwc6)

11 Kevin: You are a sick person. Take your meds and call the doc for a checkup. How many copies did you sell of that masterpiece?

Posted by: shelly at October 25, 2005 01:37 AM (6mUkl)

12 i once ordered a dish at a Korean resaurant that listed one of its ingredients as "meat." Then someone at the table warned me that it might not be a good idea to order something called "meat" on the menu, if it didn't say what kind of meat. By then i didn't have the guts to change my order, so i ate it. It tasted like chicken, btw.

Posted by: annika at October 25, 2005 11:31 AM (zAOEU)

13 Shelly, How many copies? Not as many as Stephen King. Sickness, by the way, is only in the mind. Annika, All hail Mystery Meat! If it tasted like chicken, it certainly wasn't dog. Dog meat is stringy, not very good-looking, and tastes nothing like chicken. It does, however, have its own yummy charm, though I didn't like the stew's broth very much. Next time I order dog, I'm getting the barbecued version. Kevin

Posted by: Kevin Kim at October 27, 2005 05:51 AM (1PcL3)

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Here's a classic American poem from 1888, which you all should know.

Casey At The Bat

by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that–
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped–
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the sphereoid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville ― mighty Casey has struck out.

Posted by: annika at 09:49 PM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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Playwright Harold Pinter has won the Nobel Prize for literature. i saw a production of his most famous play The Birthday Party years ago. It was as advertised: tense, absurdist, deeply psychological and disturbing. i recommend it. i have also seen The Caretaker, which i didn't like as much.

But Pinter is as anti-American as they come, which says something about the Nobel committee, since i don't think Pinter's done anything noteworthy since he wrote The French Lieutenant's Woman.

Here's a sampling of his poetry:

Democracy

There's no escape.
The big pricks are out.
They'll fuck everything in sight.
Watch your back.

God Bless America

Here they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America's God.

The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn't join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who've forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America's God.

Update: More at The New Criterion. Hat tip to K-Lo at The Corner.

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Poetry Wednesday is like Desmond's crappy 80's Apple II on Lost. What would happen if i didn't enter the code and push the button every week?

Update: i chickened out.

October

by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrowÂ’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapesÂ’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapesÂ’ sake along the wall.

Posted by: annika at 07:06 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Typically Frank O'Hara. The setting for this poem starts out in bed and ends up in the street.

Poem

That's not a cross look it's a sign of life
but I'm glad you care how I look at you
this morning (after I got up) I was thinking
of President Warren G. Harding and Horace S.
Warren, father of the little blonde girl
across the street and another blonde Agnes
Hedlund (this was in the 6th grade!)        what

now the day has begun in a soft grey way
with elephantine traffic trudging along Fifth
and two packages of Camels in my pocket
I can't think of one interesting thing Warren
G. Harding did, I guess I was passing notes
to Sally and Agnes at the time he came up
in our elephantine history course everything

seems slow suddenly and boring except
for my insatiable thinking towards you
as you lie asleep completely plotzed and
gracious as a hillock in the mist from one
small window, sunless and only slightly open
as is your mouth and presently your quiet eyes
your breathing is like that history lesson

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