“A poem … is when you are in love and have the sky in your mouth.”

Jean-Pierre Simeón, from This Is a Poem That Heals Fish

Dang good reasons to pause in the middle of your busy life to read poetry:

Poetry can penetrate right to the center of what truly matters.  What subversive act, in a culture hell-bent on filling space with activity and silence with noise, to simply slow down and read a poem! Turning to poetry, as Adrienne Rich said, “…can break open locked chambers of possibility, restore numbed zones to feeling, recharge desire.”   Poetry has even saved lives.  It’s true.  Dang good reasons, yes?  Nuff said.  Onward!

Image: Paul Cezanne, Still life, pitcher and fruit

September 2017 ~ Teodoro Luna’s Two Kisses

“My dear Teodoro, your eyebrows are a gift from God,”
said an enthralled Mrs. Luna.

Mr. Teodoro Luna in his later years had taken to kissing
His wife
Not so much with his lips as with his brows.
This is not to say he put his forehead
Against her mouth —
Rather, he would lift his eyebrows, once, quickly:
Not so vigorously he might be confused with the villain
Famous in the theaters, but not so little as to be thought
A slight movement, one of accident. This way
He kissed her
Often and quietly, across tables and through doorways,
Sometimes in photographs, and so through the years themselves.
This was his passion, that only she might see.  The chance
He might feel some movement on her lips
Toward laughter.

Alberto Rios from Teodoro Luna’s Two Kisses: Poems
Copyrighted material; for educational/therapeutic purposes only.

By |September 1st, 2017|Tags: , , , |

August 2017 ~ Only Years

I have long loved this poem, deeply touching without a hint of sorrow or regret.  The title is a clue.
May your memories, likewise, bring a soft fragrance to your heart.

I come back to the cottage in
Santa Monica Canyon where
Andrée and I were poor and
Happy together. Sometimes we
Were hungry and stole vegetables
From the neighbors’ gardens.
Sometimes we went out and gathered
Cigarette butts by flashlight.
But we went swimming every day,
All year round. We had a dog
Called Proclus, a vast yellow
Mongrel, and a white cat named
Cyprian. We had our first
Joint art show, and they began
To publish my poems in Paris.
We worked under the low umbrella
Of the acacia in the dooryard.
Now I get out of the car
And stand before the house in the dusk.
The acacia blossoms powder the walk
With little pills of gold wool.
The odor is drowsy and thick
In the early evening.
The tree has grown twice as high
As the roof.  Inside, an old man
And woman sit in the lamplight.
I go back and drive away
To Malibu Beach and sit
With a grey-haired childhood friend and
Watch the full moon rise over the
Long rollers wrinkling the dark bay.

By Kenneth Rexroth, from The Collected Shorter Poems.
Copyrighted material; for educational/therapeutic purposes only.

Note:  Proclus was a Greek Neoplatonist philosopher, one of the last major Classical philosophers.
Cyprian was bishop of Carthage and an important Early Christian writer 3rd century.


By |August 1st, 2017|Tags: , , |

July 2017 ~ Jubilee

Hop on in!  Enjoy this poem that combines depth, playfulness & eroticism.

Come down to the water. Bring your snare drum,
your hubcaps, the trash can lid. Bring every
joyful noise you’ve held at bay so long.
The fish have risen to the surface this early
morning: flounder, shrimp, and every blue crab
this side of Mobile.  Bottom feeders?  Please.
They shine like your Grandpa Les’ Cadillac,
the one you rode in, slow so all the girls
could see.  They called to you like katydids.
And the springs in that car sounded like tubas
as you moved up and down.  Make a soulful sound
unto the leather and the wheel, praise the man
who had the good sense to build a front seat
like a bed, who knew you’d never buy a car
that big if you only meant to drive it.

Gabrielle Calvocoressi from Apocalyptic Swing
Copyrighted material; for educational/therapeutic purposes only.

By |July 1st, 2017|Tags: , , , |

Lucky’s Corner


Here’s a tasty morsel of poetic medicine from Lucky.
Down the hatch!

“My favourite poem
is the one that starts
‘Thirty days hath September’
because it actually
tells you something.”

Groucho Marx

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