Poetry Mondays – Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

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there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****s and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

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Poetry Mondays – Howl (Allen Ginsberg)

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I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

             madness, starving hysterical naked,

       dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn

             looking for an angry fix,

       angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

             connection to the starry dynamo in the

machinery of night,

       who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat

             up smoking in the supernatural darkness of

              cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities

             contemplating jazz,

       who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and

             saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-

             ment roofs illuminated,

       who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes

             hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy

             among the scholars of war,

       who were expelled from the academies for crazy &

             publishing obscene odes on the windows of the

             skull,

       who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-

             ing their money in wastebaskets and listening

             to the Terror through the wall,

       who got busted in their pubic beards returning through

             Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

       who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in

             Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their

             torsos night after night

       with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-

             cohol and cock and endless balls,

       incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and

             lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of

             Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the

motionless world of Time.

Collected Poems 1947-1997

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost

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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.

The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged

Poetry Mondays – Twas just this time last year I died. (Emily Dickinson)

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‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn,

When I was carried by the Farms 

It had the Tassels on 

I thought how yellow it would look 

When Richard went to mill 

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will. 

I thought just how Red — Apples wedged

The Stubble’s joints between 

And the Carts stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in 

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father’d multiply the plates 

To make an even Sum 

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The Altitude of me 

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year 

Themself, should come to me 

The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

Poetry Mondays – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (Dylan Thomas)

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When Worlds Collide

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Author Notes

DT’s father was going blind when DT wrote this poem. The dying of the light is a reference to darkness and being blind.

Photo Credit: http://www.davemorrowphotography.com

The Poems of Dylan Thomas, New Revised Edition [with CD]

Poetry Mondays – Easy A by Ryan Fu from The Hated Ones

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There’s something magical

watching someone self-destruct,

there’s a beauty and honesty

about the downward spiral.

You can’t turn away from it

like an oncoming car crash or an F5 tornado,

terrorizing and destroying

everything around it.

You wish them the best but secretly,

you want to see how far the rabbit hole

they can fall and stumble

past the point of no return. 

It’s all our fault.

We did this to them.

We gave them the magic carpet,

then pulled it underneath them. 

We put them on the highest pedestal

because we’re scared of heights.

So we make them stars

then wait til gravity does its job.

A nation of vultures

waiting for the next falling star.

Welcome the New Roman Colosseum,

where we crucify our heroes.

Photo Credit: Owen Beiny/ WENN

Easy A

Weekend Inspiration – Lays of Ancient Rome by Thomas Babington Macaulay

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Poetry Mondays – Beer by Charles Bukowski

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Love is A Mad Dog From Hell

I don’t know how many bottles of beer

I have consumed while waiting for things

to get better

I dont know how much wine and whisky

and beer

mostly beer

I have consumed after

splits with women-

waiting for the phone to ring

waiting for the sound of footsteps,

and the phone to ring

waiting for the sounds of footsteps,

and the phone never rings

until much later

and the footsteps never arrive

until much later

when my stomach is coming up

out of my mouth

they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:

“what the hell have you done to yourself?

it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!” 

the female is durable

she lives seven and one half years longer

than the male, and she drinks very little beer

because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad

they are out

dancing and laughing

with horney cowboys.

well, there’s beer

sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles

and when you pick one up

the bottle fall through the wet bottom

of the paper sack

rolling

clanking

spilling gray wet ash

and stale beer,

or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.

in the morning

making the only sound in your life.

beer

rivers and seas of beer

the radio singing love songs

as the phone remains silent

and the walls stand

straight up and down

and beer is all there is.

Love is a Dog From Hell

Poetry Mondays – The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

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Wizardpaths

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged

Poetry Mondays – Remember by Christina Rossetti

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Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann’d:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

The Complete Poems (Penguin Classics)