G is for Ginsberg

Today's letter brings you yet another Beat poet in Alan Ginsberg. I liked this photo, the cloud of cigarette smoke seems to sum up the 1950s to me. I confess I don't know much of his work and found 'Howl' to be utterly impenetrable, but this one I rather like. It was written much more recently (1980) but has the same political anger and rather in-your-face attitude.

Homework 
(homage to Kenneth Koch)

If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty Iran
I'd throw my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put 
all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson, Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletale Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon till it came out clean.

(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)

F is for Ferlinghetti and Fox

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Lawrence Ferlinghetti is 96, I was surprised to discover that he is still alive, that's 60 years of writing poetry. He was one of the group of Beat poets in the 1950s, though I am not sure if that is a label he might still apply to himself. He is another person I have mentioned before ( a couple more of his poems to be found here and here), and this one comes from his collection 'These are my rivers - new and selected poems 1955-1993'. Again I have this problem of the peculiar layout style, which breaks up the rhythm and meaning, but I will do my best to reproduce it.

The World is a Beautiful Place

               The world is a beautiful place
                                                     to be born into
   if you don't mind happiness
                                    not always being
                                                           so very much fun
       if you don't mind a touch of hell
                                                   now and then
                   just when everything is fine
                                          because even in heaven
                                   they don't sing
                                                       all the time

             The world is a beautiful place
                                                    to be born into
      if you don't mind some people dying
                                                           all the time
                       or maybe only starving
                                                      some of the time
               which isn't half so bad
                                               if it isn't you

     Oh the world is a beautiful place
                                                  to be born into
            if you don't much mind
                                          a few dead minds
                     in the higher places
                                                or a bomb or two
                          now and then
                                             in your upturned faces
     or other such improprieties
                                           as our Name Brand society
                              is prey to
                                          with its men of distinction
                 and its men of extinction
                                                   and its priests
                 and other patrolmen
                                             and its various segregations
    and congressional investigations
                                                 and other constipations
                     that our fools flesh
                                                 is heir to

    Yes the world is the best place of all
                                              for a lot of such things as
         making the fun scene
                                            and making the love scene
  and making the sad scene
                and singing low songs and having inspirations
          and walking around
                                      looking at everything
                                                    and smelling flowers
          and goosing statues
                                    and even thinking
                                                      and kissing people and
                making babies and wearing pants
                                                        and waving hats and
                                            dancing
                         and going swimming in orders
                                      on picnics
                                               in the middle of summer
                   and just generally
                                                 'living it up'
   Yes
       but then right in the middle of it
                                                  comes the smiling

                                        mortician



And, because I am trying to include something from every poetry book I own, here is something very short and to the point, from Rachel Fox:

Living for Beginners

Breathing's important
Food is good too
Everything else
Is just something you do

(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)

E is for Ehrenburg

'Scanning the Century' edited by Peter Forbes is one of those very chunky anthologies, that I bought in a fit of enthusiasm but have not really browsed very much. The best thing about this challenge is that it has provoked some serious poetry book rooting, and in searching for poets to match the letters I have been coming across new discoveries. 
Ilya Ehrenburg was a journalist throughout WW1, the Spanish Civil War and WW11, but he is also considered one of the significant Russian war poets. I was drawn to this one because it is not about the soldier's graphic experience of battle but more subtle about the moral response to violence.

Retribution

She lay beside the bridge. The German troops had reckoned
To cheapen her by this. Instead, her nakedness
Was like an ancient statue's unadorned perfection,
Was like unspotted Nature's loveliness and grace.
We covered her and carried her. The bridge, unsteady,
Appeared to palpitate beneath our precious load.
Our soldiers halted there, in silence stood bare-headed,
Each transformed, acknowledging the debt he owed.
Then Justice headed westward. Winter was a blessing,
With hatred huddled mute, and snows a fiery ridge.
The fate of Germany that murky day was settled 
Because of one dead girl, beside a shaky bridge.


(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)

D is for Dunmore

I haven't read much of Helen Dunmore's poetry but I love her as a novelist (previously reviewed here, here and here). This poem is from 'Staying Alive - real poems for unreal times' edited by Neil Astley, and if you are at all interested in contemporary poetry this anthology is an excellent place to start. (Though when I read it through again, the poem comes across a little like middle class existential angst.)

When You've Got

When you've got the plan of your life
matched to the time it will take
but you just want to press SHIFT/BREAK
and print over and over
this is not what I was after
this is not what I was after,

when you've finally stripped out the house
with its iron-cold fireplace,
its mouldings, its mortgage,
its single skin walls
but you want to write in the plaster
'This is not what I was after,'

when you've got the rainbow-clad baby
in his state-of-the-art pushchair
but he arches his back at you
and pulps his Activity Centre
and you just want to whisper
'This is not what I was after,'

when the vacuum seethes and whines in the lounge
and the waste-disposal unit blows,
when tenners settle in your account
like snow hitting a stove,
when you get chat from your spouse
about marriage and personal growth

when a wino comes to sleep in your porch
on your Citizen's Charter
and you know a hostel's opening soon
but your headache's closer
and you really just want to torch
the bundle of rags and newspaper

and you'll say to the newspaper 
'This is not what we were after,
this is not what we were after.'

(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)

C is for Cassian

Nina Cassian is a Romanian poet, composer, journalist and translator. Some people do manage to pack a lot into their lives, though I suppose, despite publishing 50 volumes, there is not much of a decent living to be made from writing poetry. She has been mentioned on my blog before. These two short poems are from her collection 'Life Sentence', both nice examples of how poetry can say such a lot in very few words.

Morning Exercises

I wake up and say: I'm through.
It's my first thought at dawn.
What a nice way to start the day
with such a murderous thought.

God, take pity on me
- is the second thought, and then
I get out of bed
and live as if
nothing had been said.


Please Give This Seat to an Elderly or Disabled Person

I stood during the entire journey
nobody offered me a seat
although I was at least a hundred years older than anyone else on board,
although the signs of at least three major afflictions
were visible on me:
Pride, Loneliness, and Art.


(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)

B is for Blake and Bukowski

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Today I could not choose, so you get a pair of starkly contrasting poems. I had initially decided on Bukowski but Monkey requested the William Blake, of whom we became very fond during our Philip Pullman period (he is quoted regularly through the His Dark Materials books). 

I think Bukowski is a bit of an acquired taste, often the only word you can use for his poetry is sordid. What I loved about the one below is that it keeps his keen observational style but subverts his usual subject matter and brings us something beautiful.

The Schoolboy by William Blake

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me:
O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn, —
O it drives all joy away!
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

Ah then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour;
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning’s bower,
Worn through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring!

O father and mother if buds are nipped,
And blossoms blown away;
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay, —

How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?


Nirvana by Charles Bukowski

not much chance, 
completely cut loose from 
purpose, 
he was a young man 
riding a bus 
through North Carolina 
on the way to somewhere 
and it began to snow 
and the bus stopped 
at a little cafe 
in the hills 
and the passengers 
entered. 
he sat at the counter 
with the others, 
he ordered and the 
food arrived. 
the meal was particularly 
good and the 
coffee. 
the waitress was 
unlike the women 
he had 
known. 
she was unaffected, 
there was a natural 
humor which came 
from her. 
the fry cook said 
crazy things. 
the dishwasher. 
in back, 
laughed, a good 
clean 
pleasant 
laugh. 
the young man 
watched the snow through the 
windows. 
he wanted to stay 
in that cafe 
forever. 
the curious feeling 
swam through him 
that everything 
was 
beautiful 
there, 
that it would always 
stay beautiful 
there. 
then the bus driver 
told the passengers 
that it was time 
to board. 
the young man 
thought, I'll just sit 
here, I'll just stay 
here. 
but then 
he rose and followed 
the others into the 
bus. 
he found his seat 
and looked at the cafe 
through the bus 
window. 
then the bus moved 
off, down a curve, 
downward, out of 
the hills. 
the young man 
looked straight 
forward. 
he heard the other 
passengers 
speaking 
of other things, 
or they were 
reading 
or 
attempting to sleep. 
they had not 
noticed 
the 
magic. 
the young man 
put his head 
to one side, 
closed his 
eyes, 
pretended to 
sleep. 
there was nothing 
else to do- 
just to listen to the 
sound of the 
engine, 
the sound of the 
tyres in the 
snow.

(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)

A is for Armitage

Welcome to the Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2015. Having spent the weekend doing quite a bit of research for my poetry theme I hope I have found an interesting selection. I confess I favour modern rather than older 'classic' poetry but hope there will be something for every taste over the coming weeks. Simon Armitage is among my favourite poets (previously reviewed here and here) so it was inevitable that he would be the first port of call for my A to Z of Poetry. So to kick us off I give you Night Shift, which I have taken from 'The New Poetry' (currently out of print) from Bloodaxe Books. It is quite typical I felt of much of his work that I have read, quietly understated but evocative images and just a hint of melancholy.

Night Shift by Simon Armitage

Once again I have missed you by moments;

steam hugs the rim of the just-boiled kettle,

water in the pipes finds its own level.

In another room there are other signs

of someone having just left: dust, unsettled

by the sweep of the curtains; the clockwork

contractions of the paraffin heater.

For weeks now we have come and gone, woken

in the acres of empty bedding, written

lipstick love-notes on the bathroom mirror

and in this space we have worked and paid for

we have found ourselves, but lost each other.

Upstairs, at least, there is understanding

in things more telling than lipstick kisses:

the air, still hung with spores of your hairspray;

body-heat stowed in the crumpled duvet.

(Linking back to the A to Z Challenge)