Tag Archives: Alison Mcghee

Poem of the Week – Great Things Have Happened by Alden Nowlan via Alison McGhee

 

 

We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, “Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time.” But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn’t mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I’m sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.

“Is that all?” I hear somebody ask.

Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you’ve never visited
before, when the bread doesn’t taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love. 


For more information on Alden Nowlan, please click here:http://www.poemhunter.com/alden-nowlan/biography/

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A big thanks to Alison for curating these beautiful poems.

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Poem of the Week – December by Gary Johnson (via Alison McGhee)

 

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels singing overhead? Hark.


For more information on Gary Johnson, please click here: http://www.amazon.com/Head-Trauma-Sonnets-Other-Poems/dp/0595403387

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Riding Out at Evening – by Linda McCarriston – Poem of the Week via the lovely Alison McGhee

 

At dusk, everything blurs and softens.
From here out over the long valley,
the fields and hills pull up
the first slight sheets of evening,
as, over the next hour,
heavier, darker ones will follow.

Quieted roads predictable deer
browsing in a neighbor’s field, another’s
herd of heifers, the kitchen lights
starting in many windows. On horseback
I take it in, neither visitor
nor intruder, but kin passing, closer
and closer to night, its cold streams
rising in the sugarbush and hollow.

Half-aloud, I say to the horse,
or myself, or whoever: let fire not come
to this house, nor that barn,
nor lightning strike the cattle.
Let dogs not gain the gravid doe, let the lights
of the rooms convey what they seem to.

And who is to say it is useless
or foolish to ride out in the falling light
alone, wishing, or praying,
for particular good to particular beings,
on one small road in a huge world?
The horse bears along, like grace,

making me better than what I am,
and what I think or say or see
is whole in these moments, is neither
small nor broken. For up, out of
the inscrutable earth, have come my body
and the separate body of the mare:
flawed and aching and wronged. Who then
is better made to say be well, be glad,

or who to long that we, as one,
might course over the entire valley,
over all valleys, as a bird in a great embrace
of flight, who presses against her breast,
in grief and tenderness,
the whole weeping body of the world?


For more information on Linda McCarriston, please click here:http://www.uaa.alaska.edu/cwla/faculty/corefaculty/lindamccarriston.cfm

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October 23, 2012 · 12:53 am

Poem of the Week – Match (excerpt) by Brynn Saito via Alison McGhee

You live in a house of sound and you live
with a ghost. The one who stole your heart
also lives in your heart so you cut it out
with a carving knife and send it flying.
You say sometimes you wake and wait
for the god of loneliness to leave you alone.
I say our city is small and teeming
with ghosts and there are no seasons
for hiding. So we let go of the ones
who called us by our names. We make
ourselves new names by tracing letters
in a sand tray with sharp stones.
This is called Patience or Practicing
Solitude or The Wind Will Ruin Everything
but what does it matter let’s go for beauty
every time. You say the price we pay for love
is loss. I say the price we pay for love
is love.

Many thanks to Alison McGhee for curating these beautiful poems.
For more information on Brynn Saito, please click here: http://brynnsaito.com/bio/

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First Music: Frank Zappa, Allman Brothers, Led Zeppelin, Steve Goodman

Alison McGhee on her blog has been asking the question – “What is the first album you bought?” Such an innocent question but one that brings with it the fullness of memory.

Immediately my mind cast back to my mother’s apartment where I shared a room with my brother for a short period of my life as a teenager. My mother’s solution to our having to share a room was bunk beds. When the bunk beds arrived my brother declared the bottom to be his and that’s where his 16 year old self built a fort to protect himself from me and the world.

Me? I always wanted whatever he wanted so I was bitter at being left with the top bunk. My little sister revenge was to ask him questions from atop my perch as we were going to sleep and shake the bed furiously if he didn’t answer or didn’t answer what I considered to be correctly. Revenge of the little sister. It’s these things I remember so well.

But this bedroom also served as a sort of living room – not just for him but for us. We lived in a small space and the official living room -belonged to our mom. In “our” living room my brother mostly hosted his friends – Declan and other nameless young men who seemed to come and go making their way gingerly over a small piece of my mother’s red shag carpet that was vacuumed just so -as they tread a path to our room.

And what was in this room were the sounds of an era – Frank Zappa – Mothers of Invention, The Allman Brothers, Led Zeppelin, Beatles, Steve Goodman, Johnny Winter, Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan, Bob Dylan. And it’s against the backdrop of this music where the first overtures of friendship planted themselves between my brother and myself.

Where we transitioned from quarrelling brother and sister to cohorts and friends. I assisted him in his worldly matters all the while listening to music that initially felt foreign to me and then made me feel like I was part of a club – a special club that existed in that small room for that short period of time.

When my brother left to live with my father he took his albums. My first album I bought afterwards was the Bee Gees – clearly not nearly in the same league of good taste that my brother introduced me to in those heady days of kinship.

Somehow when I think back on this time it was always summer. That hot Ontario sun pouring in our little bedroom window – the two of us sharing a little life together for what proved to be a very short period of time. But man do I remember it.

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Poem of the Week: First Winter in America by Gregory Djanikian (via Alison McGhee)

I walked out into the January blizzard,
my breath froze into small clouds,
and ice was hanging from the trees.

The dunes were dreamy animals;
I heard shovels striking music.

White eyelashes, white mittens,
I thought I could become
whatever I touched.

A year before, in another language,
I held the desert in my hand,
I tasted the iridescent sea.

Now I stayed quiet, afraid
I would never see it again, the sky
shattered into a million pieces
and falling around me.

I watched my mother inside
walking back and forth in her heavy coat,
and my sister rubbing her hands
to make some kind of spark.

I could imagine furnaces rumbling
all over America, heat rising
through the vents, parching the air.

And I stayed where I was,
someplace I had no name for,
not for the snow or my standing still
and watching it fall

beautiful wreckage
deepening
with hardly a sound.


A big thank you to Alison McGhee for artful curation of these beautiful poems.
For more information about Gregory Djanikian, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/gregory-djanikian

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Poem of the Week: Wedding by Emily Rechnitz via the poem gatherer (Alison McGhee)

I stumbled in high heels
across the wood chips
of the Christmas-tree farm
to take my place with the other guests
under coarse pine boughs.

In a coned damsel cap
the bride glimmered
through the woods, materialized
at the altar microphone.

In the barbecue line
his mother whispered on my neck,
“I thought you would be the one!”

I watched the bride and groom
shake hands, stared at his profile
til it buzzed, remembering
2 a.m. behind the high school
when we rocked on a blanket
rubbing jeans into jeans
until the moon jumped and I fell
off the hill slowly, a diamond in glycerine.

I remember walking down a road to meet him,
how the air tingled, in love
with how I looked in my underwear,
dancing in front of his mirror.

Thanks to Alison McGhee for her curation of these beautiful poems.

I could not find any recent information on Emily Rechnitz and her poetry – anyone out there in the know, please update me.

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Poem of the Week: The Dubliners by Patrick Cavanaugh (via Alison McGhee)

(love love this one)

On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day

On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion’s pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away

I gave her gifts of the mind
I gave her the secret signs
Known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint I did not stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there
And her own dark hair
Like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should
A creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay
He’ll lose his wings at the dawn of day

A big thank you to Alison McGhee for her generous curation of these poems.
For more information on Patrick Kavanagh, please click here:http://www.tcd.ie/English/patrickkavanagh/life.html

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Poem of the Week – The Mystical Rose by Adélia Prado (translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Ellen Doré Watson) via Alison McGhee

The first time
I became conscious of form,
I said to my mother:
“Dona Armanda has a basket in her kitchen
where she keeps tomatoes and onions”
and began fretting that even lovely things
eventually spoil,
until one day I wrote:
“It was here in this room that my father died,
here that he wound the clock
and rested his elbows
on what he thought was the windowsill
but was the threshold of death.”
I understood that words grouped like that
made it possible to live without
the things they describe,
that my father was returning, indestructible.
It was as if someone had painted a picture
of Dona Armanda’s basket and said:
“Now you can eat the fruit.”
So, there is order in the world!
—where does it come from?
And why does order, which is joy itself,
and bathes in a different light
than the light of day,
make the soul sad?
We must protect the world from time’s corrosion,
cheat time itself.
And so I kept writing: “My father died in this room …
Night, you can come on down,
your blackness can’t erase this memory.”
That was my first poem.

A big thanks to Alison McGhee for her generous curation of these poems.
For more information on Adelia Prado, please click here: http://bombsite.com/articles/2289

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Poem of the Week (via Alison McGhee) Little Things by Sharon Olds

After she’s gone to camp, in the early
evening I clear our girl’s breakfast dishes
from the rosewood table, and find a small
crystallized pool of maple syrup, the
grains standing there, round, in the night. I
rub it with my fingertip
as if I could read it, this raised dot of
amber sugar, and this time
when I think of my father, I wonder why
I think of my father, of the beautiful blood-red
glass in his hand, or his black hair gleaming like a
broken-open coal. I think I learned to
love the little things about him
because of all the big things
I could not love, no one could, it would be wrong to.
So when I fix on this tiny image of resin
or sweep together with the heel of my hand a
pile of my son’s sunburn peels like
insect wings, where I peeled his back the night before camp,
I am doing something I learned early to do, I am
paying attention to small beauties,
whatever I have –
as if it were our duty to
find things to love, to bind ourselves to this world.

A big thank you to Alison McGhee for her generous curation of these beautiful poems. Enjoy.

For more information about Sharon Olds, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/sharon-olds/

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