Poem of the Day
[Macro to micro, in descending mirror-onion-flutter of perspectives:] So we have a Poet Laureate, Donald Hall, another New Englandy type, and he's quite all right, though I myself'd've voted more for NaS or even more preferably MF DOOM, but that level of conceding something to populism and relevance will have to wait.
In the meantime (and times do get mean), I'll have to admit: I rather enjoy this idea: What if I were to post, daily or something like daily, though not necessarily, strictly, "every day," a poem of graspable, chewable Value (to me, at least), to share with my friends? Not a harsh conjecture this, and so we begin, at once, with Vasko Popa, who was old at one point and wrote many poems about wolves:
Between Games
Nobody rests
This one constantly shifts his eyes
Hangs them on his head
And whether he wants it or not starts walking
backwards
He puts them on the soles of his feet
And whether he wants it or not returns walking
on his head
This one turns into an ear
He hears all that won't let itself be heard
But he grows bored
Yearns to turn again into himself
But without eyes he can't see how
That one bares all his faces
One after the other he throws them over the roof
The last one he throws under his feet
And sinks his head into his hands
This one stretches his sight
Stretches it from thumb to thumb
Walks over it walks
First slow then fast
Then faster and faster
That one plays with his head
Juggles it in the air
Meets it with his index finger
Or doesn't meet it at all
Nobody rests
i met the poet laur. of CT in high school. Leo Connellan. He tried to never turn his back to us, even when writing on a chalkboard. He apologized alot. This is one of his poems:
Assassin
I am hidden within
who you think I am.
I memorized it. it's very short