Posts with tag: poetry-lyrics

This poem by Lynna Odel is used as an epigraph for Eric Holthaus’s new book on climate change. Beautiful.

If I can’t save us
then let me feel you
happy and safe
under my chin.

If this will drown
or burn

then let us drink starlight
nap under trees
sing on beaches—

the morning rush to sit indoors is for
what, again?

If we are dying

then let me rip open
and bleed Love,
spill it, spend it
see how much
there is

the reward for misers is
what, again?

If this life is ending

then let me begin
a new one

—Lynna Odel (2019)

Lynna’s personal take on fighting climate change has wisdom.

There’s something I should tell you
Before I take your blindfold off
I’ve been twisted and turned
By what I have learned
I’m superdeformed
But my blood is warm

∽ Matthew Sweet

Reciting The Hollow Men

Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now
Marlon Brando, Apocalypse Now, 1979

A dear friend of mine and I were recently discussing some of the surprising educational blessings we received in high school in Hutchinson, Kansas. The music program was exceptional, with some truly dedicated teachers. (Thank you Jim Swiggart and Mike … the rest “Reciting The Hollow Men”


arm reachin in darkness
Photo by Cherry Laithang.

I feel the moment of my arms
Hanging from bone levers off my spine.
They sway like untethered booms,
Cables slack.

Why are they made so long?
I use the ends of them for
Cracking eggs, gripping handles,
Pressing keys. … the rest “Reach”

Seamus Heaney

Yesterday, April 13th, was the birthday of poet Seamus Heaney. My father’s birthday is also this month and when I pulled this volume of Heaney’s poems off my bookshelf, I remembered that this was yet another gift of verse my dad had given to me a number of years ago.

Here’s a poem about fathers and sons. (My father is alive and well, despite what the sentiment of the verse implies.)


My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.

As expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the header, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land.
His eye Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

—Seamus Heaney, Poems 1965-1975

Twenty years old.
The man had game.

White Bee

White bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey, and your flight winds in slow spirals of smoke.

I am the one without hope, the word without echoes, he who lost everything and he who had everything.

Last hawser, in you creaks my last longing. In my barren land you are the final rose.

Ah you who are silent!

Let your deep eyes close. There the night flutters. Ah your body, a frightened statue, naked.

You have deep eyes in which the night flails. Cool arms of flowers and a lap of rose.

Your breasts seem like white snails. A butterfly of shadow has come to sleep on your belly.

Ah you who are silent!

Here is the solitude from which you are absent. It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls.

The water walks barefoot in the wet streets. From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul. You live again in time, slender and silent.

Ah you who are silent!

—Pablo Neruda, From Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, Translated by W.S. Merwin

lucie rohan

Some women have big
wait thirty minutes after eating
blue eyes
and deep check the safety

Those women are likely up to something.

I would hope so.


Soap bubbles

One morning the God of our universe
waved a soapy cosmic wand about himself
and dragged our stars into existence.

He stood contemplating the large bubble of light
as it undulated and shimmered,
drifting towards the edge of his vision.… the rest “Maker”



Faith and Reason are tired of warring.

Heartbroken and weary from many battles
Reason sat down on the tracks to ponder.
Belief had told him once,
“There’s no reason we can’t get along,
You are for this world, I for

the rest “Rivals”

This is what happened…

Poet James Tate
Poet James Tate

Two Poems from Dome of the Hidden Pavilion by James Tate

I just finished ‘Dome of the Hidden Pavilion by the late James Tate.
Absolutely wonderful.
Tate recounts experiences on the edge of absurdity but not so absurd you can’t … the rest “This is what happened…”