Forest Whitaker by Brother Ali

Dependin' on the day, and dependin' on what I ate
I'm anywhere from twenty to thirty-five pounds overweight
I got red eyes and one of them's lazy
And they both squint when the sun shines so I look crazy
I'm albino, man, I know I'm pink and pale
And I'm hairy as hell, everywhere but fingernails

I shave a cranium that ain't quite shaped right
Face type, shiny, I stay up and write late nights
My wardrobe is jeans and faded shirts
A mixture of what I like and what I wear to work

I'm not mean and got a neck full of razor bumps
I'm not the classic profile of what the ladies want
You might think I'm depressed as can be
But when I look in the mirror I see sexy-ass me

And if that's somethin that you can't respect then that's peace
My life's better without you, actually
To everyone out there, who's a little different
I say damn a magazine, these is God's fingerprints
You can call me ugly but can't take nothing from me
I am what I am, doctor, you ain't gotta love me
I'ma be all right
You ain't gotta be my friend tonight
And I'ma be okay
You would probably bore me anyway
I'ma be all right
You ain't gotta be my friend tonight
And I'ma be okay
You would probably bore me anyway

Thanks For Remembering Us by Dana Gioia

The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they're not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can't
throw out a gift we've never owned.

How to Change a Frog Into a Prince by Anna Denise

Start with the underwear. Sit him down.
Hopping on one leg may stir unpleasant memories.
If he gets his tights on, even backwards, praise him.
Fingers, formerly webbed, struggle over buttons.
Arms and legs, lengthened out of proportion, wait,
as you do, for the rest of him to catch up.
This body, so recently reformed, reclaimed,
still carries the marks of its time as a frog. Be gentle.
Avoid the words awkward and gawky.
Do not use tadpole as a term of endearment.
His body, like his clothing, may seem one size too big.
Relax. There's time enough for crowns. He'll grow into it.

The Death of Santa Claus by Charles Webb

He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,
he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap
open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,
until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't
stop squeezing. He can't
breathe, and the beautiful white
world he loves goes black,
and he drops on his jelly belly
in the snow and Mrs. Claus
tears out of the toy factory
wailing, and the elves wring
their little hands, and Rudolph's
nose blinks like a sad ambulance
light, and in a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,
telling my mom that stupid
kids at school say Santa's a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,
and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

On Being Fired Again by Erin Belieu

I've known the pleasures of being
fired at least eleven times-
most notably by Larry who found my snood
unsuitable, another time by Jack,
whom I was sleeping with. Poor attitude,
tardiness, a contagious lack
of team spirit; I have been unmotivated
squirting perfume onto little cards,
while stocking salad bars, when stripping
covers from romance novels, their heroines
slaving on the chain gang of obsessive love-
and always the same hard candy
of shame dissolving in my throat;
handing in my apron, returning the cash-
register key. And yet, how fine it feels,
the perversity of freedom which never signs
a rent check or explains anything to one's family.
I’ve arrived again, taking one more last
walk through another door, thinking “I am
what is wrong with America,” while outside
in the emptied, post-rushhour street,

the sun slouches in a tulip tree and the sound
of a neighborhood pool floats up on the heat.

Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.

After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

Hate Poem by Julie Sheehan

I hate you truly. Truly I do.

Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

Love Song by Dorothy Parker

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled—
Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world,—

And I wish I’d never met him.

My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams,—

And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart,—

And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

Warning by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other peoples' gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

“Faith” is a fine invention by Emily Dickenson

“Faith” is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.

“Intro to Poetry” by Billy Collins

 

“Intro to Poetry” by Billy Collins

"Introducción a la poesía" por Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.

Les pido que tomen un poema y sostenlo a la luz como una diapositiva de color o presione una oreja contra su colmena. Digo soltar un ratón en un poema y mire cómo él busca su camino, o caminar dentro de la habitación del poema y siente las paredes por un interruptor de luz. Los quiero a waterski a través de la superficie de un poema saludando al nombre del autor en la orilla. Pero todo lo que quieren hacer está vinculado el poema a una silla con cuerda y torturar una confesión de ello. Comienzan a golpearlo con una manguera para descubrir lo que realmente significa.

The Uncertainty of the Poet by Wendy Cope

‘The Tate Gallery announced yesterday that it had paid 1 million pounds for a Giorgio de Chirico masterpiece, The Uncertainty of the Poet. It depicts a torso and a bunch of bananas.' (Guardian, 2 April 1985)

I am a poet.
I am very fond of bananas.

I am bananas.
I am very fond of a poet.

I am a poet of bananas.
I am very fond,

A fond poet of ‘I am, I am' –
Very bananas,

Fond of 'Am I bananas,
Am I?' - a very poet.

Bananas of a poet!
Am I fond?' Am I very?

Poet bananas! I am.
I am fond of a ‘very'.

I am of very fond bananas.
Am I a poet?

The Bodybuilder’s Contest By Wislawa Szymborska

 

The Bodybuilder’s Contest By Wislawa Szymborska

El concurso de culturista Por Wislawa Szymborska

From scalp to sole, all muscles in slow motion. The ocean of his torso drips with lotion. The king of all is he who preens and wrestles with sinews twisted into monstrous pretzels. Onstage, he grapples with a grizzly bear the deadlier for not really being there. Three unseen panthers are in turn laid low, Each with one smoothly choreographed blow. He grunts while showing his poses and paces. His back alone has twenty different faces. The mammoth fist he raises as he wins Is a tribute to the force of vitamins

Desde el cuero cabelludo hasta la planta del pie, todos los músculos en cámara lenta. El océano de su torso gotea con loción. El rey de todos es el que se precie y lucha con tendones torcidos en monstruosos pretzels. En el escenario, se enfrenta a un oso pardo. el más mortal por no estar realmente allí. Tres panteras invisibles, a su vez, se ponen bajas, Cada uno con un golpe suavemente coreografiado. Él gruñe mientras muestra sus poses y pasos. Su espalda sola tiene veinte caras diferentes. El puño gigantesco que levanta cuando gana

In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself By Wislawa Szymoborska

The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.
A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
in every other way they're light.
On this third planet of the sun
among the signs of bestiality
a clear conscience is Number One.

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Bloody Men by Wendy Cope

(Bloody like the British use it, not literally bloody)

Bloody men are like bloody buses —

You wait for about a year

And as soon as one approaches your stop

Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,

Offering you a ride.

You’re trying to read the destinations,

You haven’t much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.

Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze

While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by

And the minutes, the hours, the days.” 

Pastoral by Wendy Cope

I wish I was a provincial poet,
Writing a lot about nature.
Whenever I thought about London poets,
I'd mutter darkly, ' I hate yer.'

And off I'd stomp down the wild, wild lanes
In my jeans and my Wellington boots.
A provincial poet doesn't need lipstick
Or tights or respectable suits —

The clutter of urban life. How wonderful
Just to discard it all
And spend one's time communing with everything,
Perched on a dry-stone wall.

And after a busy day communing
To amble back home for a bite,
Then go to the pub with some real people.
Who manage twelve pints in a night.

Which helps them get through the provincial evenings
Without too much boredom or pain.
Real people, as solid and ruddy and calm
As a London bus in the rain!

Some day I'll go and live in the country
And many a notebook I'll fill
With keen observations of animals (mostly
The dead ones because they keep still).
Dead sheep and squashed rabbits. Oh how I shall love it,
My face will be peaceful and brown
And shining with love for all of creation.

Excepting those poets in town.