There once was an evangelical preacher who made each sermon a double-feature: first, the evils that tempt; then, why he was exempt: "One must know math's pitfalls to be a math teacher..."
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Category Archives: Poetry
London by William Blake [w/ Audio]
I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
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Rhythm Counter [Haiku]
autumn grasses sway to a different rhythm than in summer's youth.
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Butterfly Dogfight [Haiku]
butterflies in spastic jinky orbit: play or bloom combat?
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Summer Grasses by Matsuo Bashō [w/ Audio]
in Summer grass, resides the remnants of warrior dreams.
Japanese: 夏草や兵共がゆめの跡; natsugusa ya // tsuwamonodomo ga // yume no ato
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Growing in Stone [Haiku]
from old stone ruins
grow hardy weeds, raising
flowery heads skyward.
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Gray Skies [Haiku]
Rampart Perspective [Common Meter]
From atop an old stone rampart, one's head within the clouds, one expects to see an old oxcart through that foggy shroud. But down below, the modern day: buses, cafes, and cars. I turn my head the other way, and the world 's as it was: Back in the times when that fortress was besieged and battered, and nothing moved freely but for a flag -- singed and tattered. There's a certain romantic view of long-gone days of old, but I think I'll be heading down before I catch a cold.
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FORCED MARCH by Miklós Radnóti [w/ Audio]
Crazy. He stumbles, flops, gets up, and trudges on again. He moves his ankles and his knees like one wandering pain, then sallies forth, as if a wing lifted him where he went, and when the ditch invites him in, he dare not give consent, and if you were to ask why not? perhaps his answer is a woman waits, a death more wise, more beautiful than this. Poor fool, the true believer: for weeks, above the rooves, but for the scorching whirlwind, nothing lives or moves: the housewall's lying on its back, the prunetree's smashed and bare; even at home, when darkness comes on, the night is furred with fear. Ah, if I could believe it! that not only do I bear what's worth the keeping in my heart, but home is really there; if it might be! -- as once it was, on a veranda old and cool, where the sweet bee of peace would buzz, prune marmalade would chill, late summer's stillness sunbathe in gardens half-asleep, fruit sway among the branches, stark naked in the deep, Fanni waiting at the fence blonde by its rusty red, and shadows would write slowly out all the slow morning said -- but still it might yet happen! The moon's so round today! Friend, don't walk on. Give me a shout and I'll be on my way.
Bolond, ki földre rogyván fölkél és ujra lépked, s vándorló fájdalomként mozdít bokát és térdet, de mégis útnak indul, mint akit szárny emel, s hiába hívja árok, maradni úgyse mer, s ha kérdezed, miért nem? még visszaszól talán, hogy várja őt az asszony s egy bölcsebb, szép halál. Pedig bolond a jámbor, mert ott az otthonok fölött régóta már csak a perzselt szél forog, hanyattfeküdt a házfal, eltört a szilvafa, és félelemtől bolyhos a honni éjszaka. Ó, hogyha hinni tudnám: nemcsak szivemben hordom mindazt, mit érdemes még, s van visszatérni otthon, ha volna még! s mint egykor a régi hűs verandán a béke méhe zöngne, míg hűl a szilvalekvár, s nyárvégi csönd napozna az álmos kerteken, a lomb között gyümölcsök ringnának meztelen, és Fanni várna szőkén a rőt sövény előtt, s árnyékot írna lassan a lassu délelőtt, -- de hisz lehet talán még! a hold ma oly kerek! Ne menj tovább, barátom, kiálts rám! s fölkelek!
NOTE: Originally titled, ERŐLTETETT MENET, and dated September 15, 1944 (in Bor, Serbia,) this poem was found on Radnóti’s person after his execution by fascists in 1944. The translation used is that of Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner: i.e. Radnóti, Miklós. 2014. Foamy Sky: The Major Poems of Miklós Radnóti. ed. & trans. Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner. Budapest: Corvina Books, pp. 228-229.
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Waking to Snow [Haiku]
first snowy morn. the only signs of life: plodding footprints.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 