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The Subject is Poetry
by HS Merwin
On the Subject of Poetry
I do not understand the world, Father.
By the millpond at the end of the garden
There is a man who slouches listening
To the wheel revolving in the stream, only
There is no wheel there to revolve.
He sits in the end of March, but he sits also
In the end of the garden; his hands are in
His pockets. It is not expectation
On which he is intent, nor yesterday
To which he listens. It is a wheel turning.
When I speak, Father, it is the world
That I must mention. He does not move
His feet nor so much as raise his head
For fear he should disturb the sound he hears
Like a pain without a cry, where he listens.
I do not think I am fond, Father,
Of the way in which always before he listens
He prepares himself by listening. It is
Unequal, Father, like the reason
For which the wheel turns, though there is no wheel.
I speak of him, Father, because he is
There with his hands in his pockets, in the end
Of the garden listening to the turning
Wheel that is not there, but it is the world,
Father, that I do not understand.
–W. S. Merwin, from his book The Dancing Bears
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There will Come Soft Rains
by Sara Teasdale
(War Time)
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
From The Language of Spring, edited by Robert Atwan,
published by Beacon Press, 2003.
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Murder Most Foul
by Bob Dylan
'Twas a dark day in Dallas - November '63
The day that will live on in infamy
President Kennedy was riding high
A good day to be living and a good day to die
Being led to the slaughter like a sacrificial lamb
Say wait a minute boys, do you know who I am?
Of course we do, we know who you are
Then they blew off his head when he was still in the car
Shot down like a dog in broad daylight
'ÜTwas a matter of timing and the timing was right
You got unpaid debts and we've come to collect
We're gonna kill you with hatred and without any respect
We'll mock you and shock you, we'll grin in your face
We've already got someone here to take your place
The day that they blew out the brains of the king
Thousands were watching, no one saw a thing
It happened so quickly - so quick by surprise
Right there in front of everyone's eyes
Greatest magic trick ever under the sun
Perfectly executed, skillfully done
Wolfman, oh wolfman, oh wolfman, howl
Rub a dub dub it's murder most foul
Hush lil children, you'll soon understand
The Beatles are coming they're gonna hold your hand
Slide down the banister, go get your coat
Ferry 'Ücross the Mersey and go for the throat
There's three bums comin' all dressed in rags
Pick up the pieces and lower the flags
I'm going to Woodstock, it's the Aquarian Age
Then I'll go over to Altamont and sit near the stage
Put your head out the window, let the good times roll
There's a party going on behind the grassy knoll
Stack up the bricks and pour the cement
Don't say Dallas don't love you, Mr. President
Put your foot in the tank and step on the gas
Try to make it to the triple underpass
Black face singer - white face clown
Better not show your faces after the sun goes down
I'm in the red-light district like a cop on the beat
Living in a nightmare on Elm Street
When you're down on Deep Ellum put your money in your shoe
Don't ask what your country can do for you
Cash on the barrel head, money to burn
Dealey Plaza, make a left hand turn
Go down to the crossroads, try to flag a ride
That's the place where Faith, Hope and Charity died
Shoot 'Üem while he runs, boy, shoot 'em while you can
See if you can shoot the Invisible Man
Goodbye, Charlie, goodbye Uncle Sam
Frankly, Miss Scarlet, I don't give a damn
What is the truth and where did it go
Ask Oswald and Ruby - they oughta know
Shut your mouth, says the wise old owl
Business is business and it's murder most foul
Tommy can you hear me, I'm the Acid Queen
I'm ridin' in a long black Lincoln limousine
Ridin' in the back seat, next to my wife
Heading straight on into the afterlife
I'm leaning to the left, got my head in her lap
Oh Lord, I've been led into some kind of a trap
We ask no quarter, no quarter do we give
We're right down the street from the street where you live
They mutilated his body and took out his brain
What more could they do, they piled on the pain
But his soul was not there where it was supposed to be at
For the last fifty years they've been searching for that
Freedom, oh freedom, freedom over me
Hate to tell you, Mister, but only dead men are free
Send me some loving - tell me no lie
Throw the gun in the gutter and walk on by
Wake up, Little Suzie, let's go for a drive
Cross the Trinity River, let's keep hope alive
Turn the radio on, don't touch the dials
Parkland Hospital's only six more miles
You got me dizzy Miss Lizzy, you filled me with lead
That magic bullet of yours has gone to my head
I'm just a patsy like Patsy Cline
I never shot anyone from in front or behind
Got blood in my eyes, got blood in my ear
I'm never gonna make it to the New Frontier
Zapruder's film, I've seen that before
Seen it thirty three times, maybe more
It's vile and deceitful - it's cruel and it's mean
Ugliest thing that you ever have seen
They killed him once, they killed him twice
Killed him like a human sacrifice
The day that they killed him, someone said to me,
'Son, The age of the anti-Christ has just only begun'.
Air Force One coming in through the gate
Johnson sworn in at two thirty-eight
Let me know when you decide to throw in the towel
It is what it is and it's murder most foul
What's New Pussycat - wha'd I say
I said the soul of a nation been torn away
It's beginning to go down into a slow decay
And that it's thirty-six hours past judgment day
Wolfman Jack, he's speaking in tongues
He's going on and on at the top of his lungs
Play me a song, Mr. Wolfman Jack
Play it for me in my long Cadillac
Play that Only The Good Die Young
Take me to the place where Tom Dooley was hung
Play St. James Infirmary in the court of King James
If you want to remember, better write down the names
Play Etta James too, play I'd Rather Go Blind
Play it for the man with the telepathic mind
Play John Lee Hooker play Scratch My Back
Play it for that strip club owner named Jack
Guitar Slim - Goin' Down Slow
Play it for me and for Marilyn Monroe
And please, Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
Play it for the First Lady, she ain't feeling that good
Play Don Henley - play Glenn Frey
Take it to the Limit and let it go by
And play it for Carl Wilson, too
Lookin' far, far away down Gower Avenue
Play Tragedy, play Twilight Time
Take Me Back to Tulsa to the scene of the crime
Play another one and Another One Bites the Dust
Play the Old Rugged Cross and in God We Trust
Ride the Pink Horse down that Long, Lonesome Road
Stand there and wait for his head to explode
Play Mystery Train for Mr. Mystery
The man who fell down dead, like a rootless tree
Play it for the Reverend, play it for the Pastor
Play it for the dog that's got no master
Play Oscar Peterson and play Stan Getz
Play Blue Sky, play Dickie Betts
Play Art Pepper, play Thelonious Monk
Charlie Parker and all that junk
All that junk and All That Jazz
Play something for The Birdman of Alcatraz
Play Buster Keaton play Harold Lloyd
Play Bugsy Siegel play Pretty Boy Floyd
Play all the numbers, play all the odds
Play Cry Me A River for the Lord of the Gods
Play number nine, play number six
Play it for Lindsey and Stevie Nicks
Play Nat King Cole, play Nature Boy
Play Down in the Boondocks for Terry Malloy
Play It Happened One Night and One Night of Sin
There's twelve million souls that are listening in
Play the Merchant of Venice, play the merchants of death
Play Stella by Starlight for Lady Macbeth
Don't worry Mr. President, help's on the way
Your brothers are comin', there'll be hell to pay
Brothers? What brothers? What's this about hell?
Tell 'em we're waitin'- keep coming - we'll get them as well
Love Field is where his plane touched down
But it never did get back up off of the ground
Was a hard act to follow, second to none
They killed him on the Altar of the Rising Sun
Play Misty for me and that Old Devil Moon
Play Anything Goes and Memphis in June
Play Lonely at the Top and Lonely Are the Brave
Play it for Houdini spinning around in his grave
Play Jelly Roll Morton, play Lucille
Play Deep in a Dream and play Drivin' Wheel
Play Moonlight Sonata in F sharp
And Key to the Highway by the king of the harp
Play Marchin' Through Georgia and Dumbarton's Drums
Play Darkness and death will come when it comes
Play Love Me or Leave Me by the great Bud Powell
Play the Blood Stained Banner - play Murder Most Foul
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Essay on Craft
by OCEAN VUONG
Because the butterfly's yellow wing
flickering in black mud
was a word
stranded by its language.
Because no one else
was coming I ran
out of reasons.
So I gathered fistfuls
of ash, dark as ink,
hammered them
into marrow, into
a skull thick
enough to keep
the gentle curse
of dreams. Yes, I aimed
for mercy
but came only close
as building a cage
around the heart. Shutters
over the eyes. Yes,
I gave it hands
despite knowing
that to stretch that clay slab
into five blades of light,
I would go
too far. Because I, too,
needed a place
to hold me. So I dipped
my fingers back
into the fire, pried open
the lower face
until the wound widened
into a throat,
until every leaf shook silver
with that god
-awful scream
& I was done.
& it was human.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2017)
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The Gift
by Deborah Gerrish
The Gift
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The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
rom The Peace of Wild Things And Other Poems (Penguin, 2018)
Copyright (c) 2012 by Wendell Berry
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Glimpses
by Stephen Dunn
It’s the last few hours of a county fair,
or the ninth inning, score tied, in a small-town
high school big game, everything that’s going
to happen destined to feel inevitable.
Everett’s favorite cow has yet to win a prize,
and what occurs next on the field will likely determine
whether a certain boy, years later, will run for mayor,
or still be known as the guy who dropped the ball.
Elsewhere in the same town Pastor William
is writing down his sermon on what it takes
to live a moral life, confusing rectitude
with deprivation, and his wife’s frequent,
unapologetic nothing-for-you-tonight-dear.
Tomorrow, no doubt, because this happens
in towns both large and small, seventh-grade
Joshua, who knows the answer, but won’t go
to the chalkboard because he has a hard-on,
is thought to be dumb. That is, until he proves
he’s not, the answer written down in code
for Mr. Zenner to see, perhaps to understand.
Sharon the beauty is also smart and her pet pig
wins Best in Class, but she won’t accept the award.
The family needs money, but the prize is given
by the DAR, and she wants to take a stand.
It seems inevitable that in a town this size
Joshua and Sharon will marry, but she goes
to a faraway college, meets Nathaniel,
a city boy who knows nothing about pigs
but something about integrity. They fall in love
and the rest, as they say, is history—babies and
hardship, grad school and in her case visits
to the now curious place that was home—
Joshua working the counter at Beal’s Hardware,
Thursday night bingo at the church—
how things could have been
had she not become someone else.
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Stones
by David Wagoner
I bring them from the mountains,
from the sea, from the edge
of streams and look at them,
heft them, hold them hard
while they keep holding themselves
harder. Is it because
they haven't had to change
their surfaces in our time
though, in theirs, they've suffered
the blunt demands of ice
and water and wind and god
knows fire, been cracked and frozen,
thawed, made molten again
and again have started over
grinding and being ground
from monument to boulder,
to rock, to river stone,
to gravel, to pebbles, to sand,
to slurries of grit, to dust?
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Let Evening Come
by Jane Kenyon
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
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I have walked through many lives, some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
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Steve Knofke, a 28 yr auto worker at Ford in Michigan weighs in on the history of the current UAW - Big Three Showdown, and relates the spirits and thinking of shop floor workers.
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Flower in a Crannied Wall
by Alfred, Lord of Tennyson
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
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Enlighten Radio Presents:
Broadcast LIVE on Sept 12, 2023, 4 PM
Hosts: John Case, Scott Marshall, JB Christensen
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Host: Mike Cuccherini
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