In Vocation of the Muse: by Bonnie McClellan

This poem has disappeared from this website. To hear a reading click on the audio player below:

To read more poetry by Bonnie McClellan, click HERE.

A petal from ‘California Notebooks’: by Anna Mosca

Trova questa poesia QUI.

The English version of this poem has disappeared from this website but it can now be found HERE.

A reading of the poem by the poet can be heard by clicking on the player below:

(translation by Bonnie McClellan)
You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

Ultimo cliente di Giacomo Gusmeroli


L’armonia nascosta è superiore alla manifesta

(Eraclito)

Ultimo cliente

I

Chiese di passargli il 41 delle Clark dallo scaffale.
Edith le fece ripetere il numero. Salii io sulla scala, sfilai
……………………………………………………………………………..[la scatola
e diedi il polacchino blu al cliente.
Erano le 19e30 sul mio orologio e dissi a Edith cosa provava.
……………………………………………………………………………..[Ella
accennò un sorriso e rifletté che era ora di chiudere. Dopo
…………………………………………………………………………     [aver tolto
la chiave dalla toppa gliela consegnai.
Mi abbracciò e disse:
“Non porti niente…”
“Non mi serve nulla”
risposi.
“ In questo viaggio non voglio servire a due padroni”.

II

dapprima mi si levò
davanti…

…un acro di terra abbandonato sotto
la rupe. Compivo trent’anni.

Ero come un giglio del campo
quando l’ho visto infestato

di arastre spinescenti e mi piaceva
lo squarcio al confine

con il carruggio
per il Par Impusibèl,

di ciliegi e rosmarino selvatico.
E lì, me ne stavo con braghe

da spaventapasseri, e ogni tanto
negli attimi spogli guardavo

il gran cielo notturno
come da ragazzo

la prima notte d’alpeggi
accosciato sulla specola.

III

Poi nei mesi della Verna restavo
nella mia preghiera austera e sola

volevo molto e chissà volevo
fossero veri davanti

a Lui i miei sogni. Ma niente
era già terminato

dinamico era ogni divenire
e nella lotta maturai. Solo

andare, dovevo, e nessuna
certezza era più lontana

e imparare dai fatti,
come bambino cominciare ancora,

e se fu doloroso per quell’allora;
ora è il presente ed è il quotidiano,

è il tempo,
il senso…

IV

– E chi te lo ha fatto fare, a te, di mollare tutto?
Parecchi mi interrogavano così:
– E – aggiungono, poi all’istante
– è troppo complesso, per dire, –
risparmiandomi la risposta:

con gli amici, invece
dissotterro il dubbio, (che è dar braccio
al passo difficile) della verità.
Mentre al Gianmario, dopo mesi, vicino alla tomba
di Carlo Carretto, ho detto che cerco

la mia religiosità:
– E la mia arte.

Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO
An Engliah translation of this poem, from Giacomo Gusmeroli’s most recent book  LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO can be found below:

“The harmony hidden is superior to that manifest”
(Heraclitus)

Last customer

I

She asked that I pass her the Clark’s in a 9-1/2 from the shelf
Edith asked her to repeat the size. I went up the ladder, slid out
[the box

and gave the blue ankle boots to the client.
It was 7:30 pm by my watch and I asked Edith what she thought.
[And she
with a slight smile agreed that it was time to close. After
[having taken
the key from the lock, I gave it to her.
She hugged me and said:
“You won’t take anything…”
“I won’t need anything”
I replied.
“On this voyage I don’t want to serve two masters”.

II

at first arose
before me…

…an acre of abandoned land below
the scarp. I was thirty.

I was as a lily of the field
when I saw it overrun

with briars and I liked
the opening where it bordered

the beaten path
to the Seemingly Impossible,

wild cherries and rosemary.
And there, I stayed with scarecrow

trousers, and every so often
in bare moments I looked

at the broad night sky
as when as a boy I passed

my first night in the high alps
hunkered in the observatory.

III

Then in the Vernal months I stayed
alone within my austere prayers

I wanted much and who knows I wanted
that they were true before

Him, my dreams. But nothing
was already done

everything yet to become in motion
and in the battle I matured. Only

to go, I had to, and no
certainty was more distant

and learning through doing,
beginning again as a child,

and if it were a painful then,
now it is a daily present,

it is time,
sense…

IV

– And who made you do it, you, let it all go?
Many have interrogated me so:
– And – then they add, at the moment
– it is too complex, to say, –
sparing me my response:

with my friends
I unearth instead my doubt, (which is to offer a hand
through a difficult pass) of the truth.
While to Gianmario, months later, near the grave
of Carlo Carretto, I said I was in search of

my devotion:
–And my art.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

There I was…: by Tom McClellan (1941 – 2013)

This poem will remain posted as a memorial to poet Tom McClellan who passed away in August of 2013. A reading of the poem can be heard by clicking on the player below:

 

There I was in the madhouse again,
That summer you remember as the one it didn’t rain
So long the paper ran front page ads for the record-breaking

Drought. Every morning I’d stare into the hard hot sunrise through
Brown tinted shatterproof ––
Your brain finally tells you the crepe myrtle blooms
Eight stories down are really pink despite your eyes.
One day the clouds at last

Gathered low and dark and spat spare droplets on that mirrored barrier ––
Then summer’s fever broke, and I watched my tears
Land and gather thick and run down what kept me from feeling

Rain.

Copyright Tom McClellan 2001 ~ all rights reserved
To read more poetry and prose by Tom McClellan, visit his blog HERE.

born to the precipice: by anonymous 20th century poet

This poem has disappeared from this website, it can now be found here. Listen to a reading of this poem by clicking on the player below:

To hear more poems by anonymous 20th century poet, click HERE.
To read more poetry by anonymous 20th century poet, click HERE.

Autumn Leaves by Adina Richman

This poem has disappeared from this website. To hear a reading of the poem, click on the player below:

copyright 2013 Adina Richman, all rights reserved

To hear more poems by Adina Richman, click HERE.

Once more into the breach…IPM 2014 is open for submissions!

International Poetry Month 2014

once more into the breach…or fill the gap with poetry

I had been casting about for a theme for International Poetry Month 2014 for almost a year when my husband, Matthew Broussard, made a series of paintings on the theme of ambiguous and iconic gestures in December. As soon as I saw the painting “Leap” the phrase in the heading above came to mind.

After a year of listing to news packed with war and disaster, perhaps the unaltered quote from Shakespeare’s Henry V would be more apt – although a quick recap of the years news will tell us that the gap was filled with dead of every nationality: the building collapse in Dar es Salaam, the Fertilizer plant in West, Texas, the Boston Marathon bombing, the constant undercurrent of the financial and employment crisis in Europe, a devastating typhoon in the Philippines, drowning of migrants off of Lampedusa, the wars in South Sudan, Syria…does your heart feel like lead yet, are you about to click on a link to something else, anything else?

Poets are charged with throwing their works into the breach, paving the unseeable future with words that transform the painful, the splendid and the ordinary of where we are now and where we have been, into where we are going…making the leap, perhaps of faith or perhaps of desperation or even of joy. The future is there: blindingly dark, spattered with patches of dense brightness. We’re on the precipice, hanging above the clouds, now….LEAP

Biography of a Bipolar: by Tom McClellan

Reposted from IPM 2MXI in loving memory of Tom McClellan
(23 September 1941 – 3 August 2013)

Biography of a Bipolar

At first friends share the ecstasy that comes before the burn:

“That night he was going crazy everyone

was too drunk to care.”

But after years all learn:

“His conversation grew brilliant and alarming.

Students were frightened by his lecture on Hitler.”

“He wrote the most pitiful letter;

though I was not angry, he spoke of us fighting.”

“His religious notions, never stable, flowered

into oddity; his judgment went haywire.”

“He was barricaded in his room in his skivvies when the police came;

he was surprisingly polite.”

The poet obligingly provides snapshots from hell:

“I meditated Detachment and Urbanity but the old menacing

hilarity was growing in me.”

“What use is my sense of humor when the brain blinks

like a radio station rapidly distanced?”

“I lay there secured but for my skipping mind.”

After the delusions pass, he lacerates his soul with reason:

“Seven years ago Bloomington stood for Joyce’s hero and Indiana for

the evil, unexorcised aborigines, while I suspected myself

The Holy Ghost.  The glory and banality of it are corrupting.”

The poet’s wife learns to suffer a fool who falls in love

with students, madhouse nurses,

any woman but her:

“I don’t think he realizes the damage.”

New drugs offer old hopes of Panacea:

“To think of all that suffering for lack of a little salt in the brain!”

Theories suffer the usual changes:

“Recent research shows mania’s a summertime dis­ease,

perhaps an excess of light.”

(Robert Lowell)

This poem is excerpted from Mr. McClellan’s book: Reflections From Mirror City

 

 

Where are they now?

“IPM will be presenting poems that map territories both broad and intimate, urban and rural, topographies of nations, family relationships and internal landscapes. I invite you all to come and read, bring your keys and re-map the territory of the coming 28 days of poetry…who knows what you’ll discover about your own territory…You are Here. You are This.”

That was the premise with which we began the journey of International Poetry Month. I hope that both Readers and Poets have enjoyed the trip. Today is the second of March, spring is on it’s way and the wind has come to blow through the leaves of these poems and carry them away, leaving only the voices behind. Some you will still be able to find on the web, or in a book. Some will be gone for good. Following is an alphabetical list of the participating poets; each name is also a link to the poet’s work posted at IPM. My deepest thanks to all of you who have participated in IPM 2013 by reading or writing or both.
Again, my sincere thanks to you all for your generous attention to all of these writers and their work.
All the best and Happy Reading,

Bonnie M. McCllan

If your interested in knowing why the written versions of the poems are disappearing, please read my brief post from IPM 2010 HERE.

“La Joie Venait Toujours Après la Peine” : by Liliane Richman

This poem in its written form has disappeared. If you want to know why, click HERE.

To hear a reading of this poem, click on the player below:

Copyright 2013 Liliane Richman, all rights reserved

To hear more poems by Liliane Richman, click HERE.