My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

One final selection from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Dreams, God, Albert, and Disappointment

by Ryan Adams

Albert wakes God up (again) and God is pissed,
but then laughs
and makes tea
tea for two
and they sit by the bay window
and God speaks
and Albert, grinning, says, “hmm”
and not much else
and when he talks
it isn’t in a germanic drawl
no
they speak one language
Angelica
which sounds like a puppy barking
about nothing in particular
like an animal sigh
and
eventually
Mrs. Claus comes round too
and says, “hello, Albert,” like he was a kid
because he is just a kid
always was
always is
punk as funk
and they all listen to the story of how
and why
and Albert tries very hard
not to ask too many questions
and
eventually
goes back to the dormitory
and writes stuff down
the ink disappears
into a cloud
and I wake up
in the middle of this firing range
where the bullets
and still the curse of days
and the worry
that my heart will explode
from love
and
disappointment

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Yet another selection from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Joy

by Ryan Adams

When you say a thing that I write too much
I dream myself a thousand-plus
more books I wrote myself
and imagine them in a swinging stack
fainting
and collapsing onto you
as they crush your bones
in the name of art
in the name of american idealism
in the name of the future
because
fuck you and your sleeping wordless criticism
and
that path before me is lit with possibility
and lore
and my cup is not full because it is not a cup
it is a life
it is a heart
and me
I am trying to show you something
about yourself
not me
that a person can do anything
and
that is what hope is
so,
with all due respect,
fuck you if you dismiss this
because it is a process
and
I accept
if you discount what it has to say
but if I draw a line
and say
what have you done today
be prepared
because while you are sleeping
I am with the sunlight
and the life
and joy
joy will rise in the names

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

This week’s poem comes from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Becausewhy

by Ryan Adams

because we are bored
We War
Because we are bored
We Fuck
sexy or not
and
Because we were born to fight
inside
we know
our children too, eventually will die
this is how it is
in the universe of ours
us against time
and
in this place,
show me where god stood up
and said otherwise
i say he does not speak
and may be everything
inside that thought
you are allowed
but may not keep
for the growing
of things
immeasurable
i have not seen him
while i have been alive
and regardless
heaven
that would not work
if men and women
were anything like this
someplace else
especially an elsewhere
of brights
and
if so
that is not a good place to go
i would not dine there
how could one relax
infinitely
in a place like that
so why?
becausewhy
that’s what
that’s what they say
right before
“shut up”
and i’m like
ok
no
never.
Fuck-Face.

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

The following is a poem titled The Kingdom of God by Francis Thompson. I know nothing of Thompson other than when he was alive; or this poem, other than that it was quoted in part in The World’s Religions, a book I recently read.

The Kingdom of God

by Francis Thompson

O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Another song cascading as a poem. Except Saul Williams is originally a slam poet (with degrees in acting and philosophy, no less) who found some release in hip-hop. So a poem it is.

Talk to Strangers

by Saul Williams

Now, I wasn’t raised at gunpoint and I’ve read too many books
To distract me from the mirror when unhappy with my looks
And I ain’t got proper diction for the makings of a thug
Though I grew up in the ghetto and my niggas all sold drugs

And though that may validate me for a spot on MTV
Or get me all the airplay that my bank account would need
I was hoping to invest in a lesson that I learned
I thought this fool had jumped me just because it was my turn

I went to an open space cause I knew he wouldn’t do it
If somebody there could see him or somebody else might prove it
And maybe, in your eyes it may seem I got punked out
Cause I walked a narrow path and then went and changed my route
But that openness exposed me to a truth I couldn’t find
In the clenched fists of my ego, or the confines of my mind
In the hipness of my swagger, or the swagger in my step
Or the scowl of my grimace, or the meanness of my rep
Cause we represent a truth, son, that changes by the hour
And when you open to it, vulnerability is power
And in that shifting form you’ll find a truth that doesn’t change
And that truth is living proof of the fact that God is strange

Talk to strangers when the family fails and friends lead you astray
When Buddha laughs and Jesus weeps and turns out God is gay
Cause angels and messiahs, love, can come in many forms
In the hallways of your projects or the fat girl in your dorm
And when you finally take the time to see what they’re about
Perhaps you find them lonely or their wisdom trips you out

Maybe you’ll find the cycles end you back where you began
But come this time around you’ll have someone to hold your hand
Who prays for you, who’s there for you, who sends you love and light
Exposes you to parts of you that you once tried to fight
And come this time around you’ll choose to walk a different path
You’ll embrace what you turned away and cry at what you laughed
Cause that’s the only way we’re gonna make it through this storm
Where ignorance is common sense and senselessness the norm
And flags wave high above the truth and the two never touch
And stolen goods are overpriced and freedom costs too much
And no one seems to recognize the symbols come to life
The bitten apple on the screen and Jesus had a wife
And she was his Messiah like that stranger may be yours
Who holds a subtle knife that carves through worlds like magic doors

And that’s what I’ve been looking for, the bridge from then to now
Just watching BET like, “What the fuck, son? This is foul.”
But that square box don’t represent the sphere that we live in
The earth is not a flat screen, I ain’t trying to fit in
But this ain’t for the underground, this here is for the sun
A seed a stranger gave to me and planted on my tongue
And when I look at you, I know I’m not the only one

As a great man once said,
“There’s nothing more powerful
than an idea
who’s time
has come.”

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

The Soviet

by mewithoutYou

God is love and love is real
But the dead are dancing with the dead
And whatever’s charming disappears
All things lovely only hurt my head

As I gather stones from fields
Like pearls of water on my fingers’ ends
And wrap them up in boxes
Safe from windows
From things that break

As the nighttime shined like day
It saw my sorry face
Hair a mess but it liked me best that way
Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray
Well, I was looking down her dress

Good God! Please!
Catch for us the foxes
In the vineyard, the little foxes

So turn your ears, you musicians, to silence
Because they only come out when it’s quiet
Their tails brushing over your eyelids
Wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead!
Or the fur that they shed
Is gonna lay on your bed
In a delicate, orange-ish cinnamon red

Ah, but I don’t need this!
Fall down! Stay down!
I don’t need this

One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite bands, and it just so happens to be one of the most sadly poetic things I’ve ever read.

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Like Lilly Like Wilson

By Taylor Mali

I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly Wilson, the recovering like addict,
the worst I’ve ever seen.
So, like, bad the whole eighth grade
started calling her Like Lilly Like Wilson Like.
ŒUntil I declared my classroom a Like-Free Zone,
and she could not speak for days.

But when she finally did, it was to say,
Mr. Mali, this is . . . so hard.
Now I have to think before I . . . say anything.

Imagine that, Lilly.

It’s for your own good.
Even if you don’t like . . .
it.

I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly is writing a research paper for me
about how homosexuals shouldn’t be allowed
to adopt children.
I’m writing the poem that will change the world,
and it’s Like Lilly Like Wilson at my office door.

She’s having trouble finding sources,
which is to say, ones that back her up.
They all argue in favor of what I thought I was against.

And it took four years of college,
three years of graduate school,
and every incidental teaching experience I have ever had
to let out only,

Well, that’s a real interesting problem, Lilly.
But what do you propose to do about it?
That’s what I want to know.

And the eighth-grade mind is a beautiful thing;
Like a new-born baby’s face, you can often see it
change before your very eyes.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I’d like to switch sides.

And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it!
That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether or not you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn’t matter what you pack
them with so long as they open
at the right time.
O God, Lilly, I want to say
you make me feel like a teacher,
and who could ask to feel more than that?
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you!

So I finally taught somebody something,
namely, how to change her mind.
And learned in the process that if I ever change the world
it’s going to be one eighth grader at a time.

Taylor Mali is a personal favorite poet. I enjoy slam poetry and poems that are better when recited live. So here’s Mali performing it: