Tag Archives: Poetry

Friday Night Poetry Blogging

The Conjugation of the Paramecium
~ Muriel Rukeyser

This has nothing
to do with

The species
is continued
as so many are
(among the smaller creatures)
by fission

(and this species
is very small
next in order to
the amoeba, the beginning one)

The paramecium
achieves, then,
by dividing

But when
the paramecium
desires renewal
strength another joy
this is what
the paramecium does:

The paramecium
lies down beside
another paramecium

Slowly inexplicably
the exchange
takes place
in which
some bits
of the nucleus of each
are exchanged

for some bits
of the nucleus
of the other

This is called
the conjugation of the paramecium.

Freedom for the Picts

So it’s on, now, for Scotland. It’s on for one people to break away from the 1%ers who’ve driven the UK into “austerity,” beginning with the nasty grocer’s daughter, and continuing to the present day. Sometimes, a poet can unite a people. Robbie Burns slipped between the veils in 1796, but his poems have been inspiring the Higlanders — and those who love freedom — ever since.

A man’s a man, as he rather sexistly said, for a’ that.

Friday Night Poetry Blogging

Handwriting letters

A Letter from Home

~ Mary Oliver

She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.

Picture found here.

You can buy Mary Oliver’s poems at Poetry and Prose.

Saturday Poetry Blogging

john collier 1850 – 11 April 1934 Pre-Raphaelite 5 stars [phistars.com] the priestes of bacchus


Susan Hawthorne

the call
that hollow sound of Cumaea
I was here before
thousands of years ago

your hundred mouths
words frothed at the edge
of my mouth

the journey looming
flight into the unknown
descent into
the dark thighs of your cave

my hair snake-wreathed
Etruscan Medusa
speaking with a hundred voices
the sibilant hiss of prophecy

seizure grasped
I flail at vanishing memory
bruised rise from the darkness
and almost miss the plane.

Many thanks to Medusa Coils for sending me Ms. Hawthorne’s new book: Lupa and Lamb.

Picture found here.

Bonus Wednesday Night Poetry Blogging


~Mary Oliver
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Picture found here.

Wednesday Evening Poetry Blogging



~ Carl Phillips

There is a difference it used to make,
seeing three swans in this versus four in that
quadrant of sky. I am not imagining. It was very large, as its
effects were. Declarations of war, the timing fixed upon for a sea-
             departure; or,
about love, a sudden decision not to, to pretend instead to a kind
of choice. It was dramatic, as it should be. Without drama,
what is ritual? I look for omens everywhere, because they are everywhere
to be found. They come to me like strays, like the damaged,
something that could know better, and should, therefore—but does not:
a form of faith, you’ve said. I call it sacrifice—an instinct for it, or a habit
             at first, that
becomes required, the way art can become, eventually, all we have
of what was true. You shouldn’t look at me like that. Like one of those
on whom the birds once settled freely.

Picture found here.

Thursday Night Poetry Blogging


I do not have a personal relationship with this Goddess, but a number of her friends have been posting this poem, and so I will make bold to post it here. It meets Archibald MacLeish’s requirement that “A poem should not mean/But be,” and I post it here because it gave me real goosebumps, which is always a sure, certain, and definite sign that the magic is working.

Morrigan Visits Hobby Lobby

~ c.–Kate Holly-Clark, 2014

That morning, they should

have paid attention to the woman

washing blood off the Lexus

in the parking lot.

The doors bang open to the conference room

with a gesture from Her long thin fingers

and walks inside with a wild wind

snatching at papers, swirling the toupees

but somehow not ruffling

a single feather of Her

long cloak of ravenblack.

did you think She says
that I would not know what you are doing?

They all see stars; these godly men and women

for a moment, so bright and burning

their eyes water and
they find themselves in

the ribbon aisle.

She shakes one marble arm from the cloak
sweeps sideways with Her hand

a thousand cawing crows fill the air

the ribbons start slithering

and entwine their feet
with the fear of a teenage girl

caught between

the baby and the coat hanger

Did you think I would not know what you are doing to

My daughters and sons? She says

a rain of pink and yellow kitty buttons ping off their heads
each stinging pain

a mother struggling to feed two children

afraid a third
will starve them all

My daughters and sons and mothers and fathers

and nieces and nephews will not forget says She

zebrastriped ottomans slam into them
with the blows to the gut

of endometriosis gone out of control

the bleeding endlessly into anemia

dizziness dropping them to their knees
cramps as if their guts are being drawn

and wrapped around trees

Sons of the hounds, She cries, COME HERE AND GET MEAT!

Finn MaCool and Herne sweep in at the head

of caroling, slavering gabrielhounds

and the wind’s roaring is so loud they think

their ears will explode and the crashing

of painted crystal and flower vases is

the continous roar of the ocean

they are cut with a thousand tiny shards of glass
their faces all scratches and tiny tears of blood streaming

puking up with fear

like 8 hours after Plan B
feet anchored to the floor with

layer after layer of Disney stickers

and terror of the Phantom Queen

My children choose, says She.
Not you. not in My name

not in My dominion

not for My daughters and sons and mothers and fathers and lovers

not for My children and My non-children

they are Mine and you shall not interfere in My name

the battles they fight are Ours and sacred

no matter what they decide, My children are blessed

they can hear Her voice like dreadful bells

clear right through the hurricane
up under the suspended ceiling
the tiles rippling like an earthquake
dust and glitter swirling through the air

so thick the light is gray

She sweeps back Her cloak
both hands palms down

there is a silence that rings as loud as Her voice

the hounds and the heroes file neatly out the

automatic doors that crunch across

the broken glass

The Battle Crow eyes the board members

one by one with bright black eyes

stripping them down

to their profits and loss
their knees shaking

like they had worked eighteen hours

on an assembly line making wreaths and bows

for a dollar a day

Do not invoke god in your decisions for your fellow folk, She says
until you know Who will answer.

Picture found here.