Korean Job Discussion Forums

[JMO]

I read a great bukowski poem once about a woman..can't remember the title but the last line said something about learning to dance and putting his hat on his head at an angle. Really that's all i remember but the poem was awesome.

I like his poems when I happen upon them. Never really liked his novels too much.

[beercanman]

[maingman]

Daddy's Poem

Her hair was up in a pony tail,

Her favourite dress tied with a bow.

Today was Daddy's Day at school,

And she couldn't wait to go.



But her mommy tried to tell her,

That she probably should stay home.

Why the kids might not understand,

If she went to school alone.




But she was not afraid;

She knew just what to say.

What to tell her classmates

Of why he wasn't there today.




But still her mother worried,

For her to face this day alone.

And that was why once again,

She tried to keep her daughter home.




But the little girl went to school

Eager to tell them all.

About a dad she never sees

A dad who never calls.




There were daddies along the wall in back,

For everyone to meet.

Children squirming impatiently,

Anxious in their seats.



One by one the teacher called

A student from the class.

To introduce their daddy,

As seconds slowly passed.




At last the teacher called her name,

Every child turned to stare.

Each of them was searching,

For a man who wasn't there.




'Where's her daddy at?'

She heard a boy call out.

'She probably doesn't have one,'

Another student dared to shout.



And from somewhere near the back,

She heard a daddy say,

'Looks like another deadbeat dad,

Too busy to waste his day.'




The words did not offend her,

As she smiled up at her Mom.

And looked back at her teacher,

Who told her to go on.




And with hands behind her back,

Slowly she began to speak.

And out from the mouth of a child,

Came words incredibly unique.




'My Daddy couldn't be here,

Because he lives so far away.

But I know he wishes he could be,

Since this is such a special day.




And though you cannot meet him,

I wanted you to know.

All about my daddy,

And how much he loves me so.


He loved to tell me stories

He taught me to ride my bike.

He surprised me with pink roses,

And taught me to fly a kite.



We used to share fudge sundaes,

And ice cream in a cone.

And though you cannot see him.

I'm not standing here alone.




'Cause my daddy's always with me,

Even though we are apart

I know because he told me,

He'll forever be in my heart'.




With that, her little hand reached up,

And lay across her chest.

Feeling her own heartbeat,

Beneath her favorite dress.




And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads,

Her mother stood in tears.

Proudly watching her daughter,

Who was wise beyond her years.


For she stood up for the love

Of a man not in her life.

Doing what was best for her,

Doing what was right.


And when she dropped her hand back down,

Staring straight into the crowd.

She finished with a voice so soft,

But its message clear and loud.

'I love my daddy very much,


he's my shining star.

And if he could, he'd be here,

But heaven's just too far.


You see he was a policeman

And died just this past year

When airplanes hit the towers

And taught Americans to fear.




But sometimes when I close my eyes,

it's like he never went away.'

And then she closed her eyes,

And saw him there that day.



And to her mothers amazement,

She witnessed with surprise.

A room full of daddies and children,

All starting to close their eyes.




Who knows what they saw before them,

who knows what they felt inside.

Perhaps for merely a second,

they saw him at her side.




'I know you're with me Daddy,'

to the silence she called out.

And what happened next made believers,

of those once filled with doubt.





Not one in that room could explain it,

for each of their eyes had been closed.

But there on the desk beside her,

was a fragrant long-stemmed pink rose.






And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,

by the love of her shining star.

And given the gift of believing,

that heaven is never too far.





They say it takes a minute to find a special person,

an hour to appreciate them, a day to love them,

but then an entire life to forget them.

[Gibberish]

I've taken classes that studied Baroque and Illuminist 18th century Italian poetry and another class that studied 19th and 20th century Italian poetry. I think it's better in general that most English works, because it tends to flow together smoother. We read Saba, Campana, even Galileo's poetry. Good stuff, even if you don't understand it.

[ddeubel]

I hear you Gibberish! I have been for awhile, a big fan of Czech surrealist poetry and even translated into English some of Nezval's work. But even at the beginning, when my Czech was poor, I loved the sound and texture of his words. There was something there though it wasn't so obvious - like the taste hidden in an apple on the table.

I'll have to post up a Gibberish poem today. I used to write many and found it a great "linguistic" exercise -- a way that the writer could keep in touch with the hidden puns and meaning evoked by sound...

maingman -- no offense to 9/11 and the memory of it but that poem is pure kitsch.

DD
http://eflclassroom.com

[Illysook]

I once gave a boyfriend a book of Bukowski poems and he said that his son's mother gave him the same book when they started dating.
Now he's married to a girl who used to be my best friend.

I love Bukowski still, but Sharon Olds understands me...or at least she would if she knew me, and I can't tell you how many poems I wrote (wasted) on that stupid boy.

[banjois]

Gibberish, Saba is the best. Lemme see if I still got this committed to memory.

Quand eri giovinezza, pungevi
comme una mora di macchia. Anche
il piede t'era un arma, o selvaggia.

Eri difficile a prendere.

Ancora sei giovanne, ancora sei bella.
I segni degli anni legano l'anime nostre, uno
ne fanno. E dietri i cappeli nerissimi, che avvolge
alla mia dita, non piu temo il piccolo bianco puntuto orecchio demoniaco.

The line breaks are probably all wrong, and my Italian's definitely pretty roughshod, but what a poem, nonetheless. Here's a rough translation:

When you were younger, you stung
like a bramble bush. Even your foot was
a weapon, my little beast.

You were difficult to capture.

Still you are young, still you are beautiful.
The scars of the years join our souls, making them
one. And behind the blackest hair, which I wind around
my finger, I no longer fear the little, white, pointed devil's ear.

SO good. Thanks for mentioning Saba, haven't thought of him in a few years.

[Illysook]

Mrs. Krikorian by Sharon Olds

She saved me. When I arrived in 6th grade,
a known criminal, the new teacher
asked me to stay after school the first day, she said
I�ve heard about you. She was a tall woman,
with a deep crevice between her breasts,
and a large, calm nose. She said,
This is a special library pass.
As soon as you finish your hour�s work�
that hour�s work that took ten minutes
and then the devil glanced into the room
and found me empty, a house standing open�
you can go to the library. Every hour
I�d zip through the work in a dash and slip out of my
seat as if out of God�s side and sail
down to the library, solo through the empty
powerful halls, flash my pass
and stroll over to the dictionary
to look up the most interesting word
I knew, spank, dipping two fingers
into the jar of library paste to
suck that tart mucilage as I
came to the page with the cocker spaniel�s
silks curling up like the fine steam of the body.
After spank, and breast, I�d move on
to Abe Lincoln and Helen Keller,
safe in their goodness till the bell, thanks
to Mrs. Krikorian, amiable giantess
with the kind eyes. When she asked me to write
a play, and direct it, and it was a flop, and I
hid in the coat-closet, she brought me a candy-cane
as you lay a peppermint on the tongue, and the worm
will come up out of the bowel to get it.
And so I was emptied of Lucifer
and filled with school glue and eros and
Amelia Earhart, saved by Mrs. Krikorian.
And who had saved Mrs. Krikorian?
When the Turks came across Armenia, who
slid her into the belly of a quilt, who
locked her in a chest, who mailed her to America?
And that one, who saved her, and that one�
who saved her, to save the one
who saved Mrs. Krikorian, who was
standing there on the sill of 6th grade, a
wide-hipped angel, smokey hair
standing up weightless all around her head?
I end up owing my soul to so many,
to the Armenian nation, one more soul someone
jammed behind a stove, drove
deep into a crack in a wall,
shoved under a bed. I would wake
up, in the morning, under my bed�not
knowing how I had got there�and lie
in the dusk, the dustballs beside my face
round and ashen, shining slightly
with the eerie comfort of what is neither good nor evil.