Directed by Desire by June Jordan

And who will join this standing up
and the ones who stood without sweet company
will sing and sing
back into the mountains and
if necessary
even under the sea:

we are the ones we have been waiting for.
— June Jordan

Get Directed by Desire by June Jordan

from Poetry Foundation:

"One of the most widely-published and highly-acclaimed African American writers of her generation, poet, playwright and essayist June Jordan was also known for her fierce commitment to human rights and progressive political agenda. Over a career that produced twenty-seven volumes of poems, essays, libretti, and work for children, Jordan engaged the fundamental struggles of her era: over civil rights, women’s rights, and sexual freedom."

POTD - Kithenette Building by Gwendolyn Brooks

kitchenette building

by Gwendolyn Brooks

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?

We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.

POTD - This Azure Day by Seo Jung-ju

This Azure Day 

by Seo Jung-ju

On this blindingly azure day,
let us long for those we miss.

There, where autumn flowers sit,
green has given in to red.

Let the snow fall.
Let spring return.

What if you are alive when I die?
What if I am alive when you die?

On this blindingly azure day,
let us long for those we miss.

 

Translated by Chae-Pyong Song and Anne Rashid

 

푸르른 날/서정주

눈이 부시게 푸르른 날은
그리운 사람을 그리워하자.

저기 저기 저, 가을 꽃 자리
초록이 지쳐 단풍 드는데

눈이 내리면 어이하리야
봄이 또 오면 어이하리야

내가 죽고서 네가 산다면!
네가 죽고서 내가 산다면?

눈이 부시게 푸르른 날은
그리운 사람을 그리워 하자.

Poems of a Wanderer
By Midang So Chong-Ju, Chongju So, Chong-Ju So
Buy on Amazon

POTD - Death by Donald Revell

Donald Revell

Donald Revell

Death

Death calls my dog by the wrong name.
A little man when I was small, Death grew
Beside me, always taller, but always
Confused as I have almost never been.   
Confusion, like the heart, gets left behind
Early by a boy, abandoned the very moment
Futurity with her bare arms comes a-waltzing
Down the fire escapes to take his hand.

"Death," I said, "if your eyes were green
I would eat them."   

For what are days but the furnace of an eye?
If I could strip a sunflower bare to its bare soul,
I would rebuild it:
Green inside of green, ringed round by green.
There'd be nothing but new flowers anymore.
Absolute Christmas.

"Death," I said, "I know someone, a woman,
Who sank her teeth into the moon."

For what are space and time but the inventions
Of sorrowing men? The soul goes faster than light.
Eating the moon alive, it leaves space and time behind.
The soul is forgiveness because it knows forgiveness.
And the knowledge is whirligig.
Whirligig taught me to live outwardly.
Shoe shop. . . pizza parlor. . . surgical appliances. . .
All left behind me with the hooey.
My soul is my home.
An old star hounded by old starlight.

"Death, I ask you, whose only story
Is the end of the story, right from the start,
How is it I remember everything
That never happened and almost nothing that did?
Was I ever born?"

I think of the suicides, all of them thriving,
Many of them painting beautiful pictures.
I think of boys and girls murdered
In their first beauty, now with children of their own.
And I have a church in my mind, set cruelly ablaze,
And then the explosion of happy souls
Into the greeny, frozen Christmas Eve air:
Another good Christmas, a white choir.

Beside each other still,
My Death and I are a magical hermit.
Dear Mother, I miss you.
Dear reader, your eyes are now green,
Green as they used to be, before I was born.

POTD - Tracks by Tomas Tranströmer

3330152690_31705dae66_o.jpg

Tracks

by Tomas Tranströmer

2 A.M. moonlight. The train has stopped
out in a field. Far off sparks of light from a town,
flickering coldly on the horizon.

As when a man goes so deep into his dream
he will never remember he was there
when he returns again to his view.

Or when a person goes so deep into a sickness
that his days all become some flickering sparks, a swarm,
feeble and cold on the horizon.

The train is entirely motionless.

2 o’clock: strong moonlight, few stars.