Poetry Page

                 The Market

A man said to me at the fair
--If you've got a poet's tongue
Tumble up and chant the air
That the Stars of Morning sung:

--I'll pay you, if you sing it nice,
A penny-piece.--I answered flat,
--Sixpence is the proper price
For a ballad such as that.--

But he stared and wagged his head,
Growling as he passed along
--Sixpence! Why, I'd see you dead
Before I pay that for a song.--

I saw him buy three pints of stout
With the sixpence--dirty lout!

     James Stephens (1882 - 1950) was poet laureate of Ireland. Born in Dublin and raised in an orphanage, Stephens published his first work (Insurrections) in 1909, followed by a novel (The Charwoman's Daughter) in 1912. He obviously encountered philistines similar to those who plague poets and singers today.

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     The next several poems come from the pen of Harlan Yarbrough, poet nullaureate of southwestern Oregon.

           A Mime for the Blind

Wherever I go, I am a foreigner,
A stranger, I don't fit in
(boxes, neatly labelled).
I am a citizen of the heart and of the mind,
An ambassador without portfolio,
Carrying only thoughts
And feelings,
Singing to the deaf.
Alone in a crowd,
Alone in the woods,
A nation of one?
Returned because of insufficient fun.
An alien, I walk abroad,
A stranger from a strange land,
Little known and apparently enigmatic,
Often feared, sometimes envied.
Rarely understood,
I am a foreigner wherever I go.

(Oregon, 1980)

           (untitled)

The crescent moon a silver sliver
In a sky all pink and orange,
A sight at once subtle and gaudy
Of nature in evening finery,
Above the stark, dark silhouette of the mountains,
Makes me wish all the more you were here
To share this moment of special beauty,
And all the moments after.

Volcanoes, they say, cause this display,
Or perhaps a storm in the west,
Throwing seaspray high in the air, to catch the retreating sun.
I prefer to think
Nature paints these scenes of arresting beauty
In a futile effort to match your smile.

          (untitled)

Down the long valleys,
The canyons,
Road and river lie twisted
Together like strands of hemp
Crossing and re-crossing
(Double-crossing, sometimes,
the unwary driver, the drowsy traveller,
DUI and DOA)--
A rope
(This product manufactured from natural and synthetic materials),
Tying together
(And sometimes tearing apart)
Families,
Communities, a patchwork
Of peoples and cultures.
Give them enough rope and they'll
Choke on the brown air
(Artificially coloured and flavoured),
Fetid respirations of their semi-tame beasts
Walking the tightrope.

Only the road goes both ways,
Bearing vacationing families, travelling
Salesmen, musicians, braceros, and truckers,
Heedless of Wolfe's admonition.
Only the road goes both ways:
The river runs endlessly to the sea--
Perpetual motion, defying Carnot
(If we neglect the sun, which we usually do).
Only the road goes both ways:
The trees begin at the root of things
And grow toward the sun, serenely
Setting a good example.
Only the road goes both ways,
"ever on and on".
And we might, following the King's instructions,
Begin at the beginning and follow the road to its end--
Only, the road goes both ways.

The valleys open, broad and sunny
(Even on greycloudy days), then
Again the bluffs draw close,
Threatening, almost, to touch overhead, to form a tunnel,
As the trees sometimes do
(The green tunnels so welcome on a hot and sunny day).
Again the valleys widen, narrow
To a canyon, burst open again, finally
Opening to the coastal plain--
The road spliced into the coast highway, a rolling hitch,
The other strand woven into and under the weft of the waves,
The traveller arrived at another destination,
Another beginning.

           To a Policeman's Daughter

Not like a willow,
But with a willow's slender beauty,
More like a sunrise--
Hair the colour of clouds set ablaze by a sun not yet visible,
Your smile like the glory of the sun first appearing at the rim of the hill,
You are a wonder
Greater than any colossus or hanging gardens,
Greater than the pyramids.
Your mind is keen like the eye of an eagle
Yet is unaware of its own power. Your innocence,
Incidental and superfluous,
Becomes you.
You are a wonder,
Full of life,
A condition which I would like to share with you.

     The poems immediately above come from the pen of Harlan Yarbrough of southwestern Oregon.

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Asymmetry
Is that which we
With mirrors see
As symmetry.

      Bruce Appleby

    

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On The Campgound

  (Dedicated to Walt Whitman)

I'm never so at ease,
Lying in the breeze,
Underneath the trees,
Just a-tenting,
On the Campground

And when the mornings bright,
Cutting gently through the night,
Don't you thrill with such delight?
Just a-tenting,
On the Campground.

Is there anything so dancy,
As sweet birdy's song so fancy?
Don't it make you feel so prancy?
Just a-tenting,
On the Campground.

You could blow up a balloon,
Fly it straight up to the moon,
But I wouldn't trade it soon,
For just a-tenting,
On the Campground.

      Roland Morris