Here is a piece by Finnish Poet Risto Rasa
For more of his work visit his Finnish Poets page
| Koira tulee illalla kotiin. Kun se kiertyy paikalleen ja nukahtaa, alkaa sen sydänlämpö levitä huoneisiin - Risto Rasa - |
 |
In the evening, the dog comes Home. When he curls up in his spot And falls asleep, His heart’s-warmth starts spreading Into the rooms. - Risto Rasa - |
This poem, bogland, has been published elsewhere on the internet. Seamus Heaney, the author, is another great Irish writer in a long tradition of Irish writers. He received the Nobel Prize for literature in 1995. Here’s a link to his biography at the Nobel site. Enjoy!
|
||
|
American Life in Poetry: Column 043
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Lola Haskins, who lives in Florida, has written a number of poems about musical terms, entitled ”Adagio,” ”Allegrissimo,” ”Staccato,” and so on. Here is just one of those, presenting the gentleness of pianissimo playing through a series of comparisons.
To Play Pianissimo
Does not mean silence.
The absence of moon in the day sky
for example.
Does not mean barely to speak,
the way a child’s whisper
makes only warm air
on his mother’s right ear.
To play pianissimo
is to carry sweet words
to the old woman in the last dark row
who cannot hear anything else,
and to lay them across her lap like a shawl.
From ”Desire Lines: New and Selected Poems,” BOA Editions, Rochester, NY. Copyright (c) 2004 by Lola Haskins and reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
”Maggie´s Farm”
Here’s a cute little site where you can read recent reviews from Bob Dylan’s 2005 tour. I liked this little snippet about Dylan’s opener, ”Maggie’s Farm.”
Apart from the fact that we can hardly expect a different opener these
days and weeks (with Dylan still suffering from Amazon-timeloopiness),
there is nothing negative I could say about its standardized setlist
positions in general, and surely nothing about this version in special.
From the second verse on you could tell that Dylan was willing and able to
look for something in his vocal delivery. There were some beautifully
nasty phrasings full of relish that were a delight to hear (”ain´t gonna
work for Maggie´s maaaaaaaaa no … more!” – with ”more sounding like a
little piece of garbage that he almost forgot to throw after the event).
The song was very tight and almost too short for my liking.
A Guardian article reflects on Dylan’s relevancy for 2005 (click here).
American Life in Poetry: Column 030
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Naomi Shihab Nye lives in San Antonio, Texas. Here she perfectly captures a moment in childhood that nearly all of us may remember: being too small for the games the big kids were playing, and fastening tightly upon some little thing of our own.
Boy and Egg
Every few minutes, he wants
to march the trail of flattened rye grass
back to the house of muttering
hens. He too could make
a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh
it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it
to his ear while the other children
laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him,
so little yet, too forgetful in games,
ready to cry if the ball brushed him,
riveted to the secret of birds
caught up inside his fist,
not ready to give it over
to the refrigerator
or the rest of the day.
Reprinted from ”Fuel,” published by BOA Editions by permission of the author. Copyright © 1998 by Naomi Shihab Nye, whose most recent book is ”A Maze Me” Harper Collins/Greenwillow, 2004. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
American Life in Poetry: Column 029
by TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Many of you have seen flocks of birds or schools of minnows acting as if they were guided by a common intelligence, turning together, stopping together. Here is a poem by Debra Nystrom that beautifully describes a flight of swallows returning to their nests, acting as if they were of one mind. Notice how she extends the description to comment on the way human behavior differs from that of the birds.
Is it some turn of wind
that funnels them all down at once, or
is it their own voices netting
to bring them in—the roll and churr
of hundreds searing through river light
and cliff dust, each to its precise
mud nest on the face—
none of our own isolate
groping, wishing need could be sent
so unerringly to solace. But
this silk-skein flashing is like heaven
brought down: not to meet ground
or water—to enter
the riven earth and disappear.
Reprinted from ”Torn Sky,” Sarabande Books, 2004, by permission of the poet. Copyright © 2004 by Debra Nystrom, an Associate Professor of English at the University of Virginia. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.