It's the Birthday of Poet Lew Welch

It's the birthday of Beat poet Lew Welch. He was born in Phoenix, Arizona in 1926. He's the author of many collections of poetry, including Hermit Poems (1965) and At Times We're Almost Able To See (1965). He became friends with poets Gary Snyder and Philip Whalen at Reed College in the late 1940s.

During this time William Carlos Williams visited the college and met the three poets. He admired Welch's early poems and tried to get his thesis published.

After graduating from Reed College, he moved to New York and worked in advertising. He later became a part of the San Francisco poetry scene. His first book, Wobbly Rock, was published in 1960. He taught poetry workshops at Berkeley, but he became depressed and he moved up into the mountains.

In 1971, his friend Gary Snyder visited Welch's campsite and he found a suicide note in Welch's truck. Welch's body was never found.

Lew Welch is the step-father of Huey Lewis and the news, who took his stage name in honor of Welch.

Lew Welch Quotes

"Step out onto the Planet. Draw a circle a hundred feet round. Inside the circle are 300 things nobody understands, and, maybe, nobody’s ever really seen. How many can you find?" -Lew Welch

"Seeking perfect total enlightenment is like looking for a flashlight when all you need the flashlight for is to find your flashlight." -Lew Welch

"You can't fix it. You can't make it go away. I don't know what you're going to do about it, but I know what I'm going to do about it. I'm just going to walk away from it. Maybe a small part of it will die if I'm not around feeding it anymore." - Lew Welch

"trails go nowhere. they end exactly where you stop." - Lew Welch

"The True Rebel never advertises it. He prefers his joy to Missionary Work". -Lew Welch

References;

Lew Welch at The Beat Page

Lew Welch @ Wikipedia

Poetry Daily's Poem of the Day: The Loom

I recently came accross a very delightfull poetry website called Poetry Daily.

From their About Page;

Poetry Daily is an anthology of contemporary poetry. Each day, we bring you a new poem from new books, magazines, and journals.

Poems are chosen from the work of a wide variety of poets published or translated in the English language. Our most eminent poets are represented in the selections, but also poets who are less well known. The daily poem is selected for its literary quality and to provide you with a window on a very broad range of poetry offered annually by publishers large and small. Included with each poem is information about the poet and the poem's source.

The Loom by Anne Stevenson.

Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Earl's love for Mrs Dorothy May

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People ask me how I learned to love my wife so much,
Is it because Earl is my grandfather or maybe just luck?
I watched this illiterate railroad man compose sonnets
and soliloquies so tender that they could rest on the petal of a rose
He spoke his love letters on Fridays after working
on the Kansas City Southern line all day
Promising to never leave and to treat her right
in his garage talking about her til day slowly became night
Words like love, honey, baby, please, seemed out of place
with his back bent and hands calloused from loading cross ties
a coil of rope at his feet, a claw hammer looped at his side
My grandfather could not even write his name, but he could
tell you the exact measurements of a section of track
This man who took the time to gesture so lovingly to
my grandmother, Mrs. Dorothy May, was teaching
a young boy how to love his wife.

-by Kelvin Cook

If by Rudyard Kipling

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If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Sonar Techs @ Work or Death From Below

Submarine Seahawk

Poster

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The other submarine's screw blade noise
called to us, like the hum of a queen bee
We had calculated her speed and only
needed to compute the lady's range

Listening for the slightest sound
range rate calculator in hand
Oscilloscopes and spectrum analysers
recreated the sound scape of the ocean

While searching for the enemy
sweat rolled down our faces
as we examined every reverberation
every sound was a clue

And just as quick we whispered "we've got the bitch"
"Bridge, this is Sonar, firing solution to follow
On our mark fire tubes two and three at will"
And now we listen for the impending implosion

- Kelvin Cook

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Muta Baruka Reading "Dis Poem" on Def Poetry Jam

dis poem
by Muta Baruka

dis poem
shall speak of the wretched sea
that washed ships to these shores
of mothers crying for their young
swallowed up by the sea
dis poem shall say nothin new
dis poem shall speak of time
time unlimited
time undefined
dis poem shall call names
names like
lumumba
kenyatta
nkrumah
hannibal
akenaton
malcolm
garvey
haile selassie
dis poem is vex
about apartheid
racism
facism
the klu klux klan
riots in brixton
atlanta
jim jones
dis poem is revoltin against
first world
second world
third world
division
manmade decision
dis poem is like all the rest
dis poem will not be amongst great literary works
will not be recited by poetry enthusiasts
will not be quoted by politicians
nor men of religion
dis poem is knives...bombs...guns...
blazing for freedom
yes dis poem is a drum
ashanti
mau mau
ibo
yoruba
niahbingi warriors
uhuru...uhuru
namibia uhuru
uhuru
soweto
uhuru
afrika!
dis poem will not change things
dis poem needs to be changed
dis poem is the rebirth of a people arising...awaking...overstanding
...dis poem speak
is speakin...has spoken
dis poem shall continue
even when poets have stoped writing
dis poem shall survive...u...me...
it shall linger in history
in your mind
in time....
forever
dis poem is time
only time will tell
dis poem is still not written
dis poem has no poet
dis poem is just a part of the story his-story...her-story...our-story
the story still untold
dis poem is now ringing... talking
irritatin
making u want to stop it
but dis poem will not stop
dis poem is long
cannot be short
dis poem cannot be tamed
cannot be blamed
the story is still not told about dis poem
dis poem is old
new
dis poem is copied from
the bible
your prayer book
the new york times
readers digest
the c.i.a. files
the k.g.b. files
dis poem is no secret
dis poem shall be called
boring
stupid
senseless
dis poem is watchin u
tryin' to make sense from dis poem
dis poem is messin up your brains
makin u want to stop listenin to dis poem
but you shall not stop listenin to dis poem
u need to know what will be said next in dis poem
dis poem shall disappoint u because...
dis poem is to be continue

in your mind...
in your mind...
in your mind...

John Milton - Paradise Lost, Book 1, Lines 221-270

Paradise Lost, Book 1,
Lines 221- 270
by John Milton

Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,
Said then the lost Arch-Angel, this the seat
That we must change for Heav'n, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: fardest from him is best
Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream
Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less then he
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
Th' associates and copartners of our loss
Lye thus astonisht on th' oblivious Pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy Mansion, or once more
With rallied Arms to try what may be yet
Regaind in Heav'n, or what more lost in Hell?



From Wikipedia;

John Milton (December 9, 1608 – November 8, 1674) was an English poet, prose polemicist and civil servant for the Commonwealth of England. Best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost, Milton is also known for his treatise condemning
censorship, Areopagitica.

Very soon after his death (and continuing to the present day) Milton became the subject of partisan biographies, confirming T. S. Eliot's belief that "of no other poet is it so difficult to consider the poetry simply as poetry, without our theological and political dispositions... making unlawful entry".[1] Milton's radical, republican politics and heretical religious views, coupled with the perceived artificiality of his complicated Latinate verse, alienated Eliot and other readers; Samuel Johnson disparaged him as "an acrimonious and surly republican." (It is important to remember that for English people living shortly after the English Revolution, the term "republican" indicated anyone who had opposed the Crown during the Revolution.)

Hey Central

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Hey Central
Give me ext. 189
Please get
Mrs. F. on that line.

Tell that woman
she better come on
Tell her, her sweet
loving man is on the phone

This is true
It aint no lie
I'm going to love
that woman till she cry

I'ma love her till she
break down and cry
And if I don't, call me
a ball face lie

This is the last thing
I'm going to say
I got to get back to
my angel some day

- Words by Kelvin Cook

Pablo Neruda Photographic Print

Pablo Neruda Chilean Poet and Diplomat

Digitally Printed on Archival Photographic Paper resulting in vivid, pure color and exceptional detail that is suitable for museum or gallery display.



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A Couple of Poems by Charles Simic

Here are a couple of poems by Charles Simic from YouTube. I like these because of their simple presentation.

Stone


Classic Ball Room Dancing


From Wikipedia;

Charles Simic (IPA: [ˈtʃ​͡ɑːɻls ˈʂimitɕ​͡], born Dušan Simić, May 9, 1938 in Belgrade, Serbia) is a Serbian-American poet and the 15th Poet Laureate of the United States. He is co-Poetry Editor of the Paris Review. Simic is the 2007 recipient of the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets.

Charles Simic @ Amazon.Com

The day Miss Kimberly Was Born

Miss Kimberly was born on a day the bees ran out of honey,
they needed something beautiful and sweet and just as sunny.

So they buzzed and they buzzed and wondered what could they do,
then they got an idea and off to the flower gardens they flew.

From flower to flower collecting nectar and dew they went,
buzzing right along they prayed that she'd be heaven sent.

And when they had enough they fashioned her into a baby girl,
And that is how Miss Kimberly was born into this world.

* I wrote this poem for my daughter when she was a little girl.


By Kelvin Cook

Poetry: A Definition

From Wikipedia;

Poetry (from the Greek "ποίησις", poiesis, a "making" or "creating") is a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its ostensible meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic drama, hymns or lyrics.

Kay Ryan Is Appointed U.S. Poet Laureate

The Library of Congress announced Thursday the appointment of Kay Ryan as the 16th Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry for 2008-2009.

The native Californian will take up her duties Oct. 16 by reading her work at the opening of the Library's annual literary series. She also will be a featured guest at the Library of Congress National Book Festival in the Poetry pavilion Sept. 27 on the National Mall.

Read the full store here at PBS.org.

Kay Ryan @ Amazon.com

Recent Kay Ryan post @ FitzPoetryBlog