The Voice -- Robert Desnos

(Poem #103)The Voice A voice, a voice from so far away It no longer makes the ears tingle.  A voice like a muffled drum Still reaches us clearly. Though it seems to come from the grave It speaks only of summer and spring. It floods the body with joy. It lights the lips with a smile. I listen. It is simply a human voice Which passes over the noise of life and its battles The crash of thunder and the murmur of gossip. And you? Don't you hear it? It says "The pain will soon be over" It says "The happy season is near." Don't you hear it? -- Robert Desnos

(Ed Hirsch) I hear in this poem Desnos's characteristic clairvoyance, his affirmative presence, his radiant desire to transfigure pain and prophesy happiness seemingly from beyond the grave. But I also hear the profound
anxiety of that last twice-repeated question, "Don't you hear it?" The writer who wrote this knew that he was
going to die. The poem was included in Contrée, the last book that Desnos published before he was arrested
by the Gestapo.

The Voice Of Robert Desnos -- Robert Desnos

(Poem #102)The Voice Of Robert Desnos So like a flower and a current of air the flow of water fleeting shadows the smile glimpsed at midnight this excellent evening so like every joy and every sadness it is the midnight past lifting its naked body above belfries and poplars I call to me those lost in the fields old skeletons young oaks cut down scraps of cloth rotting on the ground and linen drying in farm country I call tornadoes and hurricanes storms typhoons cyclones tidal waves earthquakes I call the smoke of volcanoes and the smoke of cigarettes the rings of smoke from expensive cigars I call lovers and loved ones I call the living and the dead I call gravediggers I call assassins I call hangmen pilots bricklayers architects assassins I call the flesh I call the one I love I call the one I love I call the one I love the jubilant midnight unfolds its satin wings and perches on my bed the belfries and the poplars bend to my wish the former collapse the latter bow down those lost in the fields are found in finding me the old skeletons are revived by my voice the young oaks cut down are covered with foliage the scraps of cloth rotting on the ground and in the earth snap to at the sound of my voice like a flag of rebellion the linen drying in farm country clothes adorable women whom I do not adore who come to me obeying my voice, adoring tornadoes revolve in my mouth hurricanes if it is possible redden my lips storms roar at my feet typhoons if it is possible ruffle me I get drunken kisses from the cyclones the tidal waves come to die at my feet the earthquakes do not shake me but fade completely at my command the smoke of volcanoes clothes me with its vapors and the smoke of cigarettes perfumes me and the rings of cigar smoke crown me loves and love so long hunted find refuge in me lovers listen to my voice the living and the dead yield to me and salute me the former coldly the latter warmly the gravediggers abandon the hardly-dug graves and declare that I alone may command their nightly work the assassins greet me the hangmen invoke the revolution invoke my voice invoke my name the pilots are guided by my eyes the bricklayers are dizzied listening to me the architects leave for the desert the assassins bless me flesh trembles when I call the one I love is not listening the one I love does not hear the one I love does not answer. -- Robert Desnos

Second Language -- Randy Blasing

(Poem #101)Second Language The smallest green chameleon gone like a flick of its tongue returns me to our beginnings & brings back the first time twenty-five years ago you ran across the English word for it & asked me what it meant. When I explained it stood for change, you wondered what would become of us, & I heard myself say for my part I would go on loving you, language I'd never used in all my days. -- Randy Blasing

I'm not saying anything against Alexander -- Bertolt Brecht

(Poem #100)I'm not saying anything against Alexander Timur, I hear, took the trouble to conquer the earth. I don't understand him. With a bit of hard liquor you can forget the earth. I'm not saying anything against Alexander, Only I have seen people who were remarkable, Highly deserving of your admiration For the fact that they were alive at all. Great men generate too much sweat. In all of this I see just a proof that They couldn't stand being on their own And smoking and drinking and the like. And they must be too mean-spirited to get Contentment from sitting by a woman. -- Bertolt Brecht

I Wrote A Good Omelet -- Nikki Giovanni

(Poem #99)I Wrote A Good Omelet I wrote a good omelet...and ate a hot poem... after loving you Buttoned my car...and drove my coat home...in the rain... after loving you I goed on red...and stopped on green....floating somewhere in between... being here and being there... after loving you I rolled my bed...turned down my hair...slightly confused but...I don't care... Laid out my teeth...and gargled my gown...then I stood ...and laid me down... to sleep... after loving you -- Nikki Giovanni

Strawberries -- Edwin Morgan

(Poem #98)Strawberries There were never strawberries like the ones we had that sultry afternoon sitting on the step of the open french window facing each other your knees held in mine the blue plates in our laps the strawberries glistening in the hot sunlight we dipped them in sugar looking at each other not hurrying the feast for one to come the empty plates laid on the stone together with the two forks crossed and I bent towards you sweet in that air in my arms abandoned like a child from your eager mouth the taste of strawberries in my memory lean back again let me love you let the sun beat on our forgetfulness one hour of all the heat intense and summer lightning on the Kilpatrick hills let the storm wash the plates -- Edwin Morgan

The Lover Writes a One-Word Poem -- Gavin Ewart

(Poem #97)The Lover Writes a One-Word Poem You! -- Gavin Ewart

Who Can Tell? -- Gore Vidal

(Poem #96)Who Can Tell? Who can tell that I'm in hell and not so well and not so swell for the wonder of you and me, the blunder of you and me, the wonder of you you you. -- Gore Vidal