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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 12 of 12. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by fayeroe on April 11, 2009, at 22:08:16
There are one or two murderers in any crowd.
They do not suspect their destinies yet.
Wars are started to make it easy for them
To kill that woman pushing a baby carriage.Charles Simic
I read that he is known for his wild and bizarre train of thought and I am still looking for more of his poetry.......
Posted by Sigismund on April 12, 2009, at 16:19:06
In reply to Poet Laureate 2008, posted by fayeroe on April 11, 2009, at 22:08:16
He grew up in Eastern Europe.
Posted by Sigismund on April 12, 2009, at 16:24:56
In reply to Poet Laureate 2008, posted by fayeroe on April 11, 2009, at 22:08:16
I've seen his stuff in the New York Review of Books. I had not realised he was from the US now. I looked this up; I like it.
Hotel Insomnia
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.Charles Simic
Posted by Sigismund on April 12, 2009, at 16:27:41
In reply to Poet Laureate 2008, posted by fayeroe on April 11, 2009, at 22:08:16
The Oldest Child
The night still frightens you.
You know it is interminable
And of vast, unimaginable dimensions.
"That's because His insomnia is permanent,"
You've read some mystic say.
Is it the point of His schoolboy's compass
That pricks your heart?Somewhere perhaps the lovers lie
Under the dark cypress trees,
Trembling with happiness,
But here there's only your beard of many days
And a night moth shivering
Under your hand pressed against your chest.Oldest child, Prometheus
Of some cold, cold fire you can't even name
For which you're serving slow time
With that night moth's terror for company.Charles Simic
Posted by fayeroe on April 12, 2009, at 16:34:52
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008, posted by Sigismund on April 12, 2009, at 16:24:56
Posted by fayeroe on April 12, 2009, at 16:36:37
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008, posted by Sigismund on April 12, 2009, at 16:27:41
I am going to cry because there is so much feeling in his words. He also puts me in the poem. Does he affect you that way? I am the night moth under his hand........
Posted by fayeroe on April 12, 2009, at 16:41:45
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008, posted by Sigismund on April 12, 2009, at 16:27:41
click on "Forgetfulness".. this is close to the bone.
Posted by Sigismund on April 18, 2009, at 2:17:46
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008 » Sigismund, posted by fayeroe on April 12, 2009, at 16:41:45
That was wonderful.
I suppose it's like an hourglass, filling up one end and draining out the other, but slowly emptying, until you are really stupid but much nicer.
Thanks Pat, I enjoyed it.
Posted by fayeroe on April 18, 2009, at 12:27:46
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008 » fayeroe, posted by Sigismund on April 18, 2009, at 2:17:46
I thought you would like his poetry. Here is a link to a Mary Oliver poem about death. I can't find it on video. I like this blogsite....
http://mypoetry.wordpress.com/2008/05/30/when-death-comes-by-mary-o
Posted by Sigismund on April 18, 2009, at 15:06:13
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008 » Sigismund, posted by fayeroe on April 18, 2009, at 12:27:46
That's certainly good enough to quote here. I just loved it. Thanks, Pat.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purseto buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.When its over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.When its over, I dont want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I dont want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.I dont want to end up simply having visited this world.
~ Mary Oliver ~
Posted by fayeroe on April 18, 2009, at 15:21:26
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008, posted by Sigismund on April 18, 2009, at 15:06:13
I am so glad that you like the two poets.
I discovered Mary Oliver about 9 years ago. Billy Collins maybe 5?
I am going to find one of Ms. Oliver's for you. It is ethereal for me because it describes what I feel when I am in the wilderness.
Posted by fayeroe on April 18, 2009, at 15:25:49
In reply to Re: Poet Laureate 2008, posted by Sigismund on April 18, 2009, at 15:06:13
When I lived on the ranch in Oklahoma, I wanted to post a poem about "the wildness of the forests" and I googled that.....this is what came up! I was in heaven! I camped out so much in New Mexico and this is exactly how it felt to me. Every time I went back to a place, she welcomed me.
Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
This is the end of the thread.
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