one of my favorite poems,

by one of my favorite poets

Ezra Pound
.

The Tea Shop

The girl in the tea shop
. . . . . . . . . . .Is not so beautiful as she was,
The August has worn against her.
She does not get up the stairs so eagerly;
Yes, she also will turn middle-aged,
And the glow of youth that she spread about us
. . . . . . . . . . .As she brought us our muffins
Will be spread about us no longer.
. . . . . . . . . . .She also will turn middle-aged.
.

To Ezra on my 45th Birthday

.
He orders the usual:
Cranberry muffin, tea - orange pekoe.
I feel the poet's eyes on me as
I leave him to his morning scribbles.

He has noticed the crow's feet recently
Discovered framing the eyes that were once
Ocean blue and now nearly grey, my hair
Yet blonde with some help from Domingo.

When dawn cast its first light on me
There was no anticipating this day, for
Today I turn forty-five.
I am fighting time, a battle never won.

Will I no longer be worthy of your ink,
Dear Ezra? Will the muffins I bring you
Taste a little less sweet, the berries
Inside not quite ripe, the tea weak?

(from maydaypoems/2008)

.

Artists are channels for cultural feelings

and creators of images that the culture is hungry for

and doesn't even know it.

VICKI NOBLE

.

.

.

Eric et les papillons

.

poches pleines de papillons
rouge bleu jaune (je peux presque les voir..)
relâchés à l’azur
une journée de printemps

(si je ferme les yeux, fort fort?)

le petit aux yeux verts
grands ouverts
me raconte ce qu’il voit.

je n’ai qu’à écouter
grands soupirs et sourires
remplie, je suis

ça dégoutte ici, de
papillons verts,de bonheur.

(from maydaypoems/2008)

Prairie Girl

.

I will 4-W through poplars and fir
in search of my own private pool
The muskrats have theirs
in the river nearby where
bullfrogs and spittlebugs
spawn silent wars.
The monarchs search out newly
built goldenrods For Lease

in the rural ditches where
a young girl once played
with snakes and wild daisies
seeking & hiding & seeking, again.

(from maydaypoems/2008).

Klimt

the life of a poet in may

.
strewn about my
apartment in the trees
words, in waiting.

in my yellow room
they keep me warm.
intimately removed,

awaiting inspiration i
watch squirrels and
dragonflies mate,

i listen to birdsong
and motorbikes
at dusk

i am safe here
in my home in my life (?)
draped in scraps

of paper
scribbled with the
blood of my heart.

add imagination
,courage, hope.
swallow, spew. sigh.

(from maydaypoems/2008).