Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category

  • Birthday Poem

    Birthday Poem

    May 27th, 2024 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    Thyme is flowering among the rocks. You could not easily miss it even though the many slender stalks and sprouting leaves are still implicit. Their delicate perfume much like the lilac-scented air when all the lilacs are in bloom flows out irrepressibly, hovers everywhere in late May:  the almost peppery fragrance of thyme, which is […]

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  • “There is nothing greater than life” — Voltaire

    December 22nd, 2023 | Poetry, Winter Solstice | journalpulp | No Comments

    Spring Nothing is so beautiful as Spring – When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending […]

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  • Dead Cow Farm — Robert Graves

    September 26th, 2022 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    DEAD COW FARM An ancient saga tells us how In the beginning the First Cow (For nothing living yet had birth But Elemental Cow on earth) Began to lick cold stones and mud: Under her warm tongue flesh and blood Blossomed, a miracle to believe: And so was Adam born, and Eve. Here now is […]

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  • Felix Randal

    March 7th, 2021 | Poetry | journalpulp | 15 Comments

    Felix Randal the farrier, oh, is he dead then? my duty all ended, Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it, and some Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended? Sickness broke him. Impatient, he cursed at first, but mended Being anointed and all; […]

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  • Justus Quidem Tu Es, Domine, Si Disputem Tecum, Verumtamen Justa Loquar Ad Te

    March 20th, 2020 | Poetry | journalpulp | 1 Comment

    Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum; verumtamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end? Wert thou my enemy, O thou my […]

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  • 3 Strange & Wondrous Ways You Can Learn Poetry By Heart & Memorize Any Passage of Literature

    December 24th, 2019 | Poetry | journalpulp | 6 Comments

    Poems, unique among all literature, were for many centuries specifically meant to be learned by heart. They were meant to be memorized and then recited aloud. This is called the oral tradition of poetry.  It means holding literature in the mind and heart, and then reciting it. Thus we find in the oral tradition of […]

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  • East of the Setting Sun

    East of the Setting Sun

    November 28th, 2019 | Poetry | journalpulp | 2 Comments

    South of the border among the pluripresence of jellied heat, east of the setting sun, inNogales, Mexico, where this sort of thing can occur,you glimpse, twenty-five meters off the shoulder of the road, a Mexican woman who’s walkingalone: black-haired, slender, tall, her long arms sheathed in toffee-colored skin, her wet eyes friendly yet faintly mocking. She […]

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  • Autumn

    September 9th, 2017 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    Summer dies. The long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are baked as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls Trailing their silken shawls of a Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not […]

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  • The Sudsbuster

    The Sudsbuster

    April 25th, 2016 | Poetry | journalpulp | 4 Comments

    He was one of the mellow, the soft-spoken, the tawny-haired — one who preferred to be alone. His name was Mark, a dishwasher at age 45. He was a drifter, a loner. He valued his freedom above all; dishwashing jobs he could always find. Our paths crossed and re-crossed at the Café Claire, where I […]

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  • The Grasshopper and the Cricket

    September 17th, 2014 | Poetry | journalpulp | 13 Comments

    Did you know that John Keats pronounced his own name with such a thick Cockney accent that his friend Leigh Hunt nicknamed him “Junkets” — “Junkets” evidently being the way “John Keats” sounded coming out of Keats’s own mouth. On December 30th, 1816, Leigh Hunt challenged his twenty-one-year-old friend Junkets to a sonnet-writing contest. The […]

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  • Autumnal

    October 12th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 7 Comments

    Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite […]

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  • Kevin

    Kevin

    March 4th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 7 Comments

      My name is Kevin. I’m Kevin Mathew Haas. My last name does not rhyme with moss. It does not rhyme with floss. To say so makes me cross. Many regard me as the motherfucking boss and I do enjoy a little of the sauce. In fact, my last name — Haas — rhymes with […]

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  • View Of A Pig

    View Of A Pig

    November 28th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | 1 Comment

    This was written by the late Ted Hughes, most famous, I think, for being the husband of Sylvia Plath: The pig lay on a barrow dead. It weighed, they said, as much as three men. Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes. Its trotters stuck straight out. Such weight and thick pink bulk Set in death […]

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  • Autumn

    Autumn

    October 4th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite […]

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  • Detail

    Detail

    July 13th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    The cat eats the praying mantis By punching it to death, Pushing it with her paws, Playing soccer with it, Tossing it in the air, Carrying it around in her jaws And finally, when the insect Has no more motion or flutter, Chewing its green head off. — Karl Shapiro

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