Featured Poem: A New War

a new war by Charles Bukowski

a different fight now, warding off the weariness of


retreating to your room, stretching out upon the bed,

there’s not much will to move,

it’s near midnight now.

not so long ago your night would be just

beginning, but don’t lament lost youth:

youth was no wonder


but now it’s the waiting on death.

it’s not death that’s the problem, it’s the waiting.

you should have been dead decades ago.

the abuse you wreaked upon yourself was

enormous and non-ending.

a different fight now, yes, but nothing to

mourn, only to


frankly, it’s even a bit dull waiting on the


and to think, after I’m gone,

there will be more days for others, other days,

other nights,.

dogs walking, trees shaking in

the wind.

I won’t be leaving much.

something to read, maybe.

a wild onion in the gutted


Paris in the dark.

Featured Poem: We Are Waiting

We Are Waiting by Pablo Neruda

There are days that haven’t arrived yet,

that are being made

like bread or chairs or a product

from the pharmacies or the woodshops:

there are factories of days to come:

they exist, craftsmen of the soul

who raise and weigh and prepare

certain bitter or beautiful days

that arrive suddenly at the door

to reward us with an orange

or to instantly murder us.

Featured Poem: Two Arts

By Adrienne Rich

I’ve redone you by daylight.

Squatted before your gauntness

chipping away.    Slivers of rock

piling up like petals.

All night I’d worked to illuminate the skull.

By dawn you were pure electric.   You pulsed like a star.

You awoke in the last darkness

before the light poured in.

I’ve redone you by daylight.

Now I can submit you to the arts administrator

and the council of patrons

who could never take your measure.

This time they will love you,

standing on the glass table, fluent and robed at last,

and all your origins countered.

I wrap you in pure white sheets to mail you,

I brush you off my apron,

the charged filings crunch like cinders on the floor.

Featured Poem: One Returns to the Self as if to an Old House

By Pablo Neruda

One returns to the self as if to an old house

with nails and slots, so that

a person tired of himself

as of a suit full of holes,

tries to walk naked in the rain,

wants to drench himself in pure water,

in elemental wind, and he cannot

but return to the well of himself,

to the least worry

over whether he existed, whether he knew how to speak his mind

or to pay or to owe or to discover,

as if I were so important

that it must accept or not accept me,

the earth with its leafy name,

in its theater of black walls.

Featured Poem: Lifedance

Lifedance by Charles Bukowski

the area dividing the brain and the soul

is affected in many ways by


some lose all mind and become soul:


some lose all soul and become mind:


some lose both and become:


Featured Poem: It Rains

By Pablo Neruda

It rains

over the sand, over the roof

the theme

of the rain:

the long ls of rain fall slowly

over the pages

of my everlasting love,

this salt of every day:

rain, return to your old nest,

return with your needles to the past:

today I long for the whitest space,

winter’s whiteness for a branch

of green rosebush and golden roses:

something of infinite spring

that today was waiting, under a cloudless sky

and whiteness was waiting,

when the rain returned

to sadly drum

against the window,

then to dance with unmeasured fury

over my heart and over the roof,


its place,

asking me for a cup

to fill once more with needles,

with transparent time,

with tears.

Featured Poem: Memory

Memory by Charles Bukowski

I’ve memorized all the fish in the sea

I’ve memorized each opportunity strangled


I remember awakening one morning

and finding everything smeared with the color of

forgotten love

and I’ve memorized

that too.

I’ve memorized green rooms in

St. Louis and New Orleans

where I wept because I knew that by myself I

could not overcome

the terror of them and it.

I’ve memorized all the unfaithful years

(and the faithful ones too)

I’ve memorized each cigarette that I’ve rolled.

I’ve memorized Beethoven and New York City

I’ve memorized

riding up escalators, I’ve memorized

Chicago and cottage cheese, and the mouths of

some of the ladies and the legs of

some of the ladies

I’ve known

and the way the rain came down hard.

I’ve memorized the face of my father in his coffin,

I’ve memorized all the cars I have driven

and each of their sad deaths,

I’ve memorized each jail cell,

the faces of each new president

and the faces of some of the assassins;

I’ve even memorized the arguments I’ve had with

some of the women

I’ve loved.

best of all

I’ve memorized tonight and now and the way the

light falls across my fingers,

specks and smears on the wall,

shades down behind orange curtains;

I light a rolled cigarette and then laugh a little,

yes, I’ve memorized it all.

the courage of my memory.

Featured Poem: The Rewaking

The Rewaking by William Carlos Williams

Sooner of later

we must come to the end

of striving

to re-establish

the image the image of

the rose

but not yet

you say extending the

time indefinitely


your love until a whole



the violet to the very


and so by

your love the very sun

itself is revived

Featured Poem: A Sort of a Song

A Sort of a Song by William Carlos Williams

Let the snake wait under

his weed

and the writhing

be of words, slow and quick, sharp

to strike, quiet to wait,


—through metaphor to reconcile

the people and the stones.

Compose. (No ideas

but in things) Invent!

Saxifrage is my flower that splits

the rocks.