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© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. Written as part of Laura Salas's 15 Words or Less Thursday challenge.
Ode for the London Olympics 2012More on 2012 Olympic poetry can be read in this Huffington Post article and on the London2012 site. A New York Times article provides a more historical look at poetry and the Olympic games.
This new Olympic flame behold,
that once burned bright in Greece of old;
with happy hearts receive once more
these Games revived on London's shore.
Praise rival teams, in sport allied,
as athletes stream from far and wide;
the poet too must take the road
conveying praise to victory owed.
Millions of watchers will embrace
the passion of each close-run race,
the efforts of the rowing teams
and gymnasts balancing on beams.
They will observe with rapt delight
the archer draw his bowstring tight,
the skilful rider guide her horse,
and lightning bolt around the course.
The pipes will play, the drum resound,
as medallists are daily crowned;
the crowd's hurrah will reach the skies
when victors hoist the golden prize.
Now welcome to this sea‐girt land,
with London's Mayor and co. at hand.
Good luck to all who strive to win:
applaud, and let the Games begin!
Courtesy BBC News.
Caroline
She wore
her coming death
as gracefully
as if it were a coat
she'd learned to sew.
When it grew cold enough
she'd simply button it
and go.
Theory of Poetry
Know the world by heart
Or never know it!
Let the pendant stand apart--
Nothing he can name will show it:
Also him of intellectual art.
None know it
Till they know the world by heart.
Take heart, then, poet!
Poetical Remains
What will our reputations be?
whole things? Constructions
Resisting time (that sea!)
With the rock's persistent luck?
I doubt it. We leave behind
An anthological rubble:
Mind mingled with mind,
Odd and even coupled.
But poetry thrives that way.
Out of the tumbled coral
One exquisite spray,
Ivory, tipped with ore.
They Come No More, Those Words, Those Finches
Oh when you're young
And the words to your tongue
Like the birds to Saint Francis
With darting, with dances--
Wait! you say, Wait!
There's still time! It's not late!
And the next day you're old
And the words all as cold
As the birds in October
Sing over, sing over,
Sing Late! Late!
And Wait! you say, Wait!
Obsessive Compulsive: On Degas' Blanchisseuses et chevaux
Laundress was the perfect
job for her--the woman
who was always scrubbing
away at personal stigmas.
At work, imagined stains
were replaced by the tangible
make-up smears, wine drips,
menstrual blood, and sweat
rings of others' lives.
In cleansing them she
cleansed herself. But,
the horse? Why did she
stop that day on her way
to deliver the load of milk
white sheets perfectly
bleached and crisply folded?
Perhaps she merely stopped
to caress the beautiful creature
without the compulsion to strip
it of its sins and render it pure.
Perhaps...but not likely.
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.