anonymous singer

{This is a poem inspired by something that happened this evening as my brothers and I were walking our neighbour's dog.}

as we walked the neighbour's dog
a song breathed through
the darkness

faint at first
like a figment of our imagination
but then stronger
unable to be ignored

some boy
some anonymous boy
in an anonymous room
poured his soul into the night
to the beat of his
own drum

did he suspect he would have an audience
of three people
and one apathetic dog?

had i been alone
i would have stayed to listen
to his pulsing rawness

but reality pulled at the leash;
i moved on with my
unsentimental brothers

but something in me wished
i could've stayed or
even followed the sound

something in me wished
life could be like
a book or movie
so i could have stayed,
joined his anonymity
to make music with him

(don't we all want to be
anonymous, alive?)

Brave New Voices

A few of my favorite performances from the HBO series Brave New Voices. I do not own these videos and the poetry is all theirs, hope you all enjoy!! (PS: please excuse the quality of some of the videos, It's the best I could find on youtube)

You know, I think more and more often.

by Tadeusz Borowski

You know, I think more and more often

that I should go back.

Maybe I’ll meet you. And happiness?

Happiness is being sad together.

So I look through the moonlit window

and listen.

Nothing. A breeze stirs somewhere.

Alone among the leaves - the moon.

Like a golden wheel it rolls

above the windblown leaves.

Such moons, only paler,

shone over the Wisla.

Even the Big Dipper on its course

stops in a tree at midnight,

just like at home. But why here?

Truly, I don’t know.

What’s here? Longing and sleepless nights,

unknown streets and somebody’s verse.

I live here as a nobody:

a Displaced Person.

I think of you. I know I must leave.

Perhaps we can return to our past,

but I know neither what youth will be like

nor where you are.

But I’m yours or no one’s

forever. Listen,

listen, read this poem

if somewhere you are alive.

The Moon and The Yew Tree

by the wonderful Sylvia Plath


This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.