Poem of the Week 103

Think

Aretha Franklin

You better think (think)
Think about what you’re trying to do to me
Think (think, think)
Let your mind go, let yourself be free

Let’s go back, let’s go back
Let’s go way on way back when
I didn’t even know you
You couldn’t have been too much more than ten (just a child)
I ain’t no psychiatrist, I ain’t no doctor with degrees
But it don’t take too much high IQ to see what you’re doing to me

You better think (think)
Think about what you’re trying to do to me
Yeah, think (think, think)
Let your mind go, let yourself be free

‘Cause freedom (freedom) stands for freedom (freedom)
Oh, freedom, yeah, freedom, (freedom) right now
Freedom, (freedom) oh, freedom (freedom)
Give me some freedom, oh, freedom, (freedom) right now

Yeah, think about it!
You, think about it!

There ain’t nothing you could ask
I could answer you but I won’t (I won’t)
I was gonna change, but I’m not
If you keep doing things I don’t

You better think (think)
Think about what you’re trying to do to me
(What you’re tryna to do to me)
Oh, think (think)
Let your mind go, let yourself be free

People walking around everyday
Playing games and taking scores
Trying to make other people lose their minds
Well, be careful, you’re goin’ to lose yours

Oh, think (think)
Think about what you’re trying to do to me
Wooh! Think (think)
Let your mind go, let yourself be free

You need me (need me)
And I need you (don’t you know it?)
Without each other
There ain’t nothing neither can do

Oh yeah, think aboutta me (what you’re tryna do to me)
Oh baby, think about it right now
Yeah, right now
(Think about it, for me) Oh
(Think about it, for me) Yeah right now
(Think about it, for me)
(Think about it, for me) Please baby, baby, baby
(Think about it, for me) What I’m tryna say
(Think about it, for me)
(Think about it, for me)

Advertisements

Poem of the Week 102

For the Young Who Want To

Marge Piercy

Talent is what they say

you have after the novel

is published and favorably

reviewed. Beforehand what

you have is a tedious

delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done

after the play is produced

and the audience claps.

Before that friends keep asking

when you are planning to go

out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you

had after the third volume

of remarkable poems. Earlier

they accuse you of withdrawing,

ask why you don’t have a baby,

call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.’s,

take workshops with fancy names

when all you can really

learn is a few techniques,

typing instructions and some-

body else’s mannerisms

is that every artist lacks

a license to hang on the wall

like your optician, your vet

proving you may be a clumsy sadist

whose fillings fall into the stew

but you’re certified a dentist.

The real writer is one

who really writes. Talent

is an invention like phlogiston

after the fact of fire.

Work is its own cure. You have to

like it better than being loved.

Poem of the Week 101

Spellbound

Emily Brontë

 

The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot, cannot go.

 

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow.

And the storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

 

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me;

I will not, cannot go.

Poem of the Week 100

Let It Be

Paul McCartney

 

When I find myself in times of trouble,
Mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom,
Let it be

And in my hour of darkness,
She is standing right in front of me,
Speaking words of wisdom,
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be

For though they may be parted,

There is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer
Let it be

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine until tomorrow
Let it be

I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
There will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

Poem of the Week 99

Thousands

Leonard Cohen

 

Out of the thousands
who are known,
or who want to be known
as poets,
maybe one or two
are genuine
and the rest are fakes,
hanging around the sacred precincts
trying to look like the real thing.
Needless to say
I am one of the fakes,
and this is my story.

Poem of the Week 97

 

 

 

These Are the Hands

– The NHS at 60

Michael Rosen

 

These are the hands

That touch us first

Feel your head

Find the pulse

And make your bed.

 

These are the hands

That tap your back

Test the skin

Hold your arm

Wheel the bin

Change the bulb

Fix the drip

Pour the jug

Replace your hip.

 

These are the hands

That fill the bath

Mop the floor

Flick the switch

Soothe the sore

Burn the swabs

Give us a jab

Throw out sharps

Design the lab.

 

And these are the hands

That stop the leaks

Empty the pan

Wipe the pipes

Carry the can

Clamp the veins

Make the cast

Log the dose

And touch us last.

Poem of the Week 96

Come on into my Tropical Garden

Grace Nichols

 

 

Come on into my tropical garden

Come on in and have a laugh in

Taste my sugar cake and my pine drink

Come on in please come on in

 

And yes you can stand up in my hammock

and breeze out in my trees

you can pick my hibiscus

and kiss my chimpanzees

 

O you can roll up in the grass

and if you pick up a flea

I’ll take you down for a quick dip-wash

in the sea

believe me there’s nothing better

for getting rid of a flea

than having a quick dip-wash in the sea

 

Come on into my tropical garden

Come on in please come on in

 

 

 

Poem of the Week 95

Souvenir

Warsan Shire

 

I think I brought the war with me

on my skin, a shroud

circling my skull, matter under my nails.

It sits at my feet while I watch TV.

I hear its damp breath in the background

of every phone call. I feel it sleeping

between us in the bed. It lathers

my back in the shower. It presses

itself against me at the bathroom sink.

At night, it passes me the pills, it holds

my hand, I never meet its gaze.

Poem of the Week 94

Table

Edip Cansever

Translated from the Turkish by Julia Clare Tillinghast & Richard Tillinghast

 

 

A man filled with the gladness of living

Put his keys on the table,

Put flowers in a copper bowl there.

He put his eggs and milk on the table.

He put there the light that came in through the window,

Sound of a bicycle, sound of a spinning wheel.

The softness of bread and weather he put there.

On the table the man put

Things that happened in his mind.

What he wanted to do in life,

He put that there.

Those he loved, those he didn’t love,

The man put them on the table too.

Three times three make nine:

The man put nine on the table.

He was next to the window next to the sky;

He reached out and placed on the table endlessness.

So many days he had wanted to drink a beer!

He put on the table the pouring of that beer.

He placed there his sleep and his wakefulness;

His hunger and his fullness he put there.

 

Now that’s what I call a table!

It didn’t complain at all about the load.

It wobbled once or twice, then stood firm.

The man kept piling things on.