Saturday, April 28, 2012

Up Until August

A book of poetry by J. Edmund Anderson. Here are a few of my favorites...

We Are Much Too Anxious

We are much too anxious, much to anxious to create,
     and create only the beginning of things at that.
The flower blooms, but it soon dies,
     and a place is new only when you first arrive.
Things seems new, but they have been there
     long before you ever arrived.

And what of love? Is it contained in the first kiss
     that comes in a movie theatre, or in a park?
The movie will end.
The park will someday be replaced
     by concrete and plaster.
Still, we desire beginnings,
     but desire and beginnings are not love.
They are not desirable.
They do not stay still, for they are much too anxious.

J. Edmund Anderson

Burrard Street Bridge

The city bus is holy,
     it leads us through peculiar prayer.
Silent faces turn in awe
     as we pass over Burrard Street Bridge
to give quiet praise to the Creator of the sunset
     that lingers on the mountain tops,
     and bathes the Sea with Light...
Baptizing this city that stands
     on the shore of so much chaos.

J. Edmund Anderson

I am tired of reading how the sun opens its eyes,
or how the wind breathes through the pines.
These themes have run their course.
They are worn out from over-use.

I want to see people
who sell sunflower seeds on the curb,
who pawn old war medals in Gorky Park,
who sweep the dust from the dust at the bus stop
and get dirt under their fingernails.
People whose laugh is full of bad breath,
and whose tears, that never really end, give life
to what mediocre poets write about--but miss it.

The golden teeth, the smell of beer,
the wooden canes and the hands that hold them.
These things are true poetry--
not some invisible breath of trees.

J. Edmund Anderson

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