As the wind blows leaves about

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
- John Keats, To Autumn

A bad pun

I realized just now that this blog title is a big pun on the fact that I'm of Polish descent. Not only do I have a poetry pole, I am a poetry Pole.

A poem from John

A poem from my friend John, Poetry pole originator.


A Calling Card



arrives early

each morning,

disrupts my dreams,

requests an audience at this unseemly hour

when dogs quietly snore, thieves have called it a night, and

bread bakers switch on the bathroom light. My dutiful butler

never refuses this card, enters, presents it with a bow,

silently retreats and

leaves me

alone.



Heavy-eyed,

wrapped in my bed clothes,

I receive this caller, who recounts faces,

known and unknown; some cloaked in deception, others

contorted in fear. The caller inquires of me. Do I understand? No.

Do I feel pain? Yes. Do I suffer? No, I am awakened again.

The caller bids me good morrow, stands,

silently retreats and

leaves me

alone.



-j. milliken 10/06/07

An autumn poem

In honor of Samhain

I chant the letter-acy of death
The names of people I don't know
The ones I do.
The ones that touched the lives
of those I love:

Kate's parents
Robert's mother
Sarah
Laurie's friends
Nancy's father
My brother
Philip's parents
David's dad
Pat
Grey's father
Dick's daughter
Philip's wife
Graham
Baby Kara

down, down, into the yawn of earth
they've left behind the letters of their names,
cursive strands that once connected them;
now floating through the breath of life.
Clinging to my face
the torn webs of autumn.

Welcome to the Poetry Pole

So my house has a poetry pole. My friend John invented (or adopted) the idea to share poetry in a public way. His house in NE Portland had the first poetry pole I'm aware of. Others followed suit and there are at least five poetry poles in our part of town. A poetry pole looks like a gussied up version of those realtor/for sale poles you’ll see. But they’re prettier and say “Poetry Pole” on the side. And of course have poems instead of house flyers.

Why a virtual Poetry Pole?
Our real poetry pole seems pretty popular. People have left notes, left new poems and taken copies of the posted poems. Going virtual seems like a good way to spread the beauty of language and poetry.

Here's a picture of the actual pole.