April 23, 2015 at 12:58 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: Jean Toomer, poem, poetry, poetry month
by Jean Toomer
Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads,
Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . .
Bitten by the sun
Dripping rain like golden honey—
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.
April 22, 2015 at 5:52 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: poem, poetry, poetry month, Seamus Heaney
The Grauballe Man
by Seamus Heaney
As if he had been poured
in tar, he lies
on a pillow of turf
and seems to weep
the black river of himself.
The grain of his wrists
is like bog oak,
the ball of his heel
like a basalt egg.
His instep has shrunk
cold as a swan’s foot
or a wet swamp root.
His hips are the ridge
and purse of a mussel,
his spine an eel arrested
under a glisten of mud.
The head lifts,
the chin is a visor
raised above the vent
of his slashed throat
that has tanned and toughened.
The cured wound
opens inwards to a dark
Who will say ‘corpse’
to his vivid cast?
Who will say ‘body’
to his opaque repose?
And his rusted hair,
a mat unlikely
as a foetus’s.
I first saw his twisted face
in a photograph,
a head and shoulder
out of the peat,
bruised like a forceps baby,
but now he lies
perfected in my memory,
down to the red horn
of his nails,
hung in the scales
with beauty and atrocity:
with the Dying Gaul
too strictly compassed
on his shield,
with the actual weight
of each hooded victim,
slashed and dumped.
April 21, 2015 at 1:03 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: Denise Levertov, poem, poetry, poetry month
by Denise Levertov
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
I who don’t know the
the line. They
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can’t find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
most of all.
April 20, 2015 at 9:43 am (Poetry Month)
Tags: poem, poetry, poetry month, ravi shankar
by Ravi Shankar
Particulate as ash, new year’s first snow falls
upon peaked roofs, car hoods, undulant hills,
in imitation of motion that moves the way
static cascades down screens when the cable
zaps out, persistent & granular with a flicker
of legibility that dissipates before it can be
interpolated into any succession of imagery.
One hour stretches sixty minutes into a field
of white flurry: hexagonal lattices of water
molecules that accumulate in drifts too soon
strewn with sand, hewn into browning
mounds by plow blade, left to turn to slush.
April 19, 2015 at 6:16 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: plums, poem, poetry, poetry month, william carlos williams
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold
April 19, 2015 at 9:49 am (MY poems)
Tags: family, lore, mythology, personal, personal mythology, poem, poetry, woodson
I am beginning a series about family lore and personal mythology, and this is the first piece for that. My grandfather was a Woodson, and there are two sides of that family; the potato Woodsons and the tub Woodsons. The distinction between the lines of the family come from two brothers who were hidden during an attack on their home. The boys were hidden in the potato cellar and under a wash tub.
In the cold humidity of the root cellar,
shadow touching skin,
he felt himself fold into the corner of the walls,
felt the grit of silence on his palms.
He listened to his mother, upstairs, move
through the quiet, heard her shift and wait.
Beyond the locked shutters, Powhatans whistled
a plan to one another, moving to keep their land,
moving to contain a flood.
In the dark silence of the moment,
his body curled tight into itself,
he smelled the oiled metal of the flintlock,
the metallic scent of grief.
He listened past his chest pounding, heard the sound
like pressure clearing in the ear, like the pop of a yawn.
Beyond the locked shutters, a Powhatan body fell,
blood making mud of the earth,
water moving back to join the flood.
April 18, 2015 at 11:53 am (Poetry Month)
Tags: e.e. cummings, ee cummings, poem, poetry, poetry month
by e.e. cummings
Lady, i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene
(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)Touch
you,that is all,
lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite care
the poem which i do not write.
April 17, 2015 at 12:23 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: poem, poetry, poetry month
by Amber Decker
You board a plane to Las Vegas
bound for a supporting role in a wedding
you do not believe has anything to do with love
Earlier, we’d made love on an old mattress
on the floor of your best friend’s apartment,
the hard shell of your suitcase banging
into my knee, your mouth wet
with the harsh scrape of my name.
There was little romance in it,
only the frenzied unleashing
of the not-knowing,
the possibility of unhappy endings, cutthroat desire.
I do not love you.
Or, rather, I love you
as I would love a deck of cards
while waiting for a train or a bus.
Our goodbyes fly across a crowded room
like small white birds.
At the ticket counter,
you kiss me with lips smooth as Cary Grant.
In the car, the radio plays songs to name
every sort of love
that does not bloom
in my heart for you,
and the long white lines of the road,
like dark-haired college boys
with bodies pale as ghosts,
take me home to bed.
April 16, 2015 at 1:12 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: Ladan Osman, poem, poetry, poetry month
by Ladan Osman
Tonight is a drunk man,
his dirty shirt.
There is no couple chatting by the recycling bins,
offering to help me unload my plastics.
There is not even the black and white cat
that balances elegantly on the lip of the dumpster.
There is only the smell of sour breath. Sweat on the collar of my shirt.
A water bottle rolling under a car.
Me in my too-small pajama pants stacking juice jugs on neighbors’ juice jugs.
I look to see if there is someone drinking on their balcony.
I tell myself I will wave.
April 15, 2015 at 4:05 pm (Poetry Month)
Tags: poem, poetry, poetry month, Sonnet, William Shakespeare
by William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings