other people's poems
Poem of the Day: Visiting My Gravesite: Talbott Churchyard, West Virginia
BY IRENE MCKINNEY
Maybe because I was married and felt secure and dead
at once, I listened to my father's urgings about "the future"
and bought this double plot on the hillside with a view
of the bare white church, the old elms, and the creek below.
I plan now to use both plots, luxuriantly spreading out
in the middle of a big double bed. —But no,
finally, my burial has nothing to do with marriage, this lying here
in these same bones will be as real as anything I can imagine
for who I'll be then, as real as anything undergone, going back
and forth to "the world" out there, and here to this one spot
on earth I really know. Once I came in fast and low
in a little plane and when I looked down at the church,
the trees I've felt with my hands, the neighbors' houses
and the family farm, and I saw how tiny what I loved or knew was,
it was like my children going on with their plans and griefs
at a distance and nothing I could do about it. But I wanted
to reach down and pat it, while letting it know
I wouldn't interfere for the world, the world being
everything this isn't, this unknown buried in the known.
Maybe because I was married and felt secure and dead
at once, I listened to my father's urgings about "the future"
and bought this double plot on the hillside with a view
of the bare white church, the old elms, and the creek below.
I plan now to use both plots, luxuriantly spreading out
in the middle of a big double bed. —But no,
finally, my burial has nothing to do with marriage, this lying here
in these same bones will be as real as anything I can imagine
for who I'll be then, as real as anything undergone, going back
and forth to "the world" out there, and here to this one spot
on earth I really know. Once I came in fast and low
in a little plane and when I looked down at the church,
the trees I've felt with my hands, the neighbors' houses
and the family farm, and I saw how tiny what I loved or knew was,
it was like my children going on with their plans and griefs
at a distance and nothing I could do about it. But I wanted
to reach down and pat it, while letting it know
I wouldn't interfere for the world, the world being
everything this isn't, this unknown buried in the known.
Poem of the Day: Night Heron Maybe
BY FRED MARCHANT
I woke to more rain, and felt in the dark
for how wet the sill was, then rolled back
to my radio, and a midnight preacher
in my earphone teaching about sin.
I learned that punishment would come
like lightning that surprises an innocent shore.
Thunder would follow me all my days,
stern reminder and sharp rebuke.
The long, sleek, and pointed call
that rose, as if in response, out of the estuary
of night and storm, said it knew well
what the given world gave, and wanted more.
I woke to more rain, and felt in the dark
for how wet the sill was, then rolled back
to my radio, and a midnight preacher
in my earphone teaching about sin.
I learned that punishment would come
like lightning that surprises an innocent shore.
Thunder would follow me all my days,
stern reminder and sharp rebuke.
The long, sleek, and pointed call
that rose, as if in response, out of the estuary
of night and storm, said it knew well
what the given world gave, and wanted more.
Poem of the Day: Separation
BY W. S. MERWIN
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Poem of the Day: Sweet Dreams
BY JOYCE ARMOR
It's always been a wish of mine
(Or should I say a dream)
To scare my sister half to death
And hear her piercing scream.
That's why I squished four bugs until
They all were very dead,
Then took them to my sister's room
And put them in her bed.
After we had said goodnight,
My heart began to pound.
I waited and I waited, but
She never made a sound.
And then I got so doggone tired
I couldn't stay awake.
I climbed into my own warm bed
And shrieked—there was a snake!
It wiggled, and I leaped and fell
And bruised my bottom half;
Then I heard an awful sound—
It was my sister's laugh.
It's always been a wish of mine
(Or should I say a dream)
To scare my sister half to death
And hear her piercing scream.
That's why I squished four bugs until
They all were very dead,
Then took them to my sister's room
And put them in her bed.
After we had said goodnight,
My heart began to pound.
I waited and I waited, but
She never made a sound.
And then I got so doggone tired
I couldn't stay awake.
I climbed into my own warm bed
And shrieked—there was a snake!
It wiggled, and I leaped and fell
And bruised my bottom half;
Then I heard an awful sound—
It was my sister's laugh.
Poem of the Day: Separation
BY W. S. MERWIN
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
American Life in Poetry: Column 440
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Labor Day
Even the bosses are sleeping late
in the dusty light of September.
The parking lot’s empty and no one cares.
No one unloads a ladder, steps on the gas
or starts up the big machines in the shop,
sanding and grinding, cutting and binding.
No one lays a flat bead of flux over a metal seam
or lowers the steel forks from a tailgate.
Shadows gather inside the sleeve
of the empty thermos beside the sink,
the bells go still by the channel buoy,
the wind lies down in the west,
the tuna boats rest on their tie-up lines
turning a little, this way and that.
Poor Richard’s Almanac said, “He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas,” but that hasn’t kept some of us from sleeping with our dogs. Here’s a poem about the pleasure of that, by Joyce Sidman, who lives and sleeps in Montana. Her book, Dark Emperor and Other Poems of the Night, won a 2011 Newbery Honor Award.
Dog in Bed
Nose tucked under tail,
you are a warm, furred planet
centered in my bed.
All night I orbit, tangle-limbed,
in the slim space
allotted to me.
If I accidentally
bump you from sleep,
you shift, groan,
drape your chin on my hip.
O, that languid, movie-star drape!
I can never resist it.
Digging my fingers into your fur,
kneading,
I wonder:
How do you dream?
What do you adore?
Why should your black silk ears
feel like happiness?
This is how it is with love.
Once invited,
it steps in gently,
circles twice,
and takes up as much space
as you will give it.
American Life in Poetry: Column 440
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Labor Day
Even the bosses are sleeping late
in the dusty light of September.
The parking lot’s empty and no one cares.
No one unloads a ladder, steps on the gas
or starts up the big machines in the shop,
sanding and grinding, cutting and binding.
No one lays a flat bead of flux over a metal seam
or lowers the steel forks from a tailgate.
Shadows gather inside the sleeve
of the empty thermos beside the sink,
the bells go still by the channel buoy,
the wind lies down in the west,
the tuna boats rest on their tie-up lines
turning a little, this way and that.
Poor Richard’s Almanac said, “He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas,” but that hasn’t kept some of us from sleeping with our dogs. Here’s a poem about the pleasure of that, by Joyce Sidman, who lives and sleeps in Montana. Her book, Dark Emperor and Other Poems of the Night, won a 2011 Newbery Honor Award.
Dog in Bed
Nose tucked under tail,
you are a warm, furred planet
centered in my bed.
All night I orbit, tangle-limbed,
in the slim space
allotted to me.
If I accidentally
bump you from sleep,
you shift, groan,
drape your chin on my hip.
O, that languid, movie-star drape!
I can never resist it.
Digging my fingers into your fur,
kneading,
I wonder:
How do you dream?
What do you adore?
Why should your black silk ears
feel like happiness?
This is how it is with love.
Once invited,
it steps in gently,
circles twice,
and takes up as much space
as you will give it.
Poem of the Day: “Feuerzauber”
BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER
I never knew the earth had so much gold—
The fields run over with it, and this hill
Hoary and old,
Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.
Such golden fires, such yellow—lo, how good
This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God!
This fringe of wood,
Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod.
You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see
Your face grow mystical, as on that night
You turned to me,
And all the trembling world—and you—were white.
Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb;
The fields absorb you, color you entire . . .
And you become
A goddess standing in a world of fire!
|
Poem of the Day: The World Is in Pencil
BY TODD BOSS
—not pen. It's got
that same silken
dust about it, doesn't it,
that same sense of
having been roughed
onto paper even
as it was planned.
It had to be a labor
of love. It must've
taken its author some
time, some shove.
I'll bet it felt good
in the hand—the o
of the ocean, and
the and and the and
of the land.
Poem of the Day: Imperial City
BY RICHIE HOFMANN
From the outset I hated the city of my ancestors.
I was fearful I'd be put in the dungeon below
the cathedral. The best example of the Romanesque
a guide was saying in German in English in French
where are buried eight German kings four queens
twenty-three bishops four Holy Roman Emperors
all of whom used this bishopric on the river as the seat
of the kingdom. On the old gate at one end a clock
told an ancient form of time. I sulked along behind
my parents as the guide gave facts about the war
with the Saracens about the place where the Jews bathed
about the child like me whose father the Peaceful
having already produced an heir by his first marriage
could marry for love.
|
Poem of the Day: Sorrow
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, —
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.
|
Poem of the Day: Knowledge
BY LOUISE BOGAN
Now that I know
That passion warms little
Of flesh in the mold,
And treasure is brittle,
I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground,
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.
August 1922
|
Poem of the Day: Father
BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST
My father knows the proper way
The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
Just what should now be done.
He knows the way to fix the trusts,
He has a simple plan;
But if the furnace needs repairs,
We have to hire a man.
My father, in a day or two
Could land big thieves in jail;
There’s nothing that he cannot do,
He knows no word like “fail.”
“Our confidence” he would restore,
Of that there is no doubt;
But if there is a chair to mend,
We have to send it out.
All public questions that arise,
He settles on the spot;
He waits not till the tumult dies,
But grabs it while it’s hot.
In matters of finance he can
Tell Congress what to do;
But, O, he finds it hard to meet
His bills as they fall due.
It almost makes him sick to read
The things law-makers say;
Why, father’s just the man they need,
He never goes astray.
All wars he’d very quickly end,
As fast as I can write it;
But when a neighbor starts a fuss,
’Tis mother has to fight it.
In conversation father can
Do many wondrous things;
He’s built upon a wiser plan
Than presidents or kings.
He knows the ins and outs of each
And every deep transaction;
We look to him for theories,
But look to ma for action.
My father knows the proper way
The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
Just what should now be done.
He knows the way to fix the trusts,
He has a simple plan;
But if the furnace needs repairs,
We have to hire a man.
My father, in a day or two
Could land big thieves in jail;
There’s nothing that he cannot do,
He knows no word like “fail.”
“Our confidence” he would restore,
Of that there is no doubt;
But if there is a chair to mend,
We have to send it out.
All public questions that arise,
He settles on the spot;
He waits not till the tumult dies,
But grabs it while it’s hot.
In matters of finance he can
Tell Congress what to do;
But, O, he finds it hard to meet
His bills as they fall due.
It almost makes him sick to read
The things law-makers say;
Why, father’s just the man they need,
He never goes astray.
All wars he’d very quickly end,
As fast as I can write it;
But when a neighbor starts a fuss,
’Tis mother has to fight it.
In conversation father can
Do many wondrous things;
He’s built upon a wiser plan
Than presidents or kings.
He knows the ins and outs of each
And every deep transaction;
We look to him for theories,
But look to ma for action.
Poem of the Day: The Unquiet Grave
BY ANONYMOUS
“The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.
“I’ll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.”
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
“Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?”
“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.”
“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.
“’T is down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that e’re was seen
Is withered to a stalk.
“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.”
Poem of the Day: The Unquiet Grave
BY ANONYMOUS
“The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.
“I’ll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.”
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
“Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?”
“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.”
“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.
“’T is down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that e’re was seen
Is withered to a stalk.
“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.”
“The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.
“I’ll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.”
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
“Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?”
“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.”
“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.
“’T is down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that e’re was seen
Is withered to a stalk.
“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.”
Poem of the Day: One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII
BY PABLO NERUDA
I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don't know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
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