Poem of the Day

Soliloquy on an Empty Purse by Mary Jones

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Alas, my Purse! how lean and low!

My silken Purse! what art thou now!

One I beheld—but stocks will fall—

When both thy ends had wherewithal.

When I within thy slender fence

My fortune placed, and confidence;

A poet’s fortune!—not immense:

Yet, mixed with keys, and coins among,

Chinked to the melody of song.

Canst thou forget, when, high in air,

I saw thee fluttering at a fair?

And took thee, destined to be sold,

My lawful Purse, to have and hold?

Yet used so oft to disembogue,

No prudence could thy fate prorogue.

Like wax thy silver melted down,

Touch but the brass, and lo! ’twas gone:

And gold would never with thee stay,

For gold had wings, and flew away.

Alas, my Purse! yet still be proud,

For see the Virtues round thee crowd!

See, in the room of paltry wealth,

Calm Temperance rise, the nurse of health;

And Self-Denial, slim and spare,

And Fortitude, with look severe;

And Abstinence, to leanness prone,

And Patience, worn to skin and bone:

Prudence and Foresight on thee wait,

And Poverty lies here in state!

Hopeless her spirits to recruit,

For every Virtue is a mute.

Well then, my Purse, thy Sabbaths keep;

Now thou art empty, I shall sleep.

No silver sounds shall thee molest,

Nor golden dreams disturb my breast.

Safe shall I walk with thee along,

Amidst temptations thick and strong;

Catched by the eye, no more shall stop

At Wildey’s toys, or Pinchbeck’s shop;

Nor cheapening Payne’s ungodly books,

Be drawn aside by pastry-cooks:

But fearless now we both may go

Where Ludgate’s mercers bow so low;

Beholding all with equal eye,

Nor moved at—“Madam, what d’ye buy?”

Away, far hence each worldly care!

Nor dun nor pick-purse shalt thou fear,

Nor flatterer base annoy my ear.

Snug shalt thou travel through the mob,

For who a poet’s purse will rob?

And softly sweet in garret high

Will I thy virtues magnify;

Outsoaring flatterers’ stinking breath,

And gently rhyming rats to death.

Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (Pearson, 2006)

Dew by David Musgrave

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -0600

None are more familiar with dew

than professional footballers. From early

grades they are used to running through

practice drills and hurling their burly

frames through rucks while the moist chaff

of wet grass under the winter lights

softens their fall, accustoms the half-

back to the slippery ball and writes

green cuneiform on wet sandshoes.

And they fear it in the morning,

kicking off the dew in the ‘twos’

because they ignored a coach’s warning.

Half their lives are spent in clouds

of condensation or the cold heat

of a winter sun where even the crowds

seem like droplets on the concrete

rose of the stadium. In the final days

of their season , sweat-spangled on the eve

of their triumph, the ball on a string and their plays

honed, even the doubters believe.

And the last day is, once again,

already an aftermath: the ground’s been shaved

and sucked dry by the noon sun

and the paddock has become a paved

and bristled hell for those who will

collide with it and pinion flesh on

earth, earth on flesh and spill

blood for the sake of the game. Possession

is the law; all are possessed.

And when the crowd melts into the dry

darkness, after that great red football’s

booted between the uprights of the sky-

scrapers and gone, the sky bawls

cheerless little drops for the victors

and decks the oval with the losers’ jewels.

David Musgrave, "Dew" audio from Open Water, 2007, Audio CD, River Road Press, 2007; text from Phantom Limb, John Leonard Press, 2010: by permission of River Road Press and the poet. Copyright © 2007, 2010 by David Musgrave.

Source: Open Water (River Road Press, 2007)

February Sky by Bruce Smith

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -0600

I must have left a fingerprint, a molecule of oil,

a seal, a slick when I took my hands away

from her throat—the way she liked in loving

to have her pearls exchanged for the torque

of my fingers and so kill her eminence for a second.

The queen is dead. Long live the queen. The evidence

was volatile, was fugitive, was a story told

in menstrual blood and glycerines, Chanel and boss

sauce. It failed in the telling to be events

and sequence, the spell of water and bridge, and became

rain and distance, the first faint smell of rose

dismembering, masking the rigor mortis of the coyotes.

I took my hands away as from the child

sleeping or from the hot stove, and I was no longer I.

I saw the sky in the windshield of another city.

The sky an empty karate studio, the sky Route 95.

Because she saw herself everywhere,

The sky a fugue, the folds of a gown where the dragons are.

there could be no other. A film was her darling,

the sky Artists’ Supplies, the sky six-thirty darkening.

a mirror of her hair—fixed or deranged

Sky of correspondences, the color of G minor, the taste of gray.

She thought, from the audience: I should be up there.

February sky a copy center, relocated elsewhere.

I loved to go out into the audience, the bebopist said,

and walk in the crowd to feel

what they feel. Jumping down from the bandstand, I

broke my foot, lay there, had to blare it from my back.

The sky nineteenth-century smoke, the sky a drum,

then here comes the bass solo.

Vote Hoffa, the sky says, labor sky, the dollar soaring with the yen.

The sky popularized, blue-red, the access and the factory.

I take myself to the movies—the romance of sheets,

the dustup of things and her magnificent face: stylish,

the sky inside her eyes, chlorine and glass.

I tithe to the darkness and I’m glad for the dark

two hours where I undo her, where I remember the eye

I indulged, the opposite of sacrifice, the lamb’s throat

uncut, the woolly body kindled in the green

like a dream of Lorca’s, betrayed in the telling.

The sky Repairables, the sky Pony Rides.

Some nights in the house by the river, I walked out

into a collective dream of home—an overstory

overlooking a body of water—where I found

the horse like smoke or luck, a muscled earth, an avatar,

and I held him, face to flank, and felt the skeleton

under the skin and the fear of the human touched back

by hunger. The great white eye another moon.

It was a lesser and a greater form of the feeling

after fucking, if it has a form, if its past is present.

Sky an empty shelf in the Salvation Army Thrift Store.

A few fine hairs like her lashes on my hands

The sky a white peony, the sky a paper life.

when I came back and found her bound in the sheets,

the opposite of spectacle, not absorbing the gaze but

giving off light like night water, giving back the gorgeous

I had inscribed there, a fallen form, small, fursheen, film

still, a body suddenly small enough to fill a tear duct.

The sky a shell, a lull in the shelling.

What was it like, the loving? Like Sarajevo

under siege, no electricity, no gas, no water,

and yet the dance goes on in which a bathtub is filled,

and, although the theater is twenty degrees, the dancer

of the god-kissed tendons for her finale

jumps into it—the leap that takes away the breath

and rations it to everyone, and

it’s the only bath for anyone in two months.

The sky orchestra and karma, the sky Gold Bought and Sold.

The windows of the house I won’t live in held light

and the island fires on the river, held hawk and heron.

Under siege in dream, the panes slash my face when they shatter

with difference, inside, outside, with distance, what was

not. A second dream: kids go by on bikes and big wheels,

their faces grown up and disfigured, scabbed,

hydrocephalic with sadness. Finally the whole body

The sky a gray whale, the sky magnanimous and cruel.

and not just its parts, wants to be unloved, beginning

The sky Purgatory Road, the sky a god mouth, a crow.

with its parts, the fetish of her: a cell from the lining,

spit, a follicle, the thousand ships of her face,

the torso and ratio, rib whittle, unbound feet, beginning

to become vast, nothing you can touch, a taste,

The sky a copper pot blackened, picked clean of puchero.

a smell, familiar and far away, unlocked by thaw,

feral and essential, like a language lost, like night

illuminated by the night.

Bruce Smith, “February Sky” from The Other Lover (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2000). Copyright © 2000 by Bruce Smith. Reprinted with the permission of the author.

Source: The Other Lover (2000)

Will and Testament by Isabella Whitney

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -0600

The time is come I must departe

from thee, ah, famous Citie:

I never yet, to rue my smart,

did finde that thou hadst pitie,

Wherefore small cause ther is, that I

should greeve from thee to go:

But many Women foolyshly,

lyke me, and other moe.

Doe such a fyxed fancy set,

on those which least desarve,

That long it is ere wit we get,

away from them to swarve,

But tyme with pittie oft wyl tel

to those that wil her try:

Whether it best be more to mell,

or vtterly defye.

And now hath time me put in mind,

of thy great cruelnes:

That never once a help wold finde,

to ease me in distres.

Thou never yet woldst credit geve

to boord me for a yeare:

Nor with Apparell me releve

except thou payed weare.

No, no, thou never didst me good,

nor ever wilt, I know:

Yet am I in no angry moode,

but wyll, or ere I goe,

In perfect love and charytie

my Testament here write:

And leave to thee such Treasurye,

as I in it recyte.

Now stand a side and geve me leave

to write my latest Wyll:

And see that none you do deceave,

of that I leave them tyl.

I whole in body, and in minde,

but very weake in Purse:

Doo make, and write my Testament

for feare it wyll be wurse.

And fyrst I wholy doo commend,

my Soule and Body eke:

To God the Father and the Son,

so long as I can speake.

And after speach: my Soule to hym,

and Body to the Grave:

Tyll time that all shall rise agayne,

their Judgement for to have.

And then I hope they both shal meete.

to dwell for aye in ioye:

Whereas I trust to see my Friends

releast, from all annoy.

Thus have you heard touching my soule,

and body what I meane:

I trust you all wyll witnes beare,

I have a stedfast brayne.

And now let mee dispose such things,

as I shal leave behinde:

That those which shall receave the same,

may know my wylling minde.

I firste of all to London leave

because I there was bred:

Braue buildyngs rare, of Churches store,

and Pauls to the head.

Betweene the same: fayre streats there bee,

and people goodly store:

Because their keeping craveth cost,

I yet wil leave him more.

First for their foode, I Butchers leave,

that every day shall kyll:

By Thames you shal have Brewers store,

and Bakers at your wyll.

And such as orders doo obserue,

and eat fish thrice a weeke:

I leave two Streets, full fraught therwith,

they neede not farre to seeke.

Watlyng Streete, and Canwyck streete,

I full of Wollen leave:

And Linnen store in Friday streete,

if they mee not deceave.

And those which are of callyng such,

that costlier they require:

I Mercers leave, with silke so rich,

as any would desyre.

In Cheape of them, they store shal finde

and likewise in that streete:

I Goldsmithes leave, with Iuels such,

as are for Ladies meete.

And Plate to furnysh Cubbards with,

full braue there shall you finde:

With Purle of Siluer and of Golde,

to satisfye your minde.

With Hoods, Bungraces, Hats or Caps,

such store are in that streete:

As if on ton side you should misse

the tother serues you feete.

For Nets of every kynd of sort,

I leave within the pawne:

French Ruffes, high Purles, Gorgets and Sleeves

of any kind of Lawne.

For Purse or Kniues, for Combe or Glasse,

or any needeful knacke

I by the Stoks have left a Boy,

wil aske you what you lack.

I Hose doo leave in Birchin Lane,

of any kynd of syse:

For Women stitchte, for men both Trunks

and those of Gascoyne gise.

Bootes, Shoes or Pantables good store,

Saint Martins hath for you:

In Cornwall, there I leave you Beds,

and all that longs thereto.

For Women shall you Taylors have,

by Bow, the chiefest dwel:

In every Lane you some shall finde,

can doo indifferent well.

And for the men, few Streetes or Lanes,

but Bodymakers bee:

And such as make the sweeping Cloakes,

with Gardes beneth the Knee.

Artyllery at Temple Bar,

and Dagges at Tower hyll:

Swords and Bucklers of the best,

are nye the Fleete vntyll.

Now when thy Folke are fed and clad

with such as I have namde:

For daynty mouthes, and stomacks weake

some Iunckets must be framde.

Wherfore I Poticaries leave,

with Banquets in their Shop:

Phisicians also for the sicke,

Diseases for to stop.

Some Roysters styll, must bide in thee,

and such as cut it out:

That with the guiltlesse quarel wyl,

to let their blood about.

For them I cunning Surgions leave,

some Playsters to apply.

That Ruffians may not styll be hangde,

nor quiet persons dye.

For Salt, Otemeale, Candles, Sope,

or what you els doo want:

In many places, Shops are full,

I left you nothing scant.

Yf they that keepe what I you leave,

aske Mony: when they sell it:

At Mint, there is such store, it is

vnpossible to tell it.

At Stiliarde store of Wines there bee,

your dulled mindes to glad:

And handsome men, that must not wed

except they leave their trade.

They oft shal seeke for proper Gyrles,

and some perhaps shall fynde:

(That neede compels, or lucre lures

to satisfye their mind.)

And neare the same, I houses leave,

for people to repayre:

To bathe themselues, so to preuent

infection of the ayre.

On Saturdayes I wish that those,

which all the weeke doo drug:

Shall thyther trudge, to trim them vp

on Sondayes to looke smug.

Yf any other thing be lackt

in thee, I wysh them looke:

For there it is: I little brought

but nothyng from thee tooke.

Now for the people in thee left,

I have done as I may:

And that the poore, when I am gone,

have cause for me to pray.

I wyll to prisons portions leave,

what though but very small:

Yet that they may remember me,

occasion be it shall:

And fyrst the Counter they shal have,

least they should go to wrack:

Some Coggers, and some honest men,

that Sergantes draw a back.

And such as Friends wyl not them bayle,

whose coyne is very thin:

For them I leave a certayne hole,

and little ease within.

The Newgate once a Monthe shal have

a sessions for his share:

Least being heapt, Infection might

procure a further care.

And at those sessions some shal skape,

with burning nere the Thumb:

And afterward to beg their fees,

tyll they have got the some.

And such whose deedes deserueth death,

and twelue have found the same:

They shall be drawne vp Holborne hill,

to come to further shame:

Well, yet to such I leave a Nag

shal soone their sorowes cease:

For he shal either breake their necks

or gallop from the preace.

The Fleete, not in their circuit is,

yet if I geve him nought:

It might procure his curse, ere I

unto the ground be brought.

Wherfore I leave some Papist olde

to vnder prop his roofe:

And to the poore within the same,

a Boxe for their behoofe.

What makes you standers by to smile.

and laugh so in your sleeve:

I thinke it is, because that I

to Ludgate nothing geve.

I am not now in case to lye,

here is no place of iest:

I dyd reserve, that for my selfe,

yf I my health possest.

And ever came in credit so

a debtor for to bee.

When dayes of paiment did approch,

I thither ment to flee.

To shroude my selfe amongst the rest,

that chuse to dye in debt:

Rather then any Creditor,

should money from them get.

Yet cause I feele my selfe so weake

that none mee credit dare:

I heere reuoke: and doo it leave,

some Banckrupts to his share.

To all the Bookebinders by Paulles

because I lyke their Arte:

They e'ry weeke shal mony have,

when they from Bookes departe.

Amongst them all, my Printer must,

have somwhat to his share:

I wyll my Friends these Bookes to bye

of him, with other ware.

For Maydens poore, I Widdoers ritch,

do leave, that oft shall dote:

And by that meanes shal mary them,

to set the Girles aflote.

And wealthy Widdowes wil I leave,

to help yong Gentylmen:

Which when you have, in any case

be courteous to them then:

And see their Plate and Iewells eake

may not be mard with rust.

Nor let their Bags too long be full,

for feare that they doo burst.

To e'ry Gate vnder the walles,

that compas thee about:

I Fruit wives leave to entertayne

such as come in and out.

To Smithfeelde I must something leave

my Parents there did dwell:

So carelesse for to be of it,

none wolde accompt it well.

Wherfore it thrice a weeke shall have,

of Horse and neat good store,

And in his Spitle, blynd and lame,

to dwell for evermore.

And Bedlem must not be forgot,

for that was oft my walke:

I people there too many leave,

that out of tune doo talke.

At Bridewel there shal Bedelles be,

and Matrones that shal styll

See Chalke wel chopt, and spinning plyde,

and turning of the Mill.

For such as cannot quiet bee,

but striue for House or Land:

At Th' innes of Court, I Lawyers leave

to take their cause in hand.

And also leave I at ech Inne

of Court, or Chauncerye:

Of Gentylmen, a youthfull roote,

full of Actiuytie:

For whom I store of Bookes have left,

at each Bookebinders stall:

And parte of all that London hath

to furnish them withall.

And when they are with study cloyd:

to recreate theyr minde:

Of Tennis Courts, of dauncing Scooles,

and fence they store shal finde.

And every Sonday at the least,

I leave to make them sport.

In diuers places Players, that

of wonders shall reporte.

Now London have I (for thy sake)

within thee, and without:

As coms into my memory,

dispearsed round about

Such needfull thinges, as they should have

heere left now unto thee:

When I am gon, with consience,

let them dispearced bee.

And though I nothing named have,

to bury mee withall:

Consider that aboue the ground,

annoyance bee I shall.

And let me have a shrowding Sheete

to couer mee from shame:

And in obliuyon bury mee

and never more mee name.

Ringings nor other Ceremonies,

vse you not for cost:

Nor at my buriall, make no feast,

your mony were but lost.

Reioyce in God that I am gon,

out of this vale so vile.

And that of ech thing, left such store,

as may your wants exile.

I make thee sole executor, because

I lou'de thee best.

And thee I put in trust, to geve

the goodes unto the rest.

Because thou shalt a helper neede,

In this so great a chardge,

I wysh good Fortune, be thy guide, least

thou shouldst run at lardge.

The happy dayes and quiet times,

they both her Seruants bee.

Which well wyll serue to fetch and bring,

such things as neede to thee.

Wherfore (good London) not refuse,

for helper her to take:

Thus being weake and wery both

an end heere wyll I make.

To all that aske what end I made,

and how I went away:

Thou answer maist like those which heere,

no longer tary may.

And unto all that wysh mee well,

or rue that I am gon:

Doo me comend, and bid them cease

my absence for to mone.

And tell them further, if they wolde,

my presence styll have had:

They should have sought to mend my luck;

which ever was too bad.

So fare thou well a thousand times,

God sheelde thee from thy foe:

And styll make thee victorious,

of those that seeke thy woe.

And (though I am perswade) that I

shall never more thee see:

Yet to the last, I shal not cease

to wish much good to thee.

This, xx. of October I,

in ANNO DOMINI:

A Thousand: v. hundred seuenty three

as Alminacks descry.

Did write this Wyll with mine owne hand

and it to London gaue:

In witnes of the standers by,

whose names yf you wyll have.

Paper, Pen and Standish were:

at that same present by:

With Time, who promised to reveale,

so fast as she could hye

The same: least of my nearer kyn,

for any thing should vary:

So finally I make an end

no longer can I tary.

[By any measure] by Ben Lerner

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -0600

By any measure, it was endless

winter. Emulsions with

Then circled the lake like

This is it. This April will be

Inadequate sensitivity to green. I rose

early, erased for an hour

Silk-brush and ax

I'd like to think I'm a different person

latent image fading

around the edges and ears

Overall a tighter face

now. Is it so hard for you to understand

From the drop-down menu

In a cluster of eight poems, I selected

sleep, but could not

I decided to change everything

Composed entirely of stills

or fade into the trees

but could not

remember the dream

save for one brief shot

of a woman opening her eyes

Ari, pick up. I'm a different person

In a perfect world, this would be

April, or an associated concept

Green to the touch

several feet away

Ben Lerner, "’By any measure...’" from Mean Free Path. Copyright © 2010 by Ben Lerner. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.

Source: Mean Free Path (Copper Canyon Press, 2010)

The Maldive Shark by Herman Melville

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

About the Shark, phlegmatical one,

Pale sot of the Maldive sea,

The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,

How alert in attendance be.

From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw

They have nothing of harm to dread,

But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank

Or before his Gorgonian head;

Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth

In white triple tiers of glittering gates,

And there find a haven when peril’s abroad,

An asylum in jaws of the Fates!

They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,

Yet never partake of the treat—

Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,

Pale ravener of horrible meat.

Winter Journal: Gold Rivulet Weave, Gauded by Emily Wilson

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

chains of the willow, desolate weft

birds and the slim reprieves

the socketing together of weeds before water

straight-pins of jet

incontrovertible smears of dense cloud

against bullet-train whitenings, unleashed

the reductions to tense

the awful dozes into deep sinks

flush grows upward, secreting, soaking through

the old damasks

fretwork of trees, their balances achieved

then slipped off

touched-up surge of cloud across water

The river shuttles onward, reconstituting

It gains the red threads of taillights

the spare greens and the thousand paired whites

warping over, shaping off

The ducks come forth out of something unclear

The trees drain their weights into water

The ducks are a tension I have not known of

How they pivot, disfiguring the whole field

dragging their trapezoid blear

They are careful and meet their trains behind them like brides

Now the whistles of those taken to air

The disturbance of them in this river

and the wavering cardiographies

up-rushed, up-stayed

This is the push of all strayed things into night

the heavying of trees against sky-fire

stolen into a river, cloistered down

I do not want anything more than this taking

of last light into pocketings and loose garments

unbearable closets of the trees

the stitched-in bones and the placketings

This feeling of everything unhanded

suddenly let go into robes

The half-bustled willow rails forward

The still surface. The quieted surface.

The same sharp planets exacting there

Emily Wilson, “Winter Journal: Gold Rivulet Weave, Gauded” reprinted from The Keep. With permission Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2001.

Source: The Keep (University of Iowa Press, 2001)

Under the Dome by Elise Paschen

Sat, 28 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

At times they will fly under. The dome

contains jungles. Invent a sky under the dome.

Creatures awake, asleep, at play, aglow:

they float – unbottled genii – under the dome.

Southern Belle, a splash of black, dusted with gold,

dissembles, assembling, acts shy under the dome.

Cattleheart, Giant Swallowtail, Clipper:

sail, navigate sky high under the dome.

Like confetti – a wedding – bits of Rice

Paper: sheer mimicry under the dome.

Magnificent Owl, in air, a pansy,

it feeds, wings up, eye to eye, under the dome.

Name them: Monarch, then Queen, last Viceroy.

What will scientists deify under the dome?

Basking against a leaf: a Banded Orange,

displayed like a bowtie under the dome.

A living museum. Exist to be observed:

never migrate, but live, then die, under the dome.

Lips, lashes, eyes. From outside in,

do beings magnify under the dome?

Lepidoptera. From the Greek: Scale-wing.

Chrysalis. Stay, butterfly, under the dome.

Elise Paschen, “Under the Dome” from Bestiary. Copyright © 2009 by Elise Paschen. Reprinted with permission by Red Hen Press.

Source: Bestiary (Red Hen Press, 2009)

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

"The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright —

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done —

"It's very rude of him," she said,

"To come and spoil the fun."

The sea was wet as wet could be,

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead —

There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

If this were only cleared away,'

They said, it would be grand!'

If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,

That they could get it clear?'

I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

O Oysters, come and walk with us!'

The Walrus did beseech.

A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each.'

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head —

Meaning to say he did not choose

To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat —

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more —

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

And whether pigs have wings.'

But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,

Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!'

No hurry!' said the Carpenter.

They thanked him much for that.

A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,

Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed —

Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed.'

But not on us!' the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!'

The night is fine,' the Walrus said.

Do you admire the view?

It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!'

The Carpenter said nothing but

Cut us another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf —

I've had to ask you twice!'

It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,

To play them such a trick,

After we've brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!'

The Carpenter said nothing but

The butter's spread too thick!'

I weep for you,' the Walrus said:

I deeply sympathize.'

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.

O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,

You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?'

But answer came there none —

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one."

Ode by David Lehman

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

People in the middle ages didn't think they were living

Between two more important and enlightened eras;

Nor did they see themselves as the players

In act three of a tragedy in five acts.

It was not always late winter in the middle ages.

People in the middle ages were not all middle-aged

Though it is enjoyable on occasion to assume that they were.

The sun was as bright in the dark ages

As it is now—maybe a fraction brighter, in fact.

Think of the middle ages and what do you see:

Gloomy cathedrals, students dressed like monks in the rain,

Or a band of drunken pilgrims telling obscene jokes,

Or heroes embarking for the nearest wilderness come April?

Your answer will reveal yourself to yourself

But you may not know it—may choose to hide

In hazy visions of a serene and indescribable paradise.

And paradise, as we all know, may be paradise when we’re dead,

But is boredom on earth, alas.

We never think of ennui in relation to the middle ages.

Should we? Did Thomas Aquinas never get bored

Cooking up elaborate refutations of diminutive heresies?

No, and you shouldn’t either. Nor did the clerks

of Oxford tire of the sin against the Holy Ghost,

Trying to figure out what it was.

On chill September mornings when

I smoked too much the night before

And I drank too much the night before

And a sinister cough rises up

From the depths of the belly of my being,

I like to imagine living in Provence

Or even in Rheims during the middle ages.

David Lehman, "Ode" from An Alternative to Speech, published by Princeton University Press. Copyright © 1986 by David Lehman. Reprinted by permission of Writers' Representatives, Inc..

Source: Poetry (November 1979).

In the Middle of Dinner by Chris Abani

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

my mother put down her knife and fork,

pulled her wedding ring from its groove,

placing it contemplatively on her middle

finger. So natural was the move,

so tender, I almost didn’t notice.

Five years, she said, five years, once a week,

I wrote a letter to your father. And waited

until time was like ash on my tongue.

Not one letter back, not a single note.

She sighed, smiling, the weight gone. This

prime rib is really tender, isn’t it? she asked.

Chris Abani, “In the Middle of Dinner” from Dog Woman. Copyright © 2004 by Chris Abani. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.

Source: Dog Woman (Red Hen Press, 2004)

Watching dan- -cers on skates by Lorine Niedecker

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Ten thousand women

and I

the only one

in boots

Life’s dance:

they meet

he holds her leg

Lorine Niedecker, “[Watching dan-/cers on skates]” from Collected Works, edited by Jenny Penberthy, Copyright © 2002 Regents of the University of California. Published by University of California Press.

Source: Collected Works (University of California Press, 2004)

[under the evening moon] by Kobayashi Issa

Sun, 22 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Under the evening moon

the snail

is stripped to the waist.

[under the evening moon] by Issa from The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, and Issa, edited and with an introduction by Robert Hass. Copyright 1994 by Robert Hass. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Source: The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho Buson and Issa (The Ecco Press, 1994)

Grief by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sat, 21 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;

That only men incredulous of despair,

Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air

Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access

Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,

In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare

Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare

Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express

Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—

Most like a monumental statue set

In everlasting watch and moveless woe

Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.

Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:

If it could weep, it could arise and go.

“Crying, my little one, footsore and weary” by Christina Rossetti

Fri, 20 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Crying, my little one, footsore and weary?

Fall asleep, pretty one, warm on my shoulder:

I must tramp on through the winter night dreary,

While the snow falls on me colder and colder.

You are my one, and I have not another;

Sleep soft, my darling, my trouble and treasure;

Sleep warm and soft in the arms of your mother,

Dreaming of pretty things, dreaming of pleasure.

Source: Sing-Song: A Nursery Rhyme Book (Macmillan, 1893)

A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Thu, 19 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

In visions of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed—

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,

So trembled from afar—

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth's day-star?

Furry Bear by A. A. Milne

Wed, 18 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

If I were a bear,

And a big bear too,

I shouldn’t much care

If it froze or snew;

I shouldn’t much mind

If it snowed or friz—

I’d be all fur-lined

With a coat like his!

For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap,

And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap.

I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws,

And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws.

With a big brown furry-down up to my head,

I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed.

A. A. Milne, “Furry Bear” from The Complete Poems of Winnie-the-Pooh. Copyright © The Trustees of the Pooh Properties reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Limited, London.

Source: The Complete Poems of Winnie-the-Pooh (Dutton, 1998)

The Chambered Nautilus by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,—

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

I, Too by Langston Hughes

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,”

Then.

Besides,

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

Langston Hughes, “I, Too” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by The Estate of Langston Hughes. Reprinted with the permission of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated.

Source: The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes (Vintage Books, 2004)

Letting Go by Fay Zwicky

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Tell the truth of experience

they say they also

say you must let

go learn to let go

let your children

and they go

and you stay

letting them go

because you are obedient and

respect everyone’s freedom

to go and you stay

and you want to tell the truth

because you are yours truly

its obedient servant

but you can’t because

you’re feeling what you’re not

supposed to feel you have

let them go and go and

you can’t say what you feel

because they might read

this poem and feel guilty

and some post-modern hack

will back them up

and make you feel guilty

and stop feeling which is

post-modern and what

you’re meant to feel

so you don’t write a poem

you line up words in prose

inside a journal trapped

like a scorpion in a locked

drawer to be opened by

your children let go

after lived life and all the time

a great wave bursting

howls and rears and

you have to let go

or you’re gone you’re

gone gasping you

let go

till the next wave

towers crumbles

shreds you to lace—

When you wake

your spine is twisted

like a sea-bird

inspecting the sky,

stripped by lightning.

Fay Zwicky, “Letting Go” from Ask Me, University of Queensland Press, 1990; audio from The Witnesses, Audio CD, River Road Press, 2010: by permission of River Road Press and the poet. Copyright © 1990, 2010 by Fay Zwicky.

Source: Ask Me (University of Queensland Press, 1990)

The Book of Thel by William Blake

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

The daughters of Mne Seraphim led round their sunny flocks,

All but the youngest; she in paleness sought the secret air,

To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day;

Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard,

And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew:

"O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?

Why fade these children of the spring, born but to smile & fall?

Ah! Thel is like a watry bow, and like a parting cloud,

Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water,

Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infant's face,

Like the dove's voice, like transient day, like music in the air.

Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head,

And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gentle hear the voice

Of him that walketh in the garden in the evening time."

The Lily of the valley, breathing in the humble grass

Answer'd the lovely maid and said: "I am a watry weed,

And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales;

So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head;

Yet I am visited from heaven, and he that smiles on all

Walks in the valley and each morn over me spreads his hand,

Saying: 'Rejoice, thou humble grass, thou new-born lily flower,

Thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks;

For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna,

Till summer's heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs

To flourish in eternal vales.' Then why should Thel complain?

Why should the mistress of the vales of Har utter a sigh?"

She ceasd and smild in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.

Thel answered: "O thou little virgin of the peaceful valley,

Giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'ertired;

Thy breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells thy milky garments,

He crops thy flowers, while thou sittest smiling in his face,

Wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints.

Thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume,

Which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs,

Revives the milked cow, & tames the fire-breathing steed.

But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun:

I vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place?"

"Queen of the vales," the Lily answered, "ask the tender cloud,

And it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky,

And why it scatters its bright beauty thro' the humid air.

Descend, O little cloud, & hover before the eyes of Thel."

The Cloud descended, and the Lily bowd her modest head,

And went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass.

"O little Cloud," the virgin said, "I charge thee tell to me,

Why thou complainest not when in one hour thou fade away:

Then we shall seek thee but not find; ah, Thel is like to Thee.

I pass away, yet I complain, and no one hears my voice."

The Cloud then shew'd his golden head & his bright form emerg'd,

Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel.

"O virgin, know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs

Where Luvah doth renew his horses? Look'st thou on my youth,

And fearest thou because I vanish and am seen no more,

Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away,

It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy:

Unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers,

And court the fair eyed dew, to take me to her shining tent:

The weeping virgin trembling kneels before the risen sun,

Till we arise link'd in a golden band, and never part,

But walk united, bearing food to all our tender flowers."

"Dost thou O little Cloud? I fear that I am not like thee;

For I walk through the vales of Har and smell the sweetest flowers,

But I feed not the little flowers; I hear the warbling birds,

But I feed not the warbling birds; they fly and seek their food;

But Thel delights in these no more, because I fade away,

And all shall say, 'Without a use this shining woman liv'd,

Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?'"

The Cloud reclind upon his airy throne and answer'd thus:

"Then if thou art the food of worms, O virgin of the skies,

How great thy use, how great thy blessing! Every thing that lives

Lives not alone, nor for itself; fear not, and I will call

The weak worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice.

Come forth, worm of the silent valley, to thy pensive queen."

The helpless worm arose, and sat upon the Lily's leaf,

And the bright Cloud saild on, to find his partner in the vale.

III

Then Thel astonish'd view'd the Worm upon its dewy bed.

"Art thou a Worm? Image of weakness, art thou but a Worm?

I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lily's leaf;

Ah, weep not, little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep.

Is this a Worm? I see thee lay helpless & naked, weeping,

And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mother's smiles."

The Clod of Clay heard the Worm's voice, & raisd her pitying head;

She bow'd over the weeping infant, and her life exhal'd

In milky fondness; then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes.

"O beauty of the vales of Har! we live not for ourselves;

Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed;

My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,

But he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head,

And kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast,

And says: 'Thou mother of my children, I have loved thee

And I have given thee a crown that none can take away.'

But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know;

I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love."

The daughter of beauty wip'd her pitying tears with her white veil,

And said: "Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep.

That God would love a Worm, I knew, and punish the evil foot

That, wilful, bruis'd its helpless form; but that he cherish'd it

With milk and oil I never knew; and therefore did I weep,

And I complaind in the mild air, because I fade away,

And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot."

"Queen of the vales," the matron Clay answered, "I heard thy sighs,

And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have call'd them down.

Wilt thou, O Queen, enter my house? 'tis given thee to enter

And to return: fear nothing, enter with thy virgin feet."

The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar:

Thel enter'd in & saw the secrets of the land unknown.

She saw the couches of the dead, & where the fibrous roots

Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists:

A land of sorrows & of tears where never smile was seen.

She wanderd in the land of clouds thro' valleys dark, listning

Dolours & lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave,

She stood in silence, listning to the voices of the ground,

Till to her own grave plot she came, & there she sat down,

And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit:

"Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?

Or the glistning Eye to the poison of a smile?

Why are Eyelids stord with arrows ready drawn,

Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie?

Or an Eye of gifts & graces, show'ring fruits and coined gold?

Why a Tongue impress'd with honey from every wind?

Why an Ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in?

Why a Nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright?

Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy?

Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?"

The Virgin started from her seat, & with a shriek

Fled back unhinderd till she came into the vales of Har.

Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (2006)

The Author to Her Book by Anne Bradstreet

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain,

Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,

Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:

I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet;

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.

In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.

In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;

And take thy way where yet thou art not known,

If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:

And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,

Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

Source: The Complete Works of Anne Bradstreet (1981)

Snow-flakes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow

Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confession,

The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

Now whispered and revealed

To wood and field.

Listen. Put on Morning by W. S. Graham

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

Listen. Put on morning.

Waken into falling light.

A man’s imagining

Suddenly may inherit

The handclapping centuries

Of his one minute on earth.

And hear the virgin juries

Talk with his own breath

To the corner boys of his street.

And hear the Black Maria

Searching the town at night.

And hear the playropes caa

The sister Mary in.

And hear Willie and Davie

Among bracken of Narnain

Sing in a mist heavy

With myrtle and listeners.

And hear the higher town

Weep a petition of fears

At the poorhouse close upon

The public heartbeat.

And hear the children tig

And run with my own feet

Into the netting drag

Of a suiciding principle.

Listen. Put on lightbreak.

Waken into miracle.

The audience lies awake

Under the tenements

Under the sugar docks

Under the printed moments.

The centuries turn their locks

And open under the hill

Their inherited books and doors

All gathered to distil

Like happy berry pickers

One voice to talk to us.

Yes listen. It carries away

The second and the years

Till the heart’s in a jacket of snow

And the head’s in a helmet white

And the song sleeps to be wakened

By the morning ear bright.

Listen. Put on morning.

Waken into falling light.

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -0600

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man" from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. Copyright © 1954 by Wallace Stevens and renewed 1982 by Holly Stevens. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., a division of Random House, Inc.

Source: The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens