- The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost)
- One Art (Elizabeth Bishop)
- Questions About Angels (Billy Collins)
- Happiness (Robert Hass)
- Arrival at the Waldorf (Wallace Stevens)
- Maples (Mary Oliver)
- [since feeling is first] (E. E. Cummings)
- When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer (Walt Whitman)
- [Barn’s burnt down] (Mizuta Masahide)
- West Wind (Mary Oliver)
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
- Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird (Wallace Stevens)
- Mending Wall (Robert Frost)
- Playacting (Kay Ryan)
- Spring (Mary Oliver)
- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (T.S. Eliot)
- Shoveling Snow with Buddha (Billy Collins)
- This Is Just to Say (William Carlos Williams)
- To the Stone-Cutters (Robinson Jeffers)
- Friendship After Love (Ella Wheeler Wilcox)
- Song of Myself (Walt Whitman)
The day a child realizes that all adults are imperfect,
he becomes an adolescent.
The day he forgives them, he becomes an adult.
The day he forgives himself, he becomes wise.
From Robert Montgomery’s current work, hopefully coming to a city near you (and me). More here.
Have some care for those who will not be going with you
Change the beneficiary of the modest retirement account
From your former spouse
To your widowed mother
Or perhaps let well enough alone
But leave a word or two, certainly, so that they will understand
Or can pretend to understand
Take the packet of sticky notes from the desk drawer
The little one, for signaling favorite passages
In the yellowing pages
Of books on greying shelves
And mark with the names of those who loved you
The temporal drags in which they may recall
The ripple of your voice
The unpublished manuscript
The African mask, bartered in Mombasa
For the price of three t-shirts
The statue of the Thai palace guard
Who never raised his sword
The necklace you bought in the Haight, with the little dark skull
To remind you to kill your ego
Give your brother the secret passwords
You have kept to yourself for so long
Look over the files on the computer
Keep the photographs
The birthday emails
Consider expunging the journals
Or at least the parts that might hurt
Or make you look crazy
Try to think of some way to explain to your children
Then give up and hope the best for them as you always have
Review the shopping list
Grand Mayan in the clay bottle
Razor with the keenest edge
So precise it is almost invisible
So that, if you had stayed,
At the next cocktail party
You too could have said
It was the best that money could buy.
"The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and loitering. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you."
~Walt Whitman, from Song of Myself
What if I told you everything And that you didn't have to stay? Of course I'd run away; And then, Maybe, Come back, But only for a day or so, Or less, Or more. One really couldn't say. And what if I could be okay With that?
Early tribal cultures, while celebrating their rites of initiation or sacrifice, retained a very precise and subliminal awareness that the compulsive extremes to which they went…were in essence mere playacting, even though the performance could sometimes approach the point of death.
—W. G. Sebald, Campo Santo
Something inside says
there will be a curtain,
maybe or maybe not
some bowing, probably
no roses, but certainly
a chance to unverse
or dehearse, after all
these acts. For some
fraction of the self
has always held out, the
in a bank becoming
grander and more
marble: even our
acts are partial.
Therefore this small
of a different metal,
accruing in a strange
account. What could it
be for but passage out?
I LOVE the poets posing as genius musicians, these songwriters, these lyricists. The poetry of this love song could stand on its own, and with the melody to accompany it, it seems transcendent to me.
I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.
And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.
My mind’s distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you’re asleep
And kiss you when you start your day.
And a song I was writing is left undone
I don’t know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can’t believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme.
And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.
Arrival at the Waldorf
(by Wallace Stevens)
Home from Guatemala, back at the Waldorf.
This arrival in the wild country of the soul,
All approaches gone, being completely there
Where the wild poem is a substitute
For the woman one loves or ought to love
One wild rhapsody a fake for another.
You touch the hotel the way you touch moonlight
Or sunlight and you hum and the orchestra
Hums and you say “The world in a verse,
A generation sealed, men remoter than mountains,
Women invisible in music and motion and color,”
After that alien, point-blank, green and actual Guatemala.