By Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
The poem, I’ve always felt, is an opportunity for me to create an integrated whole from so many broken shards --Rafael Campo
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Thursday, February 26, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Holding Pattern I
By Julia Rose Lewis
We are greeting,
greedily holding and hugging
he and I. I retreat to the beach
to read
beneath the umbrellas: yellow,
blue, green. Then
to the blue bench, looking to the parking lot
the beach lies to the left.
While I watch the end of the afternoon
he takes the flag down.
Fulfilling
long-time part-time island traditions,
the seagulls here are all called Herman,
for the man who listened to Captain Pollard’s tale.
I wore gray
on gray on faded denim
sea-stained and sand encrusted.
He passed over gray floor boards full
of splinters. I have been on the wrong side
of the cliffside for so long.
Here he was an ant
soldier in the war
he taught me was waged against the sand,
afterward I rolled up my jeans. Inside,
he paused beside
me to brush the hair from his eyes.
Learn all the stories the hotel has to tell,
I tell myself,
the little Pennsylvania girl with the man
who comes from the northeast
of Indiana, he points out the nearest
town on an atlas, his family farm
is too small to see.
He lets himself blush; he really
needs a headband. His beautiful hair
falls into his eyes and I allow
my fingers to follow. Yet,
I can’t taste yellow, only old salt.
Memorial Day to Labor Day,
I land
isle while away.
Could I love a place as I should
love a person?
He is
a guy with
a green soft-top Jeep Wrangler,
a permit to go out to Coatue,
a long picnic at Great Point,
Terrible teeth are meaningless
when kissing,
On hot sand and broken shells feet harden,
he has beastly feet;
I have reading hands.
He reaches for his reading glasses
as the sun burns through the fog
in the morning.
I’m leaving,
reaching out to hug him.
Where the seagulls are all called Herman,
We are good at hugg
ing.
A holding pattern
here we are as old as our beloved.
Julia Rose Lewis is a working towards her MFA at Kingston University London. She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry from Bryn Mawr College PA. She lives on Nantucket island and is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket.
We are greeting,
greedily holding and hugging
he and I. I retreat to the beach
to read
beneath the umbrellas: yellow,
blue, green. Then
to the blue bench, looking to the parking lot
the beach lies to the left.
While I watch the end of the afternoon
he takes the flag down.
Fulfilling
long-time part-time island traditions,
the seagulls here are all called Herman,
for the man who listened to Captain Pollard’s tale.
I wore gray
on gray on faded denim
sea-stained and sand encrusted.
He passed over gray floor boards full
of splinters. I have been on the wrong side
of the cliffside for so long.
Here he was an ant
soldier in the war
he taught me was waged against the sand,
afterward I rolled up my jeans. Inside,
he paused beside
me to brush the hair from his eyes.
Learn all the stories the hotel has to tell,
I tell myself,
the little Pennsylvania girl with the man
who comes from the northeast
of Indiana, he points out the nearest
town on an atlas, his family farm
is too small to see.
He lets himself blush; he really
needs a headband. His beautiful hair
falls into his eyes and I allow
my fingers to follow. Yet,
I can’t taste yellow, only old salt.
Memorial Day to Labor Day,
I land
isle while away.
Could I love a place as I should
love a person?
He is
a guy with
a green soft-top Jeep Wrangler,
a permit to go out to Coatue,
a long picnic at Great Point,
Terrible teeth are meaningless
when kissing,
On hot sand and broken shells feet harden,
he has beastly feet;
I have reading hands.
He reaches for his reading glasses
as the sun burns through the fog
in the morning.
I’m leaving,
reaching out to hug him.
Where the seagulls are all called Herman,
We are good at hugg
ing.
A holding pattern
here we are as old as our beloved.
Julia Rose Lewis is a working towards her MFA at Kingston University London. She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry from Bryn Mawr College PA. She lives on Nantucket island and is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Siren Song
By Margaret Atwood
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Survival Course
By William Stafford
This is the grip, like this:
both hands. You can close
your eyes if you like. When I say,
"Now," it's time. Don't wait
or it's all over. But not
too soon, either just right.
Don't worry. Let's go.
Both hands.
This is the grip, like this:
both hands. You can close
your eyes if you like. When I say,
"Now," it's time. Don't wait
or it's all over. But not
too soon, either just right.
Don't worry. Let's go.
Both hands.
Monday, February 16, 2015
An Abandoned Factory, Detroit
By Philip Levine
The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.
Beyond, through broken windows one can see
Where the great presses paused between their strokes
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught
In the sure margin of eternity.
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought,
And estimates the loss of human power,
Experienced and slow, the loss of years,
The gradual decay of dignity.
Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour;
Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears
Which might have served to grind their eulogy.
The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.
Beyond, through broken windows one can see
Where the great presses paused between their strokes
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught
In the sure margin of eternity.
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought,
And estimates the loss of human power,
Experienced and slow, the loss of years,
The gradual decay of dignity.
Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour;
Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears
Which might have served to grind their eulogy.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Ode to a Blizzard
By Tom Disch
O! wonderful for weight and whiteness!
Ideolog whose absolutes
Are always proven right
By white and then
More white and white again,
Winning the same argument year
After year by making the opposition
Disappear!
O! dear miniature of infinity with no
End in sight and no snow-
Flake exactly like
Another, all
A little different no
Matter how many may fall,
Just like our own DNA or the human face
Eternal!
O! still keep covering the street
And sidewalks, cemeteries, even
Our twice-shoveled drive,
And all that is alive,
With geometries that sleet
Will freeze into Death's
Impromptu vision of a heaven
Wholly white!
For we know who your sponsor is, whose will
You so immensely serve,
Whose chill is more severe
Than any here.
Though his name may be unspoken,
His commandments are unbroken,
And every monument that you erect
Belongs to him!
Sunday, February 8, 2015
First Poem for You
By Kim Addonizio
I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
Friday, February 6, 2015
We grow accustomed to the Dark -
By Emily Dickinson
We grow accustomed to the Dark -
When Light is put away -
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Good bye -
A Moment - We Uncertain step
For newness of the night -
Then - fit our Vision to the Dark -
And meet the Road - erect -
And so of larger - Darknesses -
Those Evenings of the Brain -
When not a Moon disclose a sign -
Or Star - come out - within -
The Bravest - grope a little -
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead -
But as they learn to see -
Either the Darkness alters -
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight -
And Life steps almost straight.
We grow accustomed to the Dark -
When Light is put away -
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Good bye -
A Moment - We Uncertain step
For newness of the night -
Then - fit our Vision to the Dark -
And meet the Road - erect -
And so of larger - Darknesses -
Those Evenings of the Brain -
When not a Moon disclose a sign -
Or Star - come out - within -
The Bravest - grope a little -
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead -
But as they learn to see -
Either the Darkness alters -
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight -
And Life steps almost straight.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
I Need Trees
By Edward Nudelman
I need their birds
and dampened bark.
I need their loud swift
jingling and I need
their rare composure
over this moving
raucous house. I need
every angle triangulated,
every lean and turn
fully integrated.
My stilted speech
wavers hallelujahs
among their branches
This poem previously appeared in the Israeli newspaper Haeretz.
I need their birds
and dampened bark.
I need their loud swift
jingling and I need
their rare composure
over this moving
raucous house. I need
every angle triangulated,
every lean and turn
fully integrated.
My stilted speech
wavers hallelujahs
among their branches
This poem previously appeared in the Israeli newspaper Haeretz.