Poetry Wednesday

August

I have known summer least
and loved it best, of all seasons—so swollen
and drowsy
in my toughest cradle—I nearly missed it.

It was as I grew
that its usefulness shriveled, budding vacant,
becoming the great weight on me (on us)
that turns.

I have grass, and insects singing
I have
the mad bliss of remembering, completely,
the disentanglement of childhood.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Desert Places

by Robert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast 

In a field I looked into going past, 

And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, 

But a few weeds and stubble showing last. 

The woods around it have it--it is theirs. 

All animals are smothered in their lairs. 

I am too absent-spirited to count; 

The loneliness includes me unawares. 

And lonely as it is that loneliness 

Will be more lonely ere it will be less-- 

A blanker whiteness of benighted snow 

With no expression, nothing to express. 

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces 

Between stars--on stars where no human race is. 

I have it in me so much nearer home 

To scare myself with my own desert places.

Poetry Wednesday

Mutts

We were pacing,
cross-eyed from the bars of our cage as we looked
at the animals,
telling them from a distance
That we loved them terribly,
truly.

For you, the matted and white-whiskered
were the dearest,
but I felt for the wooly giants, nose-at-kneecap-high,
crashing through these shallows.

We found ourselves lowered,
bowed by cravings edge-by-edge with need.
The waiting would astound us, but
(the waiting has not astounded us yet!)

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Losing Track

by Denise Levertov

Long after you have swung back

away from me 

I think you are still with me: 

you come in close to the shore 

on the tide 

and nudge me awake the way 

a boat adrift nudges the pier: 

am I a pier 

half-in half-out of the water? 

and in the pleasure of that communion 

I lose track, 

the moon I watch goes down, the 

tide swings you away before 

I know I’m 

alone again long since, 

mud sucking at gray and black 

timbers of me, 

a light growth of green dreams drying.

Poetry Wednesday

Courses

The train derailed/ turned into a
tree.

There were lessons,
sensations, and soot,

And on the railway, a suited man said,
“I’m just passing through.”

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

The Sharks

by Denise Levertov

Well then, the last day the sharks appeared.

Dark fins appear, innocent

as if in fair warning. The sea becomes

sinister, are they everywhere?

I tell you, they break six feet of water.

Isn't it the same sea, and won't we

play in it any more?

I like it clear and not

too calm, enough waves

to fly in on. For the first time

I dared to swim out of my depth.

It was sundown when they came, the time

when a sheen of copper still the sea,

not dark enough for moonlight, clear enough

to see them easily. Dark

the sharp lift of the fins.

Poetry Wednesday

The Jackal

The starving dog comes

Irregularly,
but always, she appears

at the delta end of this dead-end street, on
the last of the attic stairs

The jackal

who swallows universes
and chokes on the dust motes
in those vacuum spaces
of devouring, I

wish she would bite down on this,
would
show me the strength of her long jaw, but
she stands still with quick eyes and

I overbalance, I pitch and whine, I

cannot reconcile every explosion
with this welling.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Untitled

by J. Bradley

I wanted to write “stay”
on your sides, surround
your bed with oceans
of salt. I hope he folds you
into a fox, loves you
like a splintered arrow,
brandishes the kill
of your lips. May the bouquet
of your hips wither.
May the wolves
forget your name.

Poetry Wednesday

Molt

My mariner,
in sum loveliness
and piecemeal disappointment:
I have been finding your baked-clay-coat,
powder-fine,
crushed into the carpet.

It will not come loose
for me:
I lick my palms, I bow low to it;
After the harvest, I wet it down.
I try to make something sea-worthy.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Untitled poem from The Western Borders

by Susan Howe

Poetry Wednesday

The May Bed

First was a blue bed, earned and made
and framing both
with fingertips matched overhead, and morning
glories growing
Offering not shade, but sustenance,
satisfying something in me, impossibly,
with hunger, making me
unashamed.

I cannot explain this adequately;
I cannot tell this to you if you do not already know it.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Poetry Wednesday

The Wreck 

I named the brown-small ghost of my childhood love
after a flower, a matted stray and
I would have married this, pulled from my
pockets the soft baleen,
drawn across the edge of things to the hoary limit
where we gather ourselves to gather
(debris and the sight of things)

Pinioned by the mast you look
like a child, and your hair
is curlier than I have ever seen it.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Red Cloth

by Jean Valentine

Red cloth 

I lie on the ground 

otherwise nothing could hold 

I put my hand on the ground 

the membrane is gone 

and nothing does hold 

your place in the ground 

is all of it 

and it is breathing

Poetry Wednesday

White and Other Things

Snow makes its minimal monument:

The shape of what was done to me, but not its color

(remains, still) Recognizable

to me, underneath

an impermanent pigment

that will alter as it rests/

weighs upon and wets

//corrosive, I point and

point again

to the blooming salt crystals.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Water
by Pablo Neruda

Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.

Poetry Wednesday

Wash 

Imagine the ocean, raised
and growing porous.
Abandoning the fishes,
to sputter and dry at sea bottom, like
dregs.

I can inhabit this tender colloid,
such a distance from all things.
I know of and fear no ledge;
only dissipation and an emerging
World. A panic of brightness where,
beyond this safe field, color shines
and wants only to shine.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

(Ok, technically this is an instructional performance piece, but it reads beautifully as a poem, and maybe it can be a poem too)

Poetry Wednesday

Somniculous

We drag our bed wherever we go. Without it we become
monstrous:
Our teeth ache
and our moods swell and we cave inward,
loving nothing so much as our ball gown skins
(which stand quite well on their own).

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

You Have to be Careful

by Naomi Shihab Nye

You have to be careful telling things.

Some ears are tunnels.

Your words will go in and get lost in the dark.

Some ears are flat pans like miners used looking for gold.

What you say will be washed out with the stones.

You look for a long time till you find the right ears.

Till then, there are birds and lamps to be spoken to,

a patient cloth rubbing shine in circles,

and the slow, gradually growing possibility

that when you find such ears

they already know.

Poetry Wednesday

Settle/Content

You are no forest.

Your light is clear and without breaks.

There is a game, but you play it

Simply

(I am learning to play simply, too)

And I smell evergreens

When I am near you, I can smell them;

Not from you, but

      with you

                                An impossible

                                           sunlight.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

The Mermaid
by William Butler Yeats

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

Poetry Wednesday

Subsistence

A bully branch on the wind
took out the window, took out an eye and then
stilled
sensing above it
clouds
and weight
and weather.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Poetry Wednesday

Differential

we started the fire; it was our rite
increased in the shoal mirror and even without
it
all things compounded/
double and dual like the world was retelling
its birth//

forecasting.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Poetry Wednesday

Moody

You pushed a button and
the world pinked up,
responded vitally and was far
far out on the sea;
smaller and discreet
from all things, clearly bounded and
graspable.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Chance

by Molly Peacock

may favor obscure brainy aptitudes in you 

and a love of the past so blind you would 

venture, always securing permission, 

into the back library stacks, without food 

or water because you have a mission: 

to find yourself, in the regulated light, 

holding a volume in your hands as you 

yourself might like to be held. Mostly your life 

will be voices and images. Information. You 

may go a long way alone, and travel much 

to open a book to renew your touch.

Poetry Wednesday

The Load

I like to watch films by myself, it is

reckless

I know,

but I cannot share.  I do it very

poorly

and

the posting of ‘Oversize’

on the end of the truck that carries houses

is a reminder

as though the undersized people

and I

are incapable

of sensing our relation to it.

I kept stories of selkies in my head

as a child;

they overwhelmed me

too.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Poetry Wednesday

The Oranges

Our fingers are thick with citrus

and a grey face has risen high over the kitchen clock

and fallen low again.

We are celebratory         .

Crashing through the wet air, we

take off our blankets and celebrate again

our nakedness, thrown forward,

puzzling, and bright.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Drown

by Bianca Stewart

Last time we went swimming

the sea stood up and hugged you

as though you were responsible

for keeping it blue

Poetry Wednesday

Yellow Hair/Without List

I was a tree upon which moss and mushrooms had grown overnight

Something was sucking up my sunlight, and I was hungry

Every piece of hair that fell was a meal

I would pay no one to cut it

I hated it in July, and had not before

The ends first, which were yellow

And had grown furthest from the roots

My mother’s sisters were crying; I was the last yellow-haired child

I cut them away

And then cut away that which they were cut from.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

The Armadillo

by Elizabeth Bishop

This is the time of year 

when almost every night 

the frail, illegal fire balloons appear. 

Climbing the mountain height, 

rising toward a saint 

still honored in these parts, 

the paper chambers flush and fill with light 

that comes and goes, like hearts. 

Once up against the sky it's hard 

to tell them from the stars— 

planets, that is—the tinted ones: 

Venus going down, or Mars, 

or the pale green one. With a wind, 

they flare and falter, wobble and toss; 

but if it's still they steer between 

the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, 

receding, dwindling, solemnly 

and steadily forsaking us, 

or, in the downdraft from a peak, 

suddenly turning dangerous. 

Last night another big one fell. 

It splattered like an egg of fire 

against the cliff behind the house. 

The flame ran down. We saw the pair 

of owls who nest there flying up 

and up, their whirling black-and-white 

stained bright pink underneath, 

until they shrieked up out of sight. 

The ancient owls' nest must have burned. 

Hastily, all alone, 

a glistening armadillo left the scene, 

rose-flecked, head down, tail down, 

and then a baby rabbit jumped out, 

short-eared, to our surprise. 

So soft!—a handful of intangible ash 

with fixed, ignited eyes. 

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! 

O falling fire and piercing cry 

and panic, and a weak mailed fist 

clenched ignorant against the sky!

Poetry Wednesday

Dead Things

I'm really worried about the squirrel

on the high point of the roof, sleeping,

with his his belly pressed against the slats.

He reminds me of our ginger cat

who died in a strange place that he had

chosen.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Hades' Pitch

by Rita Dove

If I could just touch your ankle, he whispers, there 

on the inside, above the bone—leans closer, 

breath of lime and pepper—I know I could 

make love to you. She considers 

this, secretly thrilled, though she wasn’t quite 

sure what he meant. He was good 

with words, words that went straight to the liver. 

Was she falling for him out of sheer boredom— 

cooped up in this anything-but-humble dive, stone 

gargoyles leering and brocade drapes licked with fire? 

Her ankle burns where he described it. She sighs 

just as her mother aboveground stumbles, is caught 

by the fetlock—bereft in an instant— 

while the Great Man drives home his desire.

Poetry Wednesday

Drawn

you are drawing me

(no one ever draws me/

it hasn’t happened in a while)

but it’s pleasant like soda pop

fizzing all over

falling short of my fingers

but welling over in places

there is a terrible mania

in me

when I think of it, as it must be

pooling on the floor

I feel this way when someone else washes my hair

and when the doorbell rings.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

The Tree
by Alfred Kreymborg

I am four monkeys.
One hangs from a limb,
tail-wise,
chattering at the earth;
another is cramming his belly with coconut;
the third is up in the top branches,
quizzing the sky,
and the fourth—
he's chasing another monkey.
How many monkeys are you?

Poetry Wednesday

Affair

The darkening hours were spent, always,

at the edge of the sea

with his eyes breaching the water,

an apex.

Our meeting was a broken picture

blurred around the edges, and

I felt as though he had been waiting there forever,

sliding against the jellies and the grinning fishes,

waiting for me to climb down between the

rocks.

Wood from many ships was caught on him

in places it could catch; planks and planes,

a great mast

hung

and did not sparkle.

I did not think he was a monster; I saw the shadow

of the wreck, down through the water, and

I knew we were the same.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Adolescence II

by Rita Dove

Although it is night, I sit in the bathroom, waiting. 

Sweat prickles behind my knees, the baby-breasts are alert. 

Venetian blinds slice up the moon; the tiles quiver in pale strips. 

Then they come, the three seal men with eyes as round 

As dinner plates and eyelashes like sharpened tines. 

They bring the scent of licorice. One sits in the washbowl, 

One on the bathtub edge; one leans against the door. 

"Can you feel it yet?" they whisper. 

I don't know what to say, again. They chuckle,

 

Patting their sleek bodies with their hands. 

"Well, maybe next time." And they rise, 

Glittering like pools of ink under moonlight, 

And vanish. I clutch at the ragged holes 

They leave behind, here at the edge of darkness. 

Night rests like a ball of fur on my tongue.