Poem of the Day

Let me die on the prairie! and o’er my rude grave,

In the soft breeze of summer the tall grass shall wave;

I would breathe my last sigh as the bright hues of even

Are melting away in the blue arch of Heaven.

Let me die on the prairie! unwept and unknown,

I would pass from this fair Earth forgotten, alone;—

Yet no! – there are hearts I have learned to revere,

And methinks there is bliss in affection’s warm tear.

Oh, speak not to me of the green cypress shade;

I would sleep where the bones of the Indian are laid,

And the deer will bound o’er me with step light and free,

And the carol of birds will my requiem be.

Let me die on the prairie! I have wished for it long;

There floats in wild numbers the bold hunter’s song;

’Tis the spot of all others the dearest to me,

And how sweet in its bosom my slumber will be!

Source: She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century (University of Iowa Press, 1997)

I have to leave early in the dark

and hungry to avoid

crossing the snow as the noon

burns the crust

into an un-servable lake

slush instead of the crisp bridge

that would be in order

to get me over the ridge

My journal is already laundered clean

of my words and my instructions

have dissolved

into a white mash a washed bone

ball rolled into itself

of all I have in the world in my pocket

The ink is thin the paper is poor

my eyes balance on the pale

words around which a stream

flows almost erasing

the way across

the idea

Shadows the black flowers

of the light self

-sowing through the trees

dark gardens of midnight

for the gray-white morning

hour of blindness

in print miles before I am

to arrive here

To approach the waiting milestone

dims whatever else of its lantern

‘til only the placed light there is on me.

In this light barely but used to it

I can make out the staggered columns of my account

as if back through weren’t the real distance:

the thin chest flag pinned on by each ridge

the titled introduction taking your coat each storm.

My letters and ribbons have been the natural—

strengths on their way to the more—

natural weaknesses— and loss. yet—

I wonder where I thought I was going—

to ’ve done what you must pass

examinations for before I took any.

Ed Roberson, "A Slim Volume Taken into the Provinces" from To See the Earth Before the End of the World. Copyright © 2010 by Ed Roberson. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: To See the Earth Before the End of the World (Wesleyan University Press, 2010)

All that glitters isn’t music.

Once, hidden in tall grass,

I tossed fistfuls of dirt into the air:

doe after doe of leaping.

You said it was nothing

but a trick of the light. Gold

curves. Gold scarves.

Am I not your animal?

You’d wait in the orchard for hours

to watch a deer

break from the shadows.

You said it was like lifting a cello

out of its black case.

Source: Poetry (December 2011).

All you violated ones with gentle hearts;

You violent dreamers whose cries shout heartbreak;

Whose voices echo clamors of our cool capers,

And whose black faces have hollowed pits for eyes.

All you gambling sons and hooked children and bowery bums

Hating white devils and black bourgeoisie,

Thumbing your noses at your burning red suns,

Gather round this coffin and mourn your dying swan.

Snow-white moslem head-dress around a dead black face!

Beautiful were your sand-papering words against our skins!

Our blood and water pour from your flowing wounds.

You have cut open our breasts and dug scalpels in our brains.

When and Where will another come to take your holy place?

Old man mumbling in his dotage, crying child, unborn?

Margaret Walker, “For Malcolm X” from This is My Century: New and Collected Poems. Copyright © 1989 by Margaret Walker. Reprinted by permission of University of Georgia Press.

Source: This is My Century: New and Collected Poems (University of Georgia Press, 1989)

I Recto

Over the

seaworthy

cavalry

arches a

rocketry

wickerwork:

involute

laceries

lacerate

indigo

altitudes,

making a

skywritten

filigree

into which,

lazily,

LCTs

sinuate,

adjutants

next to them

eversharp-

eyed, among

delicate

battleship

umbrages

twinkling an

anger as

measured as

organdy.

Normandy

knitted the

eyelets and

yarn of these

warriors’

armoring—

ringbolt and

dungaree,

cable and

axletree,

tanktrack and

ammobelt

linking and

opening

garlands and

islands of

seafoam and

sergeantry.

Opulent

fretwork: on

turquoise and

emerald,

red instants

accenting

neatly a

dearth of red.

Gunstations

issue it;

vaportrails

ease into

smoke from it—

yellow and

ochre and

umber and

sable and

out. Or that

man at the

edge of the

tapestry

holding his

inches of

niggardly

ground and his

trumpery

order of

red and his

equipage

angled and

dated. He.

II Verso

Wasting no

energy,

Time, the old

registrar,

evenly

adds to his

scrolls, rolling

up in them

rampage and

echo and

hush—in each

influx of

surf, in each

tumble of

raincloud at

evening,

action of

seaswell and

undertow

rounding an

introvert

edge to the

surge until,

manhandled

over, all

surfaces,

tapestries,

entities

veer from the

eye like those

rings of lost

yesteryears

pooled in the

oak of your

memory.

Item: one

Normandy

Exercise.

Muscle it

over, an

underside

rises: a

raggedy

elegant

mess of an

abstract: a

rip-out of

kidstuff and

switchboards, where

amputee

radio

elements,

unattached

nervefibre

conduits,

openmouthed

ureters,

tag ends of

hamstring and

outrigging

ripped from their

unions and

nexuses

jumble with

undeterred

speakingtubes

twittering

orders as

random and

angry as

ddt’d

hornets. Step

over a

moment: peer

in through this

nutshell of

eyeball and

man your gun.

George Starbuck, “A Tapestry for Bayeux” from Bone Thoughts. Copyright © 1960 by George Starbuck. Reprinted with the permission of Yale University Press.

Source: The Works: Poems Selected from Five Decades (2003)

The eye follows, the land

Slips upward, creases down, forms

The gentle buttocks of a young

Giant. In the nestle,

Old adobe bricks, washed of

Whiteness, paled to umber,

Await another century.

Star Jasmine and old vines

Lay claim upon the ghosted land,

Then quiet pools whisper

Private childhood secrets.

Flush on inner cottage walls

Antiquitous faces,

Used to the gelid breath

Of old manors, glare disdainfully

Over breached time.

Around and through these

Cold phantasmatalities,

He walks, insisting

To the languid air,

Activity, music,

A generosity of graces.

His lupin fields spurn old

Deceit and agile poppies dance

In golden riot. Each day is

Fulminant, exploding brightly

Under the gaze of his exquisite

Sires, frozen in the famed paint

Of dead masters. Audacious

Sunlight casts defiance

At their feet.

Maya Angelou, “California Prodigal” from And Still I Rise. Copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, Inc.

Source: The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (1994)

I turn around.

I feel Monday’s well-shaven face lightly

caress my left shoulder

most cherished part

most crucial here and now

Source: Poetry (June 2011).

Are they shadows that we see?

And can shadows pleasure give?

Pleasures only shadows be

Cast by bodies we conceive

And are made the things we deem

In those figures which they seem.

But these pleasures vanish fast

Which by shadows are expressed;

Pleasures are not, if they last;

In their passing is their best.

Glory is most bright and gay

In a flash, and so away.

Feed apace then, greedy eyes,

On the wonder you behold;

Take it sudden as it flies,

Though you take it not to hold.

When your eyes have done their part,

Thought must length it in the heart.

What every painter knows, but most others forget

is how bright colors dim in artificial light

and lobster tastes most fresh

the nearer to death

you set your teeth into the lobster’s flesh.

Source: Poetry (December 2011).

All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold.

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)

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)

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)

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, 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

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.

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)

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.

"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."

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).

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.

Ten thousand women

and I

the only one

in boots

Life’s dance:

they meet

he holds her leg

up

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

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)

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?

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)