Discover Top Posts Tagged with #backyard song

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favourite poems of august

marge piercy circles on the water: selected poems of marge piercy: "for the young who want to"

marilyn chin fruit études

lisa olstein radio crackling, radio gone: "the hypnotist's daughter"

elizabeth willis address: "the witch"

jana prikryl the after party: "to tell of bodies changed"

diane seuss backyard song

alison c. rollings original [sin]

gerard malanga cornelius...cornelius gurlitt

todd boss rocket

beyza ozer to summarise a galaxy

john foy night vision: "woods"

clodagh beresford dunne ford galaxy

dorianne laux smoke: "heart"

anthony madrid like a cloud above the ravine

pascale petit swamp deer

frank o'hara maurice ravel

adonis selected poems: "desert" (tr. khaled mattawa)

sonja johanson three deer in oquossoc

melissa stein terrible blooms: "lemon and cedar"

w. s. di piero having my cards read

thomas hoagland bible study

peter campion big avalanche ravine

alberto ríos the smallest muscle in the human body: "rabbits and fire"

lena khalaf tuffaha water & salt: "mountain, stone"

josephine miles desert

jeanne murray walker invocation to convince a baby already more than twelve days overdue to come out of the womb

andrew hudgins the imagined copperhead

robert carr stargazing while sedated

mary ruefle among the musk ox people: poems: "blood soup"

jack collom red car goes by: selected poems 1955-2000: "bald eagle count"

mahmoud darwish to a young poet (tr. fady joudah)

kofi

Since it’s just me here I’ve found the back and stayed there most of the time, in rain and snow and the no-moon nights, dodging the front I used to put up like a yard gussied and groomed, all edged and flower-lined, my bottled life. Uncorked, I had a thought: I want the want I dreamed of wanting once, a quarter cup of sneak-peek at what prowls in the back, at what sings in the wet rag space behind the garage, back where the rabbits nest, where I smell something soupish, sour and dank and it’s filled with weeds like rough cat tongues and the wind is unfostered, untended, now that it’s just me here and I am so hungry for the song that grows tall like a weed grows, and grows. When I was a little girl my ma said a woman gets tired and sick of the front yard, of kissing the backside of a rose.

Diane Seuss, “backyard song”

#diane seuss #backyard song #poetry