#filed under queue

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 034: ‘Anatomy Class‘, by Betsy Franco

The chair has arms. The clock, a face. The kites have long and twirly tails. The tacks have heads. The books have spines. The toolbox has a set of nails. Our shoes have tongues, the marbles, eyes. The wooden desk has legs and seat. The cups have lips. My watch has hands. The classroom rulers all have feet. Heads, arms hands, nails, spines, legs, feet, tails, face, lips, tongues, eyes. What a surprise! Is our classroom alive?

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 001: '[Night, a street, a lamp]', by Aleksandr Blok, translated by Dimitri Oblensky

Night, a street, a lamp, a chemist’s shop, a meaningless and dim light. Even if you live for another quarter of a century, everything will be like this. There is no way out.         You will die—and start all over again, and everything will be repeated, as of old: the night, the icy ripples on the canal, the chemist’s shop, the street, the lamp.

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 044 (again): ‘Big Dreams’, by April Halprin Wayland

The scruffy house cat aches to fly— she dreams all day of wings and sky! So tonight she climbs the ladder, mounts a platform, nothing matters except to catch a thin trapeze then hold on tight with grace and ease. She swings herself by both front paws then somesaults to wild applause of kitchen mice, who, though dizzy, encourage Cat, to keep her busy.

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 127: ‘Scientific Method (ocean)’, by James Tadd Adcox

Picture the ocean. No. Picture the entire thing, all at once. You are not doing it. It’s okay. One day something terrible will happen, and I will not be prepared.

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Editor’s note: This is part of Adcox’s ‘Scientific Method’ series of poems, which are all titled exactly the same. I’ve added “ocean” to this one’s title to help differentiate it.

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 144 (again): ‘The Increasing Frequency Of Black Swans’, by Camille Rankine

I was listening for the dog when the locks were pried open. The man was dead. The dog, a survivor, was dead. It happens   more often this way. A disease left untreated; the body, in confusion, gives in.   The bomb breathes its fire down the hallway, the son comes back in pieces; the body, in confusion, gives in.   The grief is a planet. A dust ring. A small moon that’s been hidden under my pillow, that’s been changing the way my body moves this whole time.

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[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 118: ‘The Hollow Men’, by T.S. Eliot

[Editor’s note: Poem continues under the jump, and all punctuation is copied as from here (the site also has line annotations / explanations), and is consistent with other versions I’ve seen.] -

I. We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us-if at all-not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II. Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom

III. This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone.

IV. The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.

V. Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow                                          For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow                                          Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow                                        For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 037: ‘Parents Poem‘, by Jacqueline Woodson

When people ask how, I say a fire took them. And then they look at me like I'm the most pitiful thing in the world. So sometimes I just shrug and say They just died, that's all. A fire took their bodies. That's all. I can still feel their voices and hugs and laughing. Sometimes. Sometimes I can hear my daddy calling my name. Lonnie sometimes. And sometimes Locomotion come on over here a minute. I want to show you something. And then I see his big hands holding something out to me. It used to be the four of us. At night we went to sleep. In the morning we woke up and ate breakfast. Daddy worked for Con Edison. You ever saw him? Climbing out of a manhole? Yellow tape keeping the cars from coming down the block. An orange sign that said Men Working. I still got his hat. It's light blue with CON EDISON in white letters. Mama was a receptionist. When you called the office where she worked, she answered the phone like this Graftman Paper Products, how may I help you? It was her work voice. And when you said something like Ma, it's me. her voice went back to normal. To our mama's voice Hey Sugar. You behaving? Is the door locked? That stupid fire couldn't take all of them. Nothing could do that. Nothing.

[poemsforthetmarchives]

For 089: ‘Figs from Thistles: First Fig’, by Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;    It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—    It gives a lovely light!

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