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Mercy

Small flames afloat in a blue duskfall, beneath trees anonymous and hooded, the solemn trees -- by ones and twos and threes we go down to the water's level edge with our candles cupped and melted onto little pie-tins to set our newest loss free. Everyone is here.

Everyone is wholly quiet in the river's hush and appropriate dark. The delicate fires slip from our palms and seem to settle in the stilling water, but then drift, ever so slowly, in a loose string like a necklace's precious pearls spilled, down the river barely as wide as a dusty road.

No one is singing, and no one leaves -- we stand back beneath the grieving trees on both banks, bowed but watching, as our tiny boats pass like a long history of moons reflected, or like notes in an elder's hymn, or like us, death after death, around the far, awakening bend.

#david baker #poets #poetry #poems #american poets #american poetry #death

September 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight; The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves; The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves, And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows. Under a tree in the park, Two little boys, lying flat on their faces, Were carefully gathering red berries To put in a pasteboard box. Some day there will be no war, Then I shall take out this afternoon And turn it in my fingers, And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate, And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves. To-day I can only gather it And put it into my lunch-box, For I have time for nothing But the endeavour to balance myself Upon a broken world.

#amy lowell #poetry #poems #female poets #female poetry #american poets #american poetry #earth #present

Chess

Exactly four different men have tried to teach me how to play. I could never tell the difference between a rook or bishop, but I knew the horse meant

knight. And that made sense to me, because a horse is night: soot-hoof and nostril, dark as a sabled evening with no stars, bats, or moon blooms.

It's a night in Ohio where a man sleeps alone one week and the next, the woman he will eventually marry leans her body into his for the first time, leans a kind

of faith, too -- filled with white crickets and bouquets of wild carrot. And the months and the honeyed years after that will make all the light

and dark squares feel like tiles for a kitchen they can one day build together. Every turn, every sacrificial move -- all the decoys, the castling,

the deflections -- these will be both riotous and unruly, the exact opposite of what she thought she ever wanted in the endgame of her days.

#aimee nezhukumatathil #poetry #poems #female poets #female poetry #women poets #asian poets #american poetry #asian poetry #american poets #love #relationships #chess #board games

At the age of fifteen, with newspaper opinions

And friends' opinions having blown their windy way through me, I thought, "If it turns out I'm not a genius -- I will die that same instant, of horror!..."

Sitting down at the writing desk, I felt in myself A hallowed reckless bravery, And I smeared ink upon the paper, As if I were subduing the paper in a fight!

When the clock of my fate struck thirty seven, And the thirty eight glimmered in the distance, without fame, It seemed to me -- that the tragic autumn Was casting a shadow upon my brow.

But, as if it were a summons to appear in court, or in a Social Security office, A yellow autumn leaf pressed itself to my window, And I read in that blank form: "You're not a genius!" A short message from the heavens.

I glanced out the window -- because surely it couldn't be, That in this hour, in this moment of my departure, The weather wouldn't get any worse, And the view would not restructure itself in any way!

All has been as before. A puddle at the entrance. The accustomed shape of the dumpster. And at the fence, a dog was peeing With a timid smile on her face.

The pigeon I've known, self-important and prissy, Stupidly stared into my window from the outside, as it usually did, And life did not cease to be desirable Because of my frightening epiphany...

#leonid filatov #poetry #poems #creativity #genius #writing #russian poetry #russian poets

When evil-doing comes like falling rain

Like one who brings an important letter to the counter after office hours: the counter is already closed. Like one who seeks to warn the city of an impending flood, but speaks another language. They do not understand him. Like a beggar who knocks for the fifth time at the door where he has four times been given something: the fifth time he is hungry. Like one whose blood flows from a wound and who awaits the doctor: his blood goes on flowing.

So do we come forward and report that evil has been done us.

The first time it was reported that our friends were being butchered there was a cry of horror. Then a hundred were butchered. But when a thousand were butchered and there was no end to the butchery, a blanket of silence spread.

When evil-doing comes like falling rain, nobody calls out “stop!”

When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.

#bertolt brecht #german poetry #german poets #poetry #poems #evil

Perfect for Any Occasion

Pies have a reputation. And it's immediate -- no talk of potential

Regarding a pie. It's good Or it isn't, but mostly it is -- sweet, very sweet

Right then, right there, blue and red. It can't go to junior college,

Work hard for the grades, Work two jobs on the side.

It can't slowly build a reputation And a growing client base.

A pie gets one chance And knows it, wearing as makeup

Those sparkling granules of sugar, As a collar those diamond cutouts

Bespeaking Fair Day, felicity, contentment. I tell you everything is great, says a pie,

Great, and fun, and fine. And you smell nice, too, someone says.

A full pound of round sound, all ahh, all good. Pies live a life of applause.

But then there are the other pies. The leftover pies. The ones

Nobody chooses at Thanksgiving. Mincemeat? What the hell is that? people ask,

Pointing instead at a double helping of Mr. "I-can-do-no-wrong" pecan pie.

But the unchosen pies have a long history, too. They have plenty of good stories, places they've been --

They were once fun, too -- But nobody wants to listen to them anymore.

Oh sure, everybody used to love lard, But things have changed, brother -- things have changed.

That's never the end of the story, of course. Some pies make a break for it --

Live underground for a while, Doing what they can, talking fast,

Trying to be sweet pizzas, if they're lucky. But no good comes of it. Nobody is fooled.

A pie is a pie for one great day. Last week, It was Jell-O. Tomorrow, it'll be cake.

#alberto ríos #american poetry #american poets #poetry #poems #food #pies #pie #potential #limitation #limitations

Persephone Returning

I was no stolen child. I chose to grab the hundred-blossomed flower, To have earth open like a woman And the moss become my bridal veil. Rape is for fairy tales.

My body swelled As Pluto pierced the bloody fruit And fed me sweetness I could only taste From someone else's hand. We wove our bones together On the clammy ground.

Now at my step The cold earth blooms And sex commands its dance. Returned, I skip among the buds. Mother takes me in her leafy arms. But the animals know --

Beneath my girlish face The Queen who dipped her feet Into the lake of death. I am both deserting daughter And abandoned mother holding back the rain. Mine are the dark mysteries, Mine, too, the secret of the grain. Grave dust blends with pollen in my hair.

#alison stone #persephone #mythology #greek mythology #female poets #women poets #female poetry #sexuality #english poets #english poetry #british poets #british poetry

A Dirge

Why were you born when the snow was falling? You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling, Or when grapes are green in the cluster, Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster For their far off flying From summer dying.

Why did you die when the lambs were cropping? You should have died at the apples’ dropping, When the grasshopper comes to trouble, And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble, And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.

#christina rossetti #female poets #female poetry #women poets #death #loss #english poets #english poetry

Center of the World

The meek inherit nothing. God in his tattered coat this morning, a quiet tongue

in my ear, begging for alms, cold hands reaching up my skirt. Little lamb, paupered flock,

bless my black tea with tears. I have shorn your golden fleece, worn vast spools

of white lace, glittering jacquard, gilded fig leaves, jeweled dust on my skin. Cornsilk hair

in my hems. I have milked the stout beast of what you call America; and wear your men across my chest

like furs. Stick-pin fox and snow blue chinchilla: They too came to nibble at my door,

the soft pink tangles I trap them in. Dear watchers in the shadows, dear thick-thighed fiends. At ease,

please. Tell the hounds who undress me with their eyes -- I have nothing to hide. I will spread myself

wide. Here, a flash of muscle. Here, some blood in the hunt. Now the center of the world: my incandescent cunt.

All hail the dark blooms of amaryllis and the wild pink Damascus, my sweet Aphrodite unfolding

in the kink. All hail hot jasmine in the night; thick syrup in your mouth, forked dagger

on my tongue. Legions at my heel. Here at the world's red mecca, kneel. Here Eden, here Bethlehem,

here in the cradle of Thebes, a towering sphinx roams the garden, her wet dawn devouring.

#safiya sinclair #jamaican poets #jamaican poetry #poetry #poems #female poets #female poetry #women poets #sexuality #gender #femininity

Consolation

Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings Pass countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth convent-roofs, On the gilt terraces, Of holy Lassa, Bright shines the sun.

Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses; In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair.

Strange unloved uproar Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm.

Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms.

No bolder robber Erst abode ambush'd Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight Spied prey afar.

Saharan sand-winds Sear'd his keen eyeballs; Spent is the spoil he won. For him the present Holds only pain.

Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fields Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy.

With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes brimming: "Ah," they cry, "Destiny, Prolong the present! Time, stand still here!"

The prompt stern Goddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives his hour-glass Its due reversal; Their hour is gone.

With weak indulgence Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere.

The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end.

The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pass'd by others In warmth, light, joy.

Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours.

#matthew arnold #poets #poetry #english poets #british poets #english poetry #british poetry #time

My Double

In hail and rain and sleet and snow, In gale and fog and freezing cold, I see him to his labour go, Yet he is old as I am old. I shrink and think: Life is not fair. He looks like me, yet Fate has ground Him in the bloody mire, and where He makes a bob I make a pound.

Ay, how he seems the spit of me, And had I not the knack of rhyme, I, too, might muck in misery, Or grovel in the gutter grime. I grieve that there be rich and poor, And from my study snug and warm, I watch from luxury secure My broken brother breast the storm.

And sad of soul again I say Alas that there be poor and rich; God speed the day when life will pay An equal wage to desk and ditch. Aye, even more -- with just decree, Pay him a pound and me a bob... Yet though I mucked in misery, By God! I'd stick my rhyming job.

And so I see with heart of rue His trudge to toil in daylight dim... But what the devil can I do? So many millions are like him.

#robert w service #british poets #british poetry #canadian poets #canadian poetry #poetry #poems #poverty #inequality

Day of These Days

Such a morning it is when love leans through geranium windows and calls with a cockerel's tongue. When red-haired girls scamper like roses over the rain-green grass, and the sun drips honey. When hedgerows grow venerable, berries dry black as blood, and holes suck in their bees. Such a morning it is when mice run whispering from the church, dragging dropped ears of harvest. When the partridge draws back his spring and shoots like a buzzing arrow over grained and mahogany fields. When no table is bare, and no breast dry, and the tramp feeds off ribs of rabbit. Such a day it is when time piles up the hills like pumpkins, and the streams run golden. When all men smell good, and the cheeks of girls are as baked bread to the mouth. As bread and beanflowers the touch of their lips, and their white teeth sweeter than cucumbers.

#laurie lee #autumn #british poets #english poets #poetry #poems

Blue Dementia

In the days when a man would hold a swarm of words inside his belly, nestled against his spleen, singing.

In the days of night riders when life tongued a reed till blues & sorrow song called out of the deep night: Another man done gone. Another man done gone.

In the days when one could lose oneself all up inside love that way, & then moan on the bone till the gods cried out in someone's sleep.

Today, already I've seen three dark-skinned men discussing the weather with demons & angels, gazing up at the clouds & squinting down into iron grates along the fast streets of luminous encounters.

I double-check my reflection in plate glass & wonder, Am I passing another Lucky Thompson or Marion Brown cornered by a blue dementia, another dark-skinned man who woke up dreaming one morning & then walked out of himself dreaming? Did this one dare to step on a crack in the sidewalk, to turn a midnight corner & never come back whole, or did he try to stare down a look that shoved a blade into his heart? I mean, I also know something about night riders & catgut. Yeah, honey, I know something about talking with ghosts.

#yusef komunyakaa #dementia #aging #american poets #black poets #poetry #poems

Starfish

In the sea rocks, in the stone pockets under the tide's lip, in water dense as blindness

they slid like sponges, like too many thumbs. I knew this, and what I wanted

was to draw my hands back from the water---what I wanted was to be willing to be afraid.

But I stayed there, I crouched on the stone wall while the sea poured its harsh song through the sluices,

while I waited for the gritty lightning of their touch, while I stared down through the tide's leaving where sometimes I could see them---

their stubborn flesh lounging on my knuckles What good does it do to lie all day in the sun

loving what is easy? It never grew easy, but at last I grew peaceful: all summer

my fear diminished as they bloomed through the water like flowers, like flecks of an uncertain dream

while I lay on the rocks, reaching in the darkness, learning little by little to love our only world.

#mary oliver #female poets #poetry #poems #poets #american poets #nature #animals #fear

poem I wrote sitting across the table from you

if I had two nickels to rub together I would rub them together

like a kid rubs sticks together until friction made combustion

and they burned a hole in my pocket

into which I would put my hand and then my arm

and eventually my whole self -- I would fold myself

into the hole in my pocket and disappear into the pocket of myself, or at least my pants

but before I did like some ancient star

I'd grab your hand

#kevin varrone #poetry #poems #poets #american poetry #american poets #love

The Embrace

You weren’t well or really ill yet either; just a little tired, your handsomeness tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.

I didn’t for a moment doubt you were dead. I knew that to be true still, even in the dream. You’d been out--at work maybe?-- having a good day, almost energetic.

We seemed to be moving from some old house where we’d lived, boxes everywhere, things in disarray: that was the story of my dream, but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative

by your face, the physical fact of your face: inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert. Why so difficult, remembering the actual look of you? Without a photograph, without strain?

So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face, your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth and clarity of you--warm brown tea--we held each other for the time the dream allowed.

Bless you. You came back, so I could see you once more, plainly, so I could rest against you without thinking this happiness lessened anything, without thinking you were alive again.

#mark doty #poetry #poems #poets #american poetry #american poets #love #death #mourning

Human Being

Nieuw land. In 1 sekonde ontstaan levensvormen: bandensporen

Een mens urbaniseert zo mogelijk nog sneller

Hektare voor hektare verkavelt hij zijn gevoelsgrond. Liever geen bloemen.

Kijk: We hebben al een wasmachine! vol bloemen!

Realiseert zich in een oogwenk, daglicht en elektrisch licht.

Krijgt een naam en een nummer, een vlag en een vlaggenparade.

Niet meer emoties dan nodig in een stadion.

Hier is het leven zeer geconcentreerd : ijskast. Televisie.

Hoe kleiner zijn circuit, hoe beter : daarbinnen is alles.

Human being, in een uniform als het maar een mooi uniform is.

Nu een nieuwe landkaart.

#hans verhagen #poetry #dutch poets #humanity #modernity

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