Walking Down Park
by Nikki Giovanni
walking down park
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked
before you rode
subways to the stock
exchange (we can’t be on
the stock exchange
we are the stock
exchanged)
did you ever maybe wonder
what grass was like before
they rolled it
into a ball and called
it central park
where syphilitic dogs
and their two-legged tubercular
masters fertilize
the corners and side-walks
ever want to know what would happen
if your life could be fertilized
by a love thought
from a loved one
who loves you
ever look south
on a clear day and not see
time’s squares but see
tall Birch trees with sycamores
touching hands
and see gazelles running playfully
after the lions
ever hear the antelope bark
from the third floor apartment
ever, did you ever, sit down
and wonder about what freedom’s freedom
would bring
it’s so easy to be free
you start by loving yourself
then those who look like you
all else will come
naturally
ever wonder why
so much asphalt was laid
in so little space
probably so we would forget
the Iroquois, Algonquin
and Mohicans who could caress
the earth
ever think what Harlem would be
like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears
grew sending
a cacophony of sound to us
the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful
owls sending out whooooo’s making love ...
and me and you just sitting in the sun trying
to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys
koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness
ever think its possible
for us to be
happy
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
"The Ecchoing Green" by William Blake
The Ecchoing Green
by William Blake
The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.
Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say.
‘Such, such were the joys.
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen,
On the Ecchoing Green.’
Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by William Blake
The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.
Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say.
‘Such, such were the joys.
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen,
On the Ecchoing Green.’
Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Monday, June 25, 2018
"Landscape, Dense with Trees" by Ellen Bryant Voigt
Landscape, Dense with Trees
by Ellen Bryant Voigt
When you move away, you see how much depends
on the pace of the days—how much
depended on the haze we waded through
each summer, visible heat, wavy and discursive
as the lazy track of the snake in the dusty road;
and on the habit in town of porches thatched in vines,
and in the country long dense promenades, the way
we sacrificed the yards to shade.
It was partly the heat that made my father
plant so many trees—two maples marking the site
for the house, two elms on either side when it was done;
mimosa by the fence, and as it failed, fast-growing chestnuts,
loblolly pines; and dogwood, redbud, ornamental crab.
On the farm, everything else he grew
something could eat, but this
would be a permanent mark of his industry,
a glade established in the open field. Or so it seemed.
Looking back at the empty house from across the hill,
I see how well the house is camouflaged, see how
that porous fence of saplings, their later
scrim of foliage, thickened around it,
and still he chinked and mortared, planting more.
Last summer, although he’d lost all tolerance for heat,
he backed the truck in at the family grave
and stood in the truckbed all afternoon, pruning
the landmark oak, repairing recent damage by a wind;
then he came home and hung a swing
in one of the horse-chestnuts for my visit.
The heat was a hand at his throat,
a fist to his weak heart. But it made a triumph
of the cooler air inside, in the bedroom,
in the maple bedstead where he slept,
in the brick house nearly swamped by leaves.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Ellen Bryant Voigt
When you move away, you see how much depends
on the pace of the days—how much
depended on the haze we waded through
each summer, visible heat, wavy and discursive
as the lazy track of the snake in the dusty road;
and on the habit in town of porches thatched in vines,
and in the country long dense promenades, the way
we sacrificed the yards to shade.
It was partly the heat that made my father
plant so many trees—two maples marking the site
for the house, two elms on either side when it was done;
mimosa by the fence, and as it failed, fast-growing chestnuts,
loblolly pines; and dogwood, redbud, ornamental crab.
On the farm, everything else he grew
something could eat, but this
would be a permanent mark of his industry,
a glade established in the open field. Or so it seemed.
Looking back at the empty house from across the hill,
I see how well the house is camouflaged, see how
that porous fence of saplings, their later
scrim of foliage, thickened around it,
and still he chinked and mortared, planting more.
Last summer, although he’d lost all tolerance for heat,
he backed the truck in at the family grave
and stood in the truckbed all afternoon, pruning
the landmark oak, repairing recent damage by a wind;
then he came home and hung a swing
in one of the horse-chestnuts for my visit.
The heat was a hand at his throat,
a fist to his weak heart. But it made a triumph
of the cooler air inside, in the bedroom,
in the maple bedstead where he slept,
in the brick house nearly swamped by leaves.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
"In Defense of Our Overgrown Garden" by Matthea Harvey
In Defense of Our Overgrown Garden
by Matthea Harvey
Last night the apple trees shook and gave each lettuce a heart
Six hard red apples broke through the greenhouse glass and
Landed in the middle of those ever-so-slightly green leaves
That seem no mix of seeds and soil but of pastels and light and
Chalk x’s mark our oaks that are supposed to be cut down
I’ve seen the neighbors frown when they look over the fence
And see our espalier pear trees bowing out of shape I did like that
They looked like candelabras against the wall but what’s the sense
In swooning over pruning I said as much to Mrs. Jones and I swear
She threw her cane at me and walked off down the street without
It has always puzzled me that people coo over bonsai trees when
You can squint your eyes and shrink anything without much of
A struggle ensued with some starlings and the strawberry nets
So after untangling the two I took the nets off and watched birds
With red beaks fly by all morning at the window I reread your letter
About how the castles you flew over made crenellated shadows on
The water in the rainbarrel has overflowed and made a small swamp
I think the potatoes might turn out slightly damp don’t worry
If there is no fog on the day you come home I will build a bonfire
So the smoke will make the cedars look the way you like them
To close I’m sorry there won’t be any salad and I love you
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Matthea Harvey
Last night the apple trees shook and gave each lettuce a heart
Six hard red apples broke through the greenhouse glass and
Landed in the middle of those ever-so-slightly green leaves
That seem no mix of seeds and soil but of pastels and light and
Chalk x’s mark our oaks that are supposed to be cut down
I’ve seen the neighbors frown when they look over the fence
And see our espalier pear trees bowing out of shape I did like that
They looked like candelabras against the wall but what’s the sense
In swooning over pruning I said as much to Mrs. Jones and I swear
She threw her cane at me and walked off down the street without
It has always puzzled me that people coo over bonsai trees when
You can squint your eyes and shrink anything without much of
A struggle ensued with some starlings and the strawberry nets
So after untangling the two I took the nets off and watched birds
With red beaks fly by all morning at the window I reread your letter
About how the castles you flew over made crenellated shadows on
The water in the rainbarrel has overflowed and made a small swamp
I think the potatoes might turn out slightly damp don’t worry
If there is no fog on the day you come home I will build a bonfire
So the smoke will make the cedars look the way you like them
To close I’m sorry there won’t be any salad and I love you
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Friday, June 22, 2018
"Second Attempt Crossing" by Javier Zamora
Second Attempt Crossing
by Javier Zamora
For Chino
In the middle of that desert that didn’t look like sand
and sand only,
in the middle of those acacias, whiptails, and coyotes, someone yelled
“¡La Migra!” and everyone ran.
In that dried creek where 40 of us slept, we turned to each other
and you flew from my side in the dirt.
Black-throated sparrows and dawn
hitting the tops of mesquites,
beautifully. Against the herd of legs,
you sprinted back toward me,
I jumped on your shoulders,
and we ran from the white trucks. It was then the gun
ready to press its index.
I said, “freeze, Chino, ¡pará por favor!”
So I wouldn’t touch their legs that kicked you,
you pushed me under your chest,
and I’ve never thanked you.
Beautiful Chino —
the only name I know to call you by —
farewell your tattooed chest:
the M, the S, the 13. Farewell
the phone number you gave me
when you went east to Virginia,
and I went west to San Francisco.
You called twice a month,
then your cousin said the gang you ran from
in San Salvador
found you in Alexandria. Farewell
your brown arms that shielded me then,
that shield me now, from La Migra.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Javier Zamora
For Chino
In the middle of that desert that didn’t look like sand
and sand only,
in the middle of those acacias, whiptails, and coyotes, someone yelled
“¡La Migra!” and everyone ran.
In that dried creek where 40 of us slept, we turned to each other
and you flew from my side in the dirt.
Black-throated sparrows and dawn
hitting the tops of mesquites,
beautifully. Against the herd of legs,
you sprinted back toward me,
I jumped on your shoulders,
and we ran from the white trucks. It was then the gun
ready to press its index.
I said, “freeze, Chino, ¡pará por favor!”
So I wouldn’t touch their legs that kicked you,
you pushed me under your chest,
and I’ve never thanked you.
Beautiful Chino —
the only name I know to call you by —
farewell your tattooed chest:
the M, the S, the 13. Farewell
the phone number you gave me
when you went east to Virginia,
and I went west to San Francisco.
You called twice a month,
then your cousin said the gang you ran from
in San Salvador
found you in Alexandria. Farewell
your brown arms that shielded me then,
that shield me now, from La Migra.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Thursday, June 21, 2018
"Bent to the Earth" by Blas Manuel De Luna
Bent to the Earth
by Blas Manuel De Luna
They had hit Ruben
with the high beams, had blinded
him so that the van
he was driving, full of Mexicans
going to pick tomatoes,
would have to stop. Ruben spun
the van into an irrigation ditch,
spun the five-year-old me awake
to immigration officers,
their batons already out,
already looking for the soft spots on the body,
to my mother being handcuffed
and dragged to a van, to my father
trying to show them our green cards.
They let us go. But Alvaro
was going back.
So was his brother Fernando.
So was their sister Sonia. Their mother
did not escape,
and so was going back. Their father
was somewhere in the field,
and was free. There were no great truths
revealed to me then. No wisdom
given to me by anyone. I was a child
who had seen what a piece of polished wood
could do to a face, who had seen his father
about to lose the one he loved, who had lost
some friends who would never return,
who, later that morning, bent
to the earth and went to work.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Blas Manuel De Luna
They had hit Ruben
with the high beams, had blinded
him so that the van
he was driving, full of Mexicans
going to pick tomatoes,
would have to stop. Ruben spun
the van into an irrigation ditch,
spun the five-year-old me awake
to immigration officers,
their batons already out,
already looking for the soft spots on the body,
to my mother being handcuffed
and dragged to a van, to my father
trying to show them our green cards.
They let us go. But Alvaro
was going back.
So was his brother Fernando.
So was their sister Sonia. Their mother
did not escape,
and so was going back. Their father
was somewhere in the field,
and was free. There were no great truths
revealed to me then. No wisdom
given to me by anyone. I was a child
who had seen what a piece of polished wood
could do to a face, who had seen his father
about to lose the one he loved, who had lost
some friends who would never return,
who, later that morning, bent
to the earth and went to work.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
"Father and Son" by William Stafford
Father and Son
by William Stafford
No sound—a spell—on, on out
where the wind went, our kite sent back
its thrill along the string that
sagged but sang and said, “I’m here!
I’m here!”—till broke somewhere,
gone years ago, but sailed forever clear
of earth. I hold—whatever tugs
the other end—I hold that string.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by William Stafford
No sound—a spell—on, on out
where the wind went, our kite sent back
its thrill along the string that
sagged but sang and said, “I’m here!
I’m here!”—till broke somewhere,
gone years ago, but sailed forever clear
of earth. I hold—whatever tugs
the other end—I hold that string.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden
Happy Father's Day, especially to my most loyal follower (both of The Poet's Watch and of everything else I do). Here's to all the ways a father shows love, even when we don't notice.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Saturday, June 16, 2018
"Finale" by Pablo Neruda
Finale
by Pablo Neruda
translated by William O'Daly
Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.
And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Pablo Neruda
translated by William O'Daly
Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.
And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Friday, June 15, 2018
"Putting in the Seed" by Robert Frost
Putting in the Seed
by Robert Frost
You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Robert Frost
You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Thursday, June 14, 2018
"A Boy Juggling a Soccer Ball" by Christopher Merrill
A Boy Juggling a Soccer Ball
Christopher Merrill
after practice: right foot
to left foot, stepping forward and back,
to right foot and left foot,
and left foot up to his thigh, holding
it on his thigh as he twists
around in a circle, until it rolls
down the inside of his leg,
like a tickle of sweat, not catching
and tapping on the soft
side of his foot, and juggling
once, twice, three times,
hopping on one foot like a jump-roper
in the gym, now trapping
and holding the ball in midair,
balancing it on the instep
of his weak left foot, stepping forward
and forward and back, then
lifting it overhead until it hangs there;
and squaring off his body,
he keeps the ball aloft with a nudge
of his neck, heading it
from side to side, softer and softer,
like a dying refrain,
until the ball, slowing, balances
itself on his hairline,
the hot sun and sweat filling his eyes
as he jiggles this way
and that, then flicking it up gently,
hunching his shoulders
and tilting his head back, he traps it
in the hollow of his neck,
and bending at the waist, sees his shadow,
his dangling T-shirt, the bent
blades of brown grass in summer heat;
and relaxing, the ball slipping
down his back. . .and missing his foot.
He wheels around, he marches
over the ball, as if it were a rock
he stumbled into, and pressing
his left foot against it, he pushes it
against the inside of his right
until it pops into the air, is heeled
over his head—the rainbow!—
and settles on his extended thigh before
rolling over his knee and down
his shin, so he can juggle it again
from his left foot to his right foot
—and right foot to left foot to thigh—
as he wanders, on the last day
of summer, around the empty field.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Christopher Merrill
after practice: right foot
to left foot, stepping forward and back,
to right foot and left foot,
and left foot up to his thigh, holding
it on his thigh as he twists
around in a circle, until it rolls
down the inside of his leg,
like a tickle of sweat, not catching
and tapping on the soft
side of his foot, and juggling
once, twice, three times,
hopping on one foot like a jump-roper
in the gym, now trapping
and holding the ball in midair,
balancing it on the instep
of his weak left foot, stepping forward
and forward and back, then
lifting it overhead until it hangs there;
and squaring off his body,
he keeps the ball aloft with a nudge
of his neck, heading it
from side to side, softer and softer,
like a dying refrain,
until the ball, slowing, balances
itself on his hairline,
the hot sun and sweat filling his eyes
as he jiggles this way
and that, then flicking it up gently,
hunching his shoulders
and tilting his head back, he traps it
in the hollow of his neck,
and bending at the waist, sees his shadow,
his dangling T-shirt, the bent
blades of brown grass in summer heat;
and relaxing, the ball slipping
down his back. . .and missing his foot.
He wheels around, he marches
over the ball, as if it were a rock
he stumbled into, and pressing
his left foot against it, he pushes it
against the inside of his right
until it pops into the air, is heeled
over his head—the rainbow!—
and settles on his extended thigh before
rolling over his knee and down
his shin, so he can juggle it again
from his left foot to his right foot
—and right foot to left foot to thigh—
as he wanders, on the last day
of summer, around the empty field.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
"The bottoms of my shoes" by Jack Kerouac
The bottoms of my shoes
by Jack Kerouac
The bottoms of my shoes
are clean
From walking in the rain
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Jack Kerouac
The bottoms of my shoes
are clean
From walking in the rain
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
"Pride" by Sophia Manubay
A former creative writing student sent me this poem to feature on The Poet's Watch. I'm so proud of her for using poetry as a platform for expression beyond assignments in the classroom. This is what it's all about! Happy Pride Month!
Pride
by Sophia Manubay
The one place thousands of people show themselves.
Splashes of colors everywhere,
Declaring their presence there.
Thunderous cheering and clapping everywhere,
Embraces of happiness.
This is what true freedom and happiness looks like.
Lots of people come together in solidarity for the support of each other.
The sun beats down,
So hot that it gives people vibrant, red sunburns.
But no one seems to care.
There are smiles all around,
Embracing a day that was designed for them.
People of all backgrounds are present,
No one group is neglected.
This is what pride is: diversity.
A diversity that can change the world.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Pride
by Sophia Manubay
The one place thousands of people show themselves.
Splashes of colors everywhere,
Declaring their presence there.
Thunderous cheering and clapping everywhere,
Embraces of happiness.
This is what true freedom and happiness looks like.
Lots of people come together in solidarity for the support of each other.
The sun beats down,
So hot that it gives people vibrant, red sunburns.
But no one seems to care.
There are smiles all around,
Embracing a day that was designed for them.
People of all backgrounds are present,
No one group is neglected.
This is what pride is: diversity.
A diversity that can change the world.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Monday, June 11, 2018
"Movement Song" by Audre Lorde
Movement Song
by Audre Lorde
I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
watching
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Audre Lorde
I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
watching
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
"Oft, in the Stilly Night (Scotch Air)" by Thomas Moore
Oft, in the Stilly Night (Scotch Air)
by Thomas Moore
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The friends, so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
by Thomas Moore
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The friends, so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
"To My Father on His Birthday" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Happy birthday to my own father. Thank you for always supporting me. I love you.
To My Father on His Birthday
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Amidst the days of pleasant mirth,
That throw their halo round our earth;
Amidst the tender thoughts that rise
To call bright tears to happy eyes;
Amidst the silken words that move
To syllable the names we love;
There glides no day of gentle bliss
More soothing to the heart than this!
No thoughts of fondness e'er appear
More fond, than those I write of here!
No name can e'er on tablet shine,
My father! more beloved than thine!
'Tis sweet, adown the shady past,
A lingering look of love to cast—
Back th' enchanted world to call,
That beamed around us first of all;
And walk with Memory fondly o'er
The paths where Hope had been before—
Sweet to receive the sylphic sound
That breathes in tenderness around,
Repeating to the listening ear
The names that made our childhood dear—
For parted Joy, like Echo, kind,
Will leave her dulcet voice behind,
To tell, amidst the magic air,
How oft she smiled and lingered there.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
To My Father on His Birthday
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Amidst the days of pleasant mirth,
That throw their halo round our earth;
Amidst the tender thoughts that rise
To call bright tears to happy eyes;
Amidst the silken words that move
To syllable the names we love;
There glides no day of gentle bliss
More soothing to the heart than this!
No thoughts of fondness e'er appear
More fond, than those I write of here!
No name can e'er on tablet shine,
My father! more beloved than thine!
'Tis sweet, adown the shady past,
A lingering look of love to cast—
Back th' enchanted world to call,
That beamed around us first of all;
And walk with Memory fondly o'er
The paths where Hope had been before—
Sweet to receive the sylphic sound
That breathes in tenderness around,
Repeating to the listening ear
The names that made our childhood dear—
For parted Joy, like Echo, kind,
Will leave her dulcet voice behind,
To tell, amidst the magic air,
How oft she smiled and lingered there.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Friday, June 8, 2018
"The Rewards of Nature" by Emma Gatewood
I've been obsessing over the Appalachian Trail for awhile now, but I'm currently finishing up "Grandma Gatewood's Walk" by Ben Montgomery and had to share one of Gatewood's poems. If you're unfamiliar with her story, I highly recommend Montgomery's book. She was truly a fascinating woman.
The Rewards of Nature
By Emma “Grandma” Gatewood
If you will go with me to the mountains,
And sleep on the leaf carpeted floors
And enjoy the bigness of nature
And the beauty of all out-of doors.
You’ll find your troubles all fading,
And feel the Creator was not man
That made lovely mountains and forests
Which only a Supreme Power can.
When we trust in the power above
And with the realm of nature hold fast
We will have a jewel of great price
To brighten our lives till the last.
For the love of Nature is healing
If we will only give it a try
And the reward will be forthcoming
If we go deeper than what meets the eye.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
The Rewards of Nature
By Emma “Grandma” Gatewood
If you will go with me to the mountains,
And sleep on the leaf carpeted floors
And enjoy the bigness of nature
And the beauty of all out-of doors.
You’ll find your troubles all fading,
And feel the Creator was not man
That made lovely mountains and forests
Which only a Supreme Power can.
When we trust in the power above
And with the realm of nature hold fast
We will have a jewel of great price
To brighten our lives till the last.
For the love of Nature is healing
If we will only give it a try
And the reward will be forthcoming
If we go deeper than what meets the eye.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Thursday, June 7, 2018
"Long, too long America" by Walt Whitman
Long, too long America
by Walt Whitman
Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?)
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Walt Whitman
Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?)
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
"The Country Autumns" by Clark Coolidge
The Country Autumns
by Clark Coolidge
But it could not be brought to see what it
could be brought. And the leaves are
away again, teamed. A parent at the
last and a parent in the middle. And
as stones I thought it right.
Two plates, and on the other side all the
forest pieces. The clock says stay.
The books lower the earth, and in gardens
flat stones spin. The volume was of waiting.
Today is today, until the preposition taken up.
Next to the tree sways.
The sky in pieces the leaves part the
leaves piece together. To and from a hand
given all directions. The bark comes from
below. Takes from the books of the moves under
the sky. Speaker holds up the talks held last.
Motors the dust and the yellow syllables.
A slant on which was never here or
only partly.
by Clark Coolidge
But it could not be brought to see what it
could be brought. And the leaves are
away again, teamed. A parent at the
last and a parent in the middle. And
as stones I thought it right.
Two plates, and on the other side all the
forest pieces. The clock says stay.
The books lower the earth, and in gardens
flat stones spin. The volume was of waiting.
Today is today, until the preposition taken up.
Next to the tree sways.
The sky in pieces the leaves part the
leaves piece together. To and from a hand
given all directions. The bark comes from
below. Takes from the books of the moves under
the sky. Speaker holds up the talks held last.
Motors the dust and the yellow syllables.
A slant on which was never here or
only partly.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
"The Work of Happiness" by May Sarton
The Work of Happiness
by May Sarton
I thought of happiness, how it is woven
Out of the silence in the empty house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is not given
But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,
But the tree is lifted by this inward work
And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.
So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours
And strikes its roots deep in the house alone:
The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors,
White curtains softly and continually blown
As the free air moves quietly about the room;
A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall—
These are the dear familiar gods of home,
And here the work of faith can best be done,
The growing tree is green and musical.
For what is happiness but growth in peace,
The timeless sense of time when furniture
Has stood a life's span in a single place,
And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir
The shining leaves of present happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by May Sarton
I thought of happiness, how it is woven
Out of the silence in the empty house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is not given
But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,
But the tree is lifted by this inward work
And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.
So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours
And strikes its roots deep in the house alone:
The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors,
White curtains softly and continually blown
As the free air moves quietly about the room;
A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall—
These are the dear familiar gods of home,
And here the work of faith can best be done,
The growing tree is green and musical.
For what is happiness but growth in peace,
The timeless sense of time when furniture
Has stood a life's span in a single place,
And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir
The shining leaves of present happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Monday, June 4, 2018
"A Moment" by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
A Moment
by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
The clouds had made a crimson crown
Above the mountains high.
The stormy sun was going down
In a stormy sky.
Why did you let your eyes so rest on me,
And hold your breath between?
In all the ages this can never be
As if it had not been.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
The clouds had made a crimson crown
Above the mountains high.
The stormy sun was going down
In a stormy sky.
Why did you let your eyes so rest on me,
And hold your breath between?
In all the ages this can never be
As if it had not been.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Sunday, June 3, 2018
"We Have the Technology" by Michael Robbins
The Poet's Watch had to take a day off yesterday, but here is "We Have the Technology" by Michael Robbins, which is even more interesting when read aloud.
We Have the Technology
by Michael Robbins
By the sparklet of certain ciliates cesium
practices its cricket song.
Am I supposed to be impressed? My smoothie
comes with gps.
Take a left at that crustacean. You—yes, you,
with the crisis Isis eyes.
By Odin’s beard, this is snowier than usual. We can
always burn the first folio.
Go bug a dandelion. You’ll have
the elephant of surprise.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
We Have the Technology
by Michael Robbins
By the sparklet of certain ciliates cesium
practices its cricket song.
Am I supposed to be impressed? My smoothie
comes with gps.
Take a left at that crustacean. You—yes, you,
with the crisis Isis eyes.
By Odin’s beard, this is snowier than usual. We can
always burn the first folio.
Go bug a dandelion. You’ll have
the elephant of surprise.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Friday, June 1, 2018
"Donut" by Julian Stannard
Happy National Donut Day! This is one of my favorite holidays, so here is a poem about donuts (and what would happen if they were criminalized the way marijuana is).
Donut
by Julian Stannard
O, Benjamin P. Lovell, 19
from Oneonta, New York State
who appears in the police blotter
in Thursday’s Daily Star for
unlawful possession of marijuana.
The police blotter hangs just
below the cast of Hairpsray
rehearsing at the suny oneonta
goodrich theater
where the girl playing Tracy
Turnblad looks as if she’s been
helping herself to donuts:
maybe the donuts we were eating
at Barlow’s General Store, Treadwell.
Do you ever get an upstate rush?
I’ve never been crazy about donuts
but these are the aristocrats
of the donut world and I salute them.
And I hope, Benjamin, your mom
isn’t going to be too mad as she casts
her eye down the police blotter
and sees your name there, You little shit!
and I hope the authorities remember
being young when the whole world
sometimes seemed somehow like
a gargantuan donut that either pulled
you to its bosom (O Tracy!) or kicked
down — somewhere — to the bloodstream.
Sweet donut, do I love thee? I haven’t
mentioned Brando K. Goodluck, 18,
from Manhattan, charged with seventh-degree
criminal possession of a controlled
substance. O Brando, O Brando
what were you thinking?
As I put a donut in my mouth
I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind
a joint, and, in any case, maybe
all these donuts are pretty dangerous
and I wonder what would happen
if the rules got jumbled up
and the girl playing Tracy Turnblad
slid down the page
and found herself in the police blotter
charged with unlawful possession
of a donut. Suddenly America feels
different and I like it.
Police blotters throughout the nation
packed with donutheads and half the country
on the run as college girls make
secret calls and meet their dealers
in dusty ghost towns, sweet
vapors drifting through the trees.
O America, where even the robins
are bigger, where every car that
slides into the forecourt of Barlow’s
General Store is a Dodge, where
half the population is chasing
the perfect donut. Let’s imagine
that Benjamin P. Lovell and
Brando K. Goodluck, nice slim boys,
who never touched a donut
in their lives, wander into Barlow’s
and roll a joint and talk about those
losers who kneel down before “the big one.”
They know the girl who was playing
Tracy Turnblad. She was sweet, they say,
who went and threw it all away
for a sleazy bun with a hole in it.
They pass the joint to me and I can
feel the donuts I stuffed in haste
somewhere down my slacks. I blush.
Real shame, I say. Mrs. Barlow says
You boys want more coffee?
The donuts on her shelves have gone.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
Donut
by Julian Stannard
O, Benjamin P. Lovell, 19
from Oneonta, New York State
who appears in the police blotter
in Thursday’s Daily Star for
unlawful possession of marijuana.
The police blotter hangs just
below the cast of Hairpsray
rehearsing at the suny oneonta
goodrich theater
where the girl playing Tracy
Turnblad looks as if she’s been
helping herself to donuts:
maybe the donuts we were eating
at Barlow’s General Store, Treadwell.
Do you ever get an upstate rush?
I’ve never been crazy about donuts
but these are the aristocrats
of the donut world and I salute them.
And I hope, Benjamin, your mom
isn’t going to be too mad as she casts
her eye down the police blotter
and sees your name there, You little shit!
and I hope the authorities remember
being young when the whole world
sometimes seemed somehow like
a gargantuan donut that either pulled
you to its bosom (O Tracy!) or kicked
down — somewhere — to the bloodstream.
Sweet donut, do I love thee? I haven’t
mentioned Brando K. Goodluck, 18,
from Manhattan, charged with seventh-degree
criminal possession of a controlled
substance. O Brando, O Brando
what were you thinking?
As I put a donut in my mouth
I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind
a joint, and, in any case, maybe
all these donuts are pretty dangerous
and I wonder what would happen
if the rules got jumbled up
and the girl playing Tracy Turnblad
slid down the page
and found herself in the police blotter
charged with unlawful possession
of a donut. Suddenly America feels
different and I like it.
Police blotters throughout the nation
packed with donutheads and half the country
on the run as college girls make
secret calls and meet their dealers
in dusty ghost towns, sweet
vapors drifting through the trees.
O America, where even the robins
are bigger, where every car that
slides into the forecourt of Barlow’s
General Store is a Dodge, where
half the population is chasing
the perfect donut. Let’s imagine
that Benjamin P. Lovell and
Brando K. Goodluck, nice slim boys,
who never touched a donut
in their lives, wander into Barlow’s
and roll a joint and talk about those
losers who kneel down before “the big one.”
They know the girl who was playing
Tracy Turnblad. She was sweet, they say,
who went and threw it all away
for a sleazy bun with a hole in it.
They pass the joint to me and I can
feel the donuts I stuffed in haste
somewhere down my slacks. I blush.
Real shame, I say. Mrs. Barlow says
You boys want more coffee?
The donuts on her shelves have gone.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
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