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Poem of the Day: The Heat of Autumn
The heat of autumn
is different from the heat of summer.   
One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider.   
One is a dock you walk out on,   
the other the spine of a thin swimming horse
and the river each day a full measure colder.   
A man with cancer leaves his wife for his lover.
Before he goes she straightens his belts in the closet,   
rearranges the socks and sweaters inside the dresser
by color. That’s autumn heat:
her hand placing silver buckles with silver,   
gold buckles with gold, setting each   
on the hook it belongs on in a closet soon to be empty,   
and calling it pleasure.

Jane Hirshfield, "The Heat of Autumn" from After. Copyright © 2006 by Jane Hirshfield.  Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

Source: After(HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 2006)

Jane Hirshfield

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Poem of the Day: Autumn Sky
In my great grandmother's time,
All one needed was a broom
To get to see places
And give the geese a chase in the sky.


The stars know everything,
So we try to read their minds.
As distant as they are,
We choose to whisper in their presence.


Oh Cynthia,
Take a clock that has lost its hands
For a ride.
Get me a room at Hotel Eternity
Where Time likes to stop now and then.


Come, lovers of dark corners,
The sky says,
And sit in one of my dark corners.
There are tasty little zeroes
In the peanut dish tonight.

Source: Poetry October 2002

Charles Simic

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Poem of the Day: Narrative: Ali

My head so big
they had to pry
me out. I’m sorry
Bird (is what I call
my mother). Cassius
Marcellus Clay,
Muhammad Ali;
you can say
my name in any
language, any
continent: Ali.


Two photographs
of Emmett Till,
born my year,
on my birthday.
One, he’s smiling,
happy, and the other one
is after. His mother
did the bold thing,
kept the casket open,
made the thousands look upon
his bulging eyes,
his twisted neck,
her lynched black boy.
I couldn’t sleep
for thinking,
Emmett Till.

One day I went
Down to the train tracks,
found some iron
shoe-shine rests
and planted them
between the ties
and waited
for a train to come,
and watched the train
derail, and ran,
and after that
I slept at night.


I need to train
around people,
hear them talk,
talk back. I need
to hear the traffic,
see people in
the barbershop,
people getting
shoe shines, talking,
hear them talk,
talk back.


Bottom line: Olympic gold
can’t buy a black man
a Louisville hamburger
in nineteen-sixty.

Wasn’t even real gold.
I watched the river
drag the ribbon down,
red, white, and blue.   


Laying on the bed,
praying for a wife,
in walk Sonji Roi.

Pretty little shape.
Do you like
chop suey?

Can I wash your hair
that wig?

Lay on the bed,
Girl. Lie
with me.

Shake to the east,
to the north,
south, west—

but remember,
remember, I need
a Muslim wife. So

Quit using lipstick.
Quit your boogaloo.
Cover up your knees

like a Muslim
wife, religion,
religion, a Muslim

wife. Eleven
months with Sonji,
first woman I loved.


There’s not
too many days
that pass that I
don’t think
of how it started,
but I know
no Great White Hope
can beat
a true black champ.
Jerry Quarry
could have been
a movie star,
a millionaire,
a senator,
a president—
he only had
to do one thing,
is whip me,
but he can’t.

7. Dressing-Room Visitor

He opened
up his shirt:
“KKK” cut
in his chest.
He dropped
his trousers:
latticed scars
where testicles
should be, His face
bewildered, frozen
in the Alabama woods
that night in 1966
when they left him
for dead, his testicles
in a Dixie cup.
You a warning,
they told him,
to smart-mouth,
sassy-acting niggers,
meaning niggers
still alive,
meaning any nigger,
meaning niggers
like me.

8. Training

Unsweetened grapefruit juice
will melt my stomach down.
Don’t drive if you can walk,
don’t walk if you can run.
I add a mile each day
and run in eight-pound boots.

My knuckles sometimes burst
the glove. I let dead skin
build up, and then I peel it,
let it scar, so I don’t bleed
as much. My bones
absorb the shock.

I train in three-minute
spurts, like rounds: three
rounds big bag, three speed
bag, three jump rope, one-
minute breaks,
no more, no less.

Am I too old? Eat only
kosher meat. Eat cabbage,
carrots, beets, and watch
the weight come down:
two-thirty, two-twenty,
two-ten, two-oh-nine.


Will I go
like Kid Paret,
a fractured
skull, a ten-day
sleep, dreaming
alligators, pork
chops, saxophones,
slow grinds, funk,
fishbowls, lightbulbs,
bats, typewriters,
tuning forks, funk
clocks, red rubber
ball, what you see
in that lifetime
knockout minute
on the cusp?
You could be
let go,
you could be
snatched back.

10. Rumble in the Jungle

Ali boma ye,
Ali boma ye,
means kill him, Ali,
which is different
from a whupping
which is what I give,
but I lead them chanting
anyway, Ali
boma ye, because
here in Africa
black people fly
planes and run countries.

I’m still making up
for the foolishness
I said when I was
Clay from Louisville,
where I learned Africans
live naked in straw
huts eating tiger meat,
grunting and grinning,
swinging from vines,
pounding their chests—

I pound my chest but of my own accord.


I said to Joe Frazier,
first thing, get a good house
in case you get crippled
so you and your family
can sleep somewhere. Always
keep one good Cadillac.
And watch how you dress
with that cowboy hat,
pink suits, white shoes—
that’s how pimps dress,
or kids, and you a champ,
or wish you were, ‘cause
I can whip you in the ring
or whip you in the street.
Now back to clothes,
wear dark clothes, suits,
black suits, like you the best
at what you do, like you
President of the World.
Dress like that.
Put them yellow pants away.
We dinosaurs gotta
look good, gotta sound
good, gotta be good,
the greatest, that’s what
I told Joe Frazier,
and he said to me,
we both bad niggers.
We don’t do no crawlin’.


They called me “the fistic pariah.”

They said I didn’t love my country,
called me a race-hater, called me out
of my name, waited for me
to come out on a stretcher, shot at me,
hexed me, cursed me, wished me
all manner of ill will,
told me I was finished.

Here I am,
like the song says,
come and take me,

“The People’s Champ,”

“Narrative: Ali” Copyright © 2001 by Elizabeth Alexander. Reprinted from Antebellum Dream Book, with the permission of Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.

Source: Antebellum Dream Book(Graywolf Press, 2001)

Elizabeth Alexander

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Poem of the Day: Voyage
I was the fourth ship.
          Behind Niña, Pinta, Santa María,
          Lost at sea while watching a seagull,
          Following the wind and sunset skies,
          While the others set their charts.

I was the fourth ship.
          Breathing in salt and flying with clouds,
          Sailing moonbreezes and starvision nights,
          Rolling into the wave and savoring its lull,
          While the others pointed their prows.

I was the fourth ship.
          Playfully in love with the sea,
          Eternally entwined with the sky,
          Forever vowed to my voyage,
          While the others shouted "Land."

Carmen Tafolla, "Voyage" from Curandera. Copyright © 2012 by Carmen Tafolla.  Reprinted by permission of Wings Press.

Source: Curandera(Wings Press, 2012)

Carmen Tafolla

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Poem of the Day: [i carry your heart with me(i...
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

“[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]” Copyright 1952, © 1980, 1991 by the Trustees for the E. E. Cummings Trust, from Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.

Source: Poetry June 1952

E. E. Cummings

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Poem of the Day: A Letter in October
Dawn comes later and later now,
and I, who only a month ago
could sit with coffee every morning
watching the light walk down the hill
to the edge of the pond and place
a doe there, shyly drinking,

then see the light step out upon
the water, sowing reflections
to either side—a garden
of trees that grew as if by magic—
now see no more than my face,
mirrored by darkness, pale and odd,

startled by time. While I slept,
night in its thick winter jacket
bridled the doe with a twist
of wet leaves and led her away,
then brought its black horse with harness
that creaked like a cricket, and turned

the water garden under. I woke,
and at the waiting window found
the curtains open to my open face;
beyond me, darkness. And I,
who only wished to keep looking out,
must now keep looking in.

Ted Kooser, “A Letter in October” from Weather Central. Copyright © 1994 by Ted Kooser. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260, www.upress.pitt.edu. Used by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

Source: Weather Central(University of Pittsburgh Press, 1994)

Ted Kooser

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Poem of the Day: Contemplations at the Virgin...
Que será, el café of this holy, incorporated place,
the wild steam of scorched espresso cakes rising
like mirages from the aromatic waste, waving
over the coffee-glossed lips of these faces

assembled for a standing breakfast of nostalgia,
of tastes that swirl with the delicacy of memories
in these forty-cent cups of brown sugar histories,
in the swirling froth of café-con-leche, que será,

what have they seen that they cannot forget—
the broad-leaf waves of tabaco and plantains
the clay dust of red and nameless mountains,
que será, that this morning I too am a speck;

I am the brilliant guitar of a tropical morning
speaking Spanish and ribboning through potions
of waist-high steam and green cane oceans,
que será, drums vanishing and returning,

the African gods that rule a rhythmic land
playing their music: bongó, bembé, conga;
que será, that cast the spells of this rumba,
this wild birthright, this tropical dance

with the palms of this exotic confusion;
que será, that I too should be a question,
que será, what have I seen, what do I know—
culture of café and loss, this place I call home.
Richard Blanco, "Contemplations at the Virgin de la Caridad Cafeteria, Inc." from City of a Hundred Fires. Copyright © 1998 by Richard Blanco.  Reprinted by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

Source: City of a Hundred Fires(University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998)

Richard Blanco

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Poem of the Day: October
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

Poem of the Day: First Thought
best thought, you had taught
me — a river runs through it,
the foot of the soul standing
stubbornly in the freeze, all
the shards of ice crumpling up
the banks, what survives
in the ignorance. Play it away.
Be ceremony. Be a lit candle
to what blows you. Outside,
the sun gives a favorite present,
mountain nests in ironic meadows,
otter takes off her shoes, the small
hands of her feet reaching, reaching; still,
far away people are dying. Crisp
one dollar bills fold another life.
You taught me to care in the moment,
carve day into light, or something,
moving in the west that doesn't destroy
us. Look again, in the coming summer,
the cruelest month alive still eats up
the hours. Regret is an uneven hand,
a rough palm at the cheek — tender
and calloused. I drink another glass
of water, turn on the tap
for what grows, for you,
for what lasts, for the last
and the first found thought of you.

Lorna Dee Cervantes, "First Thought" from Sueño. Copyright © 2013 by Lorna Dee Cervantes.  Reprinted by permission of Wings Press.

Source: Sueño(Wings Press, 2013)

Lorna Dee Cervantes

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Poem of the Day: Night in Sine
Woman, place your soothing hands upon my brow,
Your hands softer than fur.
Above us balance the palm trees, barely rustling
In the night breeze. Not even a lullaby.
Let the rhythmic silence cradle us.
Listen to its song. Hear the beat of our dark blood,
Hear the deep pulse of Africa in the mist of lost villages.

Now sets the weary moon upon its slack seabed
Now the bursts of laughter quiet down, and even the storyteller
Nods his head like a child on his mother’s back
The dancers’ feet grow heavy, and heavy, too,
Come the alternating voices of singers.

Now the stars appear and the Night dreams
Leaning on that hill of clouds, dressed in its long, milky pagne.
The roofs of the huts shine tenderly. What are they saying
So secretly to the stars? Inside, the fire dies out
In the closeness of sour and sweet smells.

Woman, light the clear-oil lamp. Let the Ancestors
Speak around us as parents do when the children are in bed.
Let us listen to the voices of the Elissa Elders. Exiled like us
They did not want to die, or lose the flow of their semen in the sands.
Let me hear, a gleam of friendly souls visits the smoke-filled hut,
My head upon your breast as warm as tasty dang streaming from the fire,
Let me breathe the odor of our Dead, let me gather
And speak with their living voices, let me learn to live
Before plunging deeper than the diver
Into the great depths of sleep.

Léopold Sédar Senghor, “Night in Sine” from The Collected Poems, translated by Melvin Dixon. Copyright © 1998 by The Rector and Visitors of the University of Virginia on behalf of the University of Virginia Press. Reprinted by permission of The University of Virginia Press.

Source: The Collected Poems(The University of Virginia Press, 1998)

Léopold Sédar Senghor

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Poem of the Day: The Fork-in-the-Road Indian...

i saved my energy as i read,
          like managing held-breath underwater
so i could extend my survey
          and not miss anything great

the fork-in-the-road indian poetry store
on the highway on the northeast side
of wetumka toward weleetka
          large open grassy field behind it
          county road completing the fork
          vanishes in verdant
          north oktahutchee bottomland
i am overcome
by the indianness of this town
                       an unexplainable import of joy
                       pervades me
even the few current-age vestiges
do not belie
                        a sense that this town
                        this people have always been here


the reading today on the lawn is by two elderly sisters
in long gingham dresses who are the last living speakers of yuchi
you can stand still on an aisle inside the store and reach poems
and stories on the shelves in muskoke chikasha chahta and english

all the great indian writers on both sides
of the sweet gum bridge
          rich treasure of people
          alive and well on this continent
          after millennia of continuance
potluck table for reading guests
spread with banaha sofke tanfula
corn soup tobi squash and peppers
                       brown-skinned teenager
                       corner easy chair
                       absorbing the story of an epic
                       stickball competition
which attracted four hundred contestants
and twenty thousand spectators
                       while columbus
                       still navigated in an italian gene pool
                       a century before his birth  


the building
a turn-of-the-twentieth-century gas station
         abandoned for that use
         before model a’s and t’s
         disappeared from the road
                       has weathered wood clapboard siding
                       and two tapered wood columns
                                     on top of stucco pedestals supporting a roof
                                     which forms a one-car portico

honeysuckle perfumes
summer evening air while
          cicadas and tree frogs
          serenade well-dressed people
          sipping iced tea
                       long shadows massaging
                       green grass

a grandfather
plays a wood flute
          oddly harmonious
          with ratcheting locusts
dark-haired boys and girls
further east
        on the lawn revolve
        around a foam rubber football
                      their cries forming another
                      stratum of sound


what words would I write
if my favorite pen were the only pen left
in the world
and it held only a few drops of ink
i would write this
           in the creek talwa
           muskokean peace town
           corn sings harvest
                        bluegills broom red sand
                        with their tail fins
                        in shallow kingfisher pools
                        nearby people drumming
                                      a seated grandmother
                                      with a light spot on a brown iris
                                      in a wrinkle-supple face
                                      looks east through the yard
praying thankfully
and sees her grandmother walking
amongst children playing ball
you are welcome here

Phillip Carroll Morgan, “The Fork-in-the-Road Indian Poetry Store” from The Fork-in-the-Road Indian Poetry Store. Copyright © 2006 by Phillip Carroll Morgan. Reprinted by permission of Salt Publishing.

Source: The Fork-in-the-Road Indian Poetry Store(Salt Publishing, 2006)

Phillip Carroll Morgan

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Poem of the Day: The Powwow at the End of the...
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam   
and topples it. I am told by many of you that I must forgive   
and so I shall after the floodwaters burst each successive dam   
downriver from the Grand Coulee. I am told by many of you   
that I must forgive and so I shall after the floodwaters find   
their way to the mouth of the Columbia River as it enters the Pacific   
and causes all of it to rise. I am told by many of you that I must forgive   
and so I shall after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed by that salmon   
waiting in the Pacific. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   
after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia   
and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors   
of Hanford. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   
after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River   
as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives   
in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone.   
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall after   
that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws   
a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire   
which will lead all of the lost Indians home. I am told   
by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   
after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon   
who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: one story will teach us   
how to pray; another story will make us laugh for hours;   
the third story will give us reason to dance. I am told by many   
of you that I must forgive and so I shall when I am dancing   
with my tribe during the powwow at the end of the world.

Sherman Alexie, “The Powwow at the End of the World” from The Summer of Black Widows. Copyright © 1996 by Sherman Alexie. Used by permission of Hanging Loose Press.

Source: The Summer of Black Widows(Story Line Press, 1996)

Sherman Alexie

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Poem of the Day: My Father Sings, to My...
at Las Villas, a small Carol City bar with a makeshift stage,
where he spends too much time drinking,
pretending he can learn to play the guitar at forty-five,
become a singer, a musician,
who writes about "Que Difícil Es...."
to live in Spanish in Miami,
a city yet to be translated,
in a restaurant where he has taken us for Cuban food,
where I sit, frozen, unable to make a sound,
where Mother smiles,
all her teeth exposed,
squeezes my hand,
where Mae and Mitzy hide
under the table shielding them from shame
with a blood-red tablecloth,
leaving my mother and me,
pale-faced, trapped by the spotlight shining in our eyes,
making it difficult for us to pretend
we do not know the man in the white suit
pointing to us.

Sandra M. Castillo, "My Father Sings, to My Embarrassment" from My Father Sings, to My Embarrassment. Copyright © 2002 by Sandra M. Castillo.  Reprinted by permission of White Pine Press.

Source: My Father Sings, to My Embarrassment(White Pine Press, 2002)

Sandra M. Castillo

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Poem of the Day: Autumn Begins in Martins...
In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home,
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.

Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other’s bodies.

James Wright, “Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio” from Above the River: The Complete Poems and Selected Prose. Copyright © 1990 by James Wright. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: Above the River: The Complete Poems and Selected Prose(1990)

James Wright

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Poem of the Day: Lowering Your Standards for...
Words fall out of my coat pocket,
soak in bleach water. I touch everyone’s
dirty dollars. Maslow’s got everything on me.
Fourteen hours on my feet. No breaks.
No smokes or lunch. Blank-eyed movements:
trash bags, coffee burner, fingers numb.
I am hourly protestations and false smiles.
The clock clicks its slow slowing.
Faces blur in a stream of  hurried soccer games,
sunlight, and church certainty. I have no
poem to carry, no material illusions.
Cola spilled on hands, so sticky fingered,
I’m far from poems. I’d write of politicians,
refineries, and a border’s barbed wire,
but I am unlearning America’s languages
with a mop. In a summer-hot red
polyester top, I sell lotto tickets. Cars wait for gas
billowing black. Killing time has new meaning.
A jackhammer breaks apart a life. The slow globe
spirals, and at night black space has me dizzy.
Visionaries off their meds and wacked out
meth heads sing to me. A panicky fear of robbery
and humiliation drips with my sweat.
Words some say are weeping twilight and sunrise.
I am drawn to dramas, the couple arguing, the man
headbutting his wife in the parking lot.
911: no metered aubade, and nobody but
myself to blame.

Source: Poetry April 2014

Sheryl Luna

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Poem of the Day: October
I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.

Sooner or later, I thought,
the wind would begin to make sense
if I listened hard
and took notes religiously.
That was spring.

Now I’m not so sure:
the cloudless sky has a flat affect
and the fields plowed down after harvest
seem so expressionless,
keeping their own counsel.

This afternoon, nut tree leaves
blow across them
as if autumn had written us a long letter,
changed its mind,
and tore it into little scraps.

Poem copyright ©2010 by Don Thompson, whose most recent book of poetry is Where We Live, Parallel Press, 2009. Reprinted from Plainsongs, Vol. 30, no. 3, Spring 2010, by permission of Don Thompson and the publisher.

Don Thompson

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Poem of the Day: Mood Ring
Inside me lived a small donkey. I didn’t
believe in magic, but the donkey
was a sucker for the stuff. Psychics,
illusionists, arthritics who’d predict
the rainfall. That was the year I had trouble
walking. I over-thought it and couldn’t
get the rhythm right. The donkey re-taught me.
“This foot. Yes, then that one. And swing
your arms as if you’re going to trial
to be exonerated of a crime
you’ve most definitely committed.”
Next, trouble sleeping because
I’d need to crank the generator in my chest
so frequently. Seeing I was overworked,
the donkey finally hauled it out—
it looked shiny and new, a silver dollar—
and tossed it into a flock of birds
who had to fly a long way to find safety.
I knew then I was a large and dangerous man,
what with this donkey living inside me,
but felt futile. One day, during
a final lesson on breathing,
the donkey asked what kind of jeans
I was wearing. I said, “The somber ones.”
“Poor kid.” “So will you be staying on
for a third year, donkey?” “No. I think
I should be leaving soon. I think
I should go and await your arrival beside
the crumpled river.” “Yes, I suppose
you have many important matters to attend to,
but maybe one day I will come and join you
for a drink or, perhaps, for a brief nap.”

Jaswinder  Bolina, "Mood Ring" from Carrier Wave.  Copyright © 2006 by Jaswinder  Bolina.  Reprinted by permission of Center for Literary Publishing.

Source: Carrier Wave(Center for Literary Publishing, 2006)

Jaswinder Bolina

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Poem of the Day: Why I Stayed, 1997—2001
Each time we moved to a new apartment,
and we did three times, I knew
I shouldn't, that I should
leave while I had the chance, but each
time we moved to a new apartment
we were desperate,
had been kicked out or priced out
and we only had one bed,
no savings, just friends
some of whom knew that you fractured
your hand punching through a wall,
inches from my head,
and some of whom were aware
that you threw things at me
when I said things
you didn't like, as if my words were
things I threw at you first.
It made sense to you.
I can't remember the bad things
I said—my self-serving
memory enraged
you, and why not: I always
remembered the bad
things you did.
And, yes, I do remember
everything you threw:
a chair
over our heads at a bar (Liz was
there), a mirror like a frisbee
aimed at my knees,
a carton of fried rice that splat
on the shade of our only
nice lamp, oil stains
patterned it with tiny bugs.
Also, you threw
me against a
wall, but you always said it was because
I made you so mad because
you loved me so much
and didn't want to lose me
that you'd lose control
instead and later
beg me to stay, that if I left you
it meant you would never
be loved and I couldn't
bear to have you think that
about either one of us.
I wasn't someone
who'd let herself be hit; I'd never
take that from a man. A man
would be a criminal
if he did what you did.
But you had been
hurt and all that
pain and anger needed more
time, and I made you so
crazy, I was so
stubborn and good at mean
words, what else were you
supposed to do?
You liked to raise your fist pretending
to hit me and then
half-smile when
I winced or cringed. It was important
that you had never actually hit me,
never punched me
with a closed fist: you'd only grabbed me
and choked me and flung me and made
dents in the wall next to me,
and narrowly missed me, but we knew you
meant to miss, never truly
meant to clobber me
on the head with something heavy,
something light, maybe,
like a book I loved.
When a woman you love hits you
on the head with a book
you love, is that love?
I was so ashamed and afraid someone
would find out about us, then I was
afraid and ashamed
people already knew but didn't know
what to do. Did I really think
this was a secret?
Not from the cops we called during two bad
fights or from Peggy who let you stay
with her rent-free that month
I kicked you out. You two had a blast.
But I couldn't pay the rent
on my own,
so you moved back in, triumphant,
Peggy still in love with you,
and you gloated about
how much money you'd saved.
Surrounded by friends,
whom could I tell?
Why would I tell anyone who didn't
already know us well enough
to already know?
If everyone knew, none of us said so.
We talked, all of us, almost
constantly, intimately,
so how did we keep ourselves so quiet?
You and I, together in this,
were alone with this,
alone among women who loved us.
The two of us never more alone
than when together.

Brenda Shaughnessy, "Why I Stayed, 1997-2001" from So Much Synth. Copyright © 2016 by Brenda Shaughnessy.  Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.

Source: So Much Synth(Copper Canyon Press, 2016)

Brenda Shaughnessy

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Poem of the Day: To the Light of September
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not

and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground

but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later

who fly with them

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night

perfect in the dew

Source: Poetry September 2003

W. S. Merwin

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Poem of the Day: The Armadillo
This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,

rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.

Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars—
planets, that is—the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,

or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,

receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.

Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair

of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.

The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,

and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!—a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry
and panic, and a weak mailed fist
clenched ignorant against the sky!

Elizabeth Bishop, "The Armadillo" from The Complete Poems 1927-1979. Copyright © 1979 by Elizabeth Bishop. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, www.fsgbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Caution: Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws and downloading is strictly prohibited. The right to reproduce or transfer the work via any medium must be secured with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

Source: Poems(Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011)

Elizabeth Bishop

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Poem of the Day: Eclipse with Object
There is a spectacle and something is added to history.
It has as its object an indiscretion: old age, a
gun, the prevention of sleep.

I am placed in its stead
and the requisite shadow is yours.
It casts across me, a violent coat.

It seems I fit into its sleeve.
So the body wanders.
Sometime it goes where light does not reach.

You recall how they moved in the moon dust? Hop, hop.
What they said to us from that distance was stupid.
They did not say I love you for example.

The spectacle has been placed in my room.
Can you hear its episode trailing,
pretending to be a thing with variegated wings?

Do you know the name of this thing?
It is a rubbing from an image.
The subject of the image is that which trespasses.

You are invited to watch. The body
in complete dark casting nothing back.
The thing turns and flicks and opens.

Ann Lauterbach, “Eclipse with Object” from And For Example. Copyright © 1994 by Ann Lauterbach. Reprinted with the permission of Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Source: If In Time: Selected Poems, 1975-2000(Penguin Books, 2001)

Ann Lauterbach

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Poem of the Day: Sonnet for September 27th
How wonderful that you have recognized
That poetry for children has great worth,
And is a part of being civilized,
Of being human on our planet Earth.
Soon after people first began to speak,
They put their thoughts and feeling into rhyme.
In this they were, and we are now, unique,
And may be so until the end of time.
We celebrate, upon this autumn night
That fledgling of the literary arts
Which crafts its words with wonder and delight
To open children’s minds and touch their hearts.
With gratitude, and true humility,
I thank you all for being here with me.

Poem of the Day: Not This
my god all the days we have lived thru
not this
one, not this,
not now,
not yet, this week
doesn’t count, was lost, this month
was shit, what a year, it sucked,
it flew, that decade was for
what? i raised my kids, they
grew i lost two pasts–i am
not made of them and they
are through.
we forget what
we remember:
each of the five
the fevered few
days we used to
fall in love.

Olena  Kalytiak Davis, "Not This" from The Poem She Didn’t Write and Other Poems.  Copyright © 2014 by Olena  Kalytiak Davis.  Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.

Olena Kalytiak Davis

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Poem of the Day: Love Calls Us to the Things of...
The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul   
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple   
As false dawn.
                     Outside the open window   
The morning air is all awash with angels.

    Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,   
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.   
Now they are rising together in calm swells   
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear   
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

    Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving   
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden   
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
                                             The soul shrinks

    From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
And cries,
               “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,   
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

    Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,   
The soul descends once more in bitter love   
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,   
    “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;   
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,   
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating   
Of dark habits,
                      keeping their difficult balance.”

Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World” from Collected Poems 1943-2004. Copyright © 2004 by Richard Wilbur. Reprinted with the permission of Harcourt, Inc. This material may not be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Source: Collected Poems 1943-2004(Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2004)

Richard Wilbur

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Poem of the Day: We Wear the Mask
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
       We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
       We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence. Dunbar, "“We Wear the Mask.”" from The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar. (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, )

Paul Laurence Dunbar

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