Press Send Poetry

evaporation

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 19:04:00 PST

no longer even a specter,
your memory has lost edges the way
a dried tear evaporates back into nothing
edges become a mist
elemental, invisible, and
while i no longer recognize you
icy hands move the hair from my eyes
while sleep alone steals time.

alone in a crowd

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 20:18:00 PST

Empty... yet the room full
of chatter lengthened like so
many shadows running, like how a cacaphony
creates a vaccum to float weightless in.

State of the Union (and "forget the past" poem)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 19:07:00 PST

i'm watching the President - are you? i'll be back tomorrow....

poets unite!

forget the past (1938)

American Life in Poetry: I Was Never Able To Pray by Edward Hirsch

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 07:48:00 PST

Hi Friends! Once again Ted Kooser has picked the perfect poem to start the week. Enjoy!!! [And, if you like what you read, I highly recommend signing up for his weekly email!]

American Life in Poetry: Column 357
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

The title of this beautiful poem by Edward Hirsch contradicts the poem, which is indeed a prayer. Hirsch lives in New York and is president of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, one of our country’s most distinguished cultural endowments.

I Was Never Able To Pray

Wheel me down to the shore
where the lighthouse was abandoned
and the moon tolls in the rafters.

Let me hear the wind paging through the trees
and see the stars flaring out, one by one,
like the forgotten faces of the dead.

I was never able to pray,
but let me inscribe my name
in the book of waves

and then stare into the dome
of a sky that never ends
and see my voice sail into the night.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2010 by Edward Hirsch, whose most recent book of poetry is “The Living Fire: New and Selected Poems,” Alfred A. Knopf, 2010. Reprinted from the “Northwest Review,” Vol. 48, No. 2, 2010, by permission of Edward Hirsch and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

a few to keep you going

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:30:00 PST

Been on a bit of a break - a few poems to keep you going :)

"we leave the ones we love"

"Stoop Sittin - A Baltimore Tradition"

"Voyeurs are Artists"

"North Platte"

do not be afraid

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 10:44:00 PST

all these ghosts whisper -
do not be afraid.
all is happening for a reason
this winter cold does not last

and the body, eventually,
turns back to ash.

random poetry to read tonight

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 19:08:00 PST

Brooklyn Seduction http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2010/06/brooklyn-seduction.html

Like Pea Soup http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2011/03/like-pea-soup.html

poems for Zach Sowers http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2010/03/poems-to-zach-sowers-9-months-and.html

Hi everyone, picked a few poems out of the hat.... enjoy!

untitled (rain drops like first born girls)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 19:55:00 PST

the rain forms a veil for
my mourners

even the streetlights bow
orange tears

down to the harbor like the
first borns

who, for their sex, are set free
down river

Capt. F. A. Rhodes Jr. 1/3/71, POW

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 20:12:00 PST

Etched name in silver reflects a man
engraved in a fight not his own,
a name i can run
my fingers on like Braille,
it is all i know --
of his uniform stained or how
the sweat of the jungle
may have flowed
between the stubble on his lip.
What could it have been
but a deafening thunder that rose
into clouds disappearing
as certain as smoke.

the way a flower sleeps

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:57:00 PST

the way a flower sleeps when such nocturnal blanket through the blinds
gently folds the silky daisy petals toward each other
until the sun-shaped glory has become a half moon; it's
the way a body folds in yoga
the way the cat curls its paw, with tufts of fur, over its eyes to block out
the electric hum of this laptop clicking, so desperate to know what
lives in those dreams of flowers and cats.

Emerson (haiku)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 19:42:00 PST

Emerson tempts me-
pages aged musty with a
self reliant wink.

Sometimes, When the Light by Lisel Mueller (guest post)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 09:08:00 PST

Once again, Ted Kooser's column has really struck a cord with me, and once again, they've kindly allowed me to republish it here. Mueller's piece is the perfect way to start the New Year! Enjoy friends and cheers to a great 2012!

American Life in Poetry: Column 354
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

A wise friend told me that since the Age of Reason we’ve felt we had to explain everything, and
that as a result we’ve forgotten the value of mystery. Here’s a poem by Lisel Mueller that
celebrates mystery. Mueller is a Pulitzer Prize winning poet from Illinois.

Sometimes, When the Light

Sometimes, when the light strikes at odd angles
and pulls you back into childhood

and you are passing a crumbling mansion
completely hidden behind old willows

or an empty convent guarded by hemlocks
and giant firs standing hip to hip,

you know again that behind that wall,
under the uncut hair of the willows

something secret is going on,
so marvelous and dangerous

that if you crawled through and saw,
you would die, or be happy forever.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org),
publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of
Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©1980 by Lisel Mueller, from her most recent book of poems, Alive
Together: New and Selected Poems, Louisiana State University Press, 1996. Poem reprinted by permission
of Lisel Mueller and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The
introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the
Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

accomplishments of other people

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 06:00:00 PST

relentless in their pursuit --
they, so stealth, bait
us with doubt, claw us with question.

it's not enough to simply wake,
brush teeth and hair,
and sit calmly legs folded in the jungle.

the tiger waits, whispering, "you are all
too slow and too tubby and
too perfect to eat."

stranger in the coffee shop (a muddy waters)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 19:34:00 PST

and in a sunken corner of the coffee shop
the man dark slumped over and buttoned
bottom to brim in black, stares at her
in ankle boots with such a heel, tapping.
In a fractured instance he appears
to her a tired blues man, a fortune folk teller,
and all around them the caffeinated air hums...

traditions on Christmas Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:56:00 PST

Christmas waits like gift wrap glowing warm beneath the welcoming arms
of pine needles hanging heavy -
inside the table is set, waiting by candlelight, and each flame preens
in a spoon' s reflection, giving the impression of a smile.

Soon, with guided hands, we set the course of helgdad frukt soppa.
I'll sigh like the cinnamon from the svenske kringlor rising in the oven,
knotted just how our grandmother taught us.

Dull Moments? By Alice B. Johnson

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 18:15:00 PST

The small house, very much alive,
Wonders if we all are bent,
On making life some sort of game
And looks on with a deep content

At bicycles and bathing suits,
Bats and roller skates,
Bobby-socks and dungarees
And diaries and dates --
First tuxedo to appraise,
Bow tie to approve,
Clothes discarded on the floor
Everywhere I move --
High school year books, trophies won,
Commencement and a formal prom,
Phone bell or a door bell's ring,
"Is it Jack or Bill or Tom?"
Corsages using up the space
That always was reserved
For more important things - like food -
For dinner to be served.

It seems to say, "Dull moments where
Life lifts its restless wing?
Peace is found in homes where youth
Knows no journeying."

[taken from Where Childern Live (1958) by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson]

selfish

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 19:28:00 PST

hangs all glitter and shine
in the closet,
some of us wear it
as proudly as a real Gucci purse

notice how this year
these lights outshine

notice how this year
i take not one step for you

I Shall Sing A Song by Helen Bayley Davis (1936)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 19:33:00 PST

This poem was taken from the book of the same title by poet Helen Bayley Davis, copyright 1936. The book was inscribed to my great-grandmother in a beautiful black cursive, "From one poet to another with best wishes for your continued success."

I Shall Sing A Song

I shall sing a song
Of my own making,
Of life, and love --
All subterfuge forsaking.

It will be the same song
That fools and sages
Have lived and died for,
Down through the ages.

What does it matter
That I sing alone,
That life has stripped me
Bare as a bone?

I shall sing a song
Of my own choice.
I shall sing it softly
In a brittle voice.

loss of an old man

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 07:31:00 PST

we didn't know
you fought in World War II
until the Taps was played
and the flag folded
and the regrets
piled up like so many
quiet moments alone.

lost obiturary card

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 05:53:00 PST

Someone died. That much is clear.
I know from the Jesus
card in the puddle
on the street.

With enough rain - His face,
such mortal paper,
will streak eagerly
into primordial colors,
and someone, somewhere,
will reach an empty pocket
and weep.

trapped (conversation with the wall)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 06:12:00 PST

she says to the Wall
"if you only knew me
you would let me free"
Wall says in counter
"i know every position
you choose to sleep,
i know the way you tap
your leg when you are anxious
like now -

aren't these things
the sum of you?"
she curls her feet over
her legs and sighs.

500 posts!!! 500 poems!

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 16:58:00 PST

it's hard for me to believe that this is my 500th post. when i started this blog, i never imagined that i could keep it going - i mean i hoped i could - but... sometimes i'm so afraid that the inspiration will just stop, like turning off a faucet,
and if that happens, i guess i'll just quietly slip away
until then - i'm so glad you, whoever you are, find this worthwhile to read
and i hope you take this time to go back through all 500...

anchored to a city

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 18:48:00 PST

a train whistle in the distance sounds more
like the wail of a heavy
freighter lolling lonely in the
moldy harbor - i get confused sometimes
by the sound, when it's late,

until the train leaves
and the freighter stays
chained next to a crumbling old tavern and the ghosts of
weathered old Canton port workers.

From American Life in Poetry: Two Gates

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:30:00 PST

Thank you to American Life in Poetry for allowing me to republish today's column. I just loved the quiet, poignant simplicity of this poem. Really resonated with me....

American Life in Poetry: Column 350
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
The persons we are when we are young are probably buried somewhere within us when we’ve grown old. Denise Low, who was the Kansas poet laureate, takes a look at a younger version of herself in this telling poem.

Two Gates
I look through glass and see a young woman
of twenty, washing dishes, and the window
turns into a painting. She is myself thirty years ago.
She holds the same blue bowls and brass teapot
I still own. I see her outline against lamplight;
she knows only her side of the pane. The porch
where I stand is empty. Sunlight fades. I hear
water run in the sink as she lowers her head,
blind to the future. She does not imagine I exist.
I step forward for a better look and she dissolves
into lumber and paint. A gate I passed through
to the next life loses shape. Once more I stand
squared into the present, among maple trees
and scissor-tailed birds, in a garden, almost
a mother to that faint, distant woman.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln.

Poem copyright ©2010 by Denise Low, from her most recent book of poetry, Ghost Stories of the New West, Woodley Memorial Press, 2010. Poem reprinted by permission of Denise Low and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2011 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

journal post (man on cell phone)

noreply@blogger.com (Jody Costa) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 18:35:00 PST

anyways, later on, i do remember a weaselly man in black jeans
black t-shirt wrinkled
talking on his cell phone until he noticed me on the marble stoop
with Carl Sandburg
he paused, looking at me,
"oh i'm on a cell phone in public talking about killing someone" ...
and he walked away.