Poem of the Day

Royal Heart

2016-04-28T14:07:00.002-07:00

You will never be let down by anyone
more than you will be let down
by the one you love most in the world
it’s how gravity works
it’s why they call it “falling”
it’s why the truth is harder to tell
every year
you have more to lose
but you can choose to bury your past
in the garden
beside the tulips
water it
until it’s so alive
it lets go
and you belong to yourself
again

When you belong to yourself again
Remember forgiveness
is not a tidy grave
It is a ready loyal knight kneeling before your royal heart

Call in your royal heart
Tell it bravery cannot be measured by a lack of fear
It takes guts to tremble
It takes so much tremble to love
Every first date is a fucking earth quake

Sweetheart, on our first date
I showed off all my therapy
I flaunted the couch
Where I finally sweat out my history
Pulled out the photo album from the last time I wore a lie to the school dance
I smiled and said “that was never my style
Look how fixed I am
Look how there’s no more drywall on my fist
Look at the stilts I’ve carved for my short temper
Look how my wrist is not something I have to hide” I said
Well I was hiding it

The telephone pole still down from the storm
By our third date I had fixed the line
I said listen,
I have a hard time
I mean I cry as often as most people pee and I don’t shut the door behind me
I’ll be up in your face screaming “SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY
I’M NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO LIVE HERE.”
I sobbed on our fourth date

I can’t live here
In my body, I mean
I can’t live in my body all the time it feels too much
So if I ever feel far away know I am not gone
I am just underneath my grief
Adjusting the dial on my radio face so I can take this life with all
of it’s love and all of it’s loss

See I already know that you are the place where I am finally going to
sing without any static meaning
I’m never gonna wait
that extra twenty minutes
to text you back,
and I’m never gonna play
hard to get
when I know your life
has been hard enough already.
When we all know everyone’s life
has been hard enough already

it’s hard to watch
the game we make of love,
like everyone’s playing checkers
with their scars,
saying checkmate
whenever they get out
without a broken heart.

Just to be clear
I don’t want to get out
without a broken heart.
I intend to leave this life
so shattered
there’s gonna have to be
a thousand separate heavens
for all of my flying parts
And none of those parts are going to be wearing the romance from the
overpriced vintage rack
That is to say I am not going to get a single speed bike if I can’t
make it up the hill
I know exactly how many gears I’m going to need to love you well
And none of them look hip at the hot coffee shop
They all have God saying “good job you’re finally not full of bullshit”
You finally met someone who’s going to flatten your knee caps into
skipping stones

Baby, throw me
Throw me as far as I can go
I don’t want to leave this life without ever having come home
And I want to come home to you
I can figure out the rain.

by Andrea Gibson

Why I Am Not a Painter

2016-02-16T12:06:00.001-08:00

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

by Frank O'Hara

Having a Coke with You

2016-02-16T12:02:00.003-08:00

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

by Frank O’Hara

you can watch him read it here

Weeds

2014-07-27T08:08:00.002-07:00

In gardens, it's the unwanted
babies that grow best and biggest,
swarming our beds of frail
legitimate darlings with roots
like wire and crude, bright flower-heads.

They seem oblivious to the fury of steel prongs
earthquaking around them.
If they fall today, tomorrow
they'll stand all the greener.

Too soon, the beautiful lives
we've trembled over with sprays
of pesticide, friendly stakes,
and watering-cans at sunset,
give in, leaving us helpless.

The weeds, the unfavoured ones,
stare at us hungrily,
and since it is hard to live
empty of love, we try
to smile; we learn to forgive them.

by Carol Rumens

Sea Song

2014-07-27T07:23:00.003-07:00

You look different every time you come
from the foam-crested brine
It's your skin shining softly in the moonlight
Partly fish, parly porpoise, partly baby sperm whale
Am I yours? Are you mine to play with?
Joking apart when you're drunk
You're terrific when you're drunk
I like you mostly late at night - you're quite all right

But I can't understand the different you
In the morning when it's time to play
at being human for a while
Please smile!

You'll be different in the spring, I know
You're a seasonal beast
Like the starfish that drifted with the tide, with the tide
So until your blood runs to meet the next full moon
Your madness fits in nicely with my own, with my own
Your lunacy fits neatly with my own - my very own

We're not alone...

Robert Wyatt

The Wind Throws Back

2014-07-27T07:20:00.003-07:00

I lied when I told you I didn't have
a phone number, she said. I wasn't
sure about you, but now that I know
you're sane & responsible—aren't you?—
I'm going to throw caution to the wind
& hope it doesn't blow back in my face.
But if you ever spent any time in a mental hospital
I'd like to know. I won't let
it prejudice me against you.
I'm willing to give you a chance,
provided you get a letter from a psychiatrist
stating your case was closed.

by Hal Sirowitz

Believing in Fate

2014-07-27T07:19:00.001-07:00

I don't have a telephone, she said,
so I can't give you a number.
I'm not a great fan of planned dates.
But if I happen to bump into you
on the street I'd be willing to go for coffee.
Let's leave it to chance. It brought
us together once. It could work a second time.
You could help fate along by hanging out
in Chelsea. That's where I live. If I
gave you any more information I'd be cheating.

by Hal Sirowitz

Late

2014-07-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

Had I met you when I was a girl, all bony laughter and ragged sighs,
I would have fallen under your shadow, knelt in the grass, been your weed, your bride.
And had I met you when I was another man's wife—still young, hair full of flame—
I'd have taken the spell for a sign. I'd have been jewel to your thief, little sin, and never
forgiven myself for that kiss. Or had I met you in the early wind of my solitude, I might
have snapped. Cracked like that naked branch I swung from all those aching, brilliant nights.
Instead, you came late, you came after I'd made myself into harbor and chalice and wick.
More like the ashes than any warm hearth. More like a widow than wanton, beloved.
And you lifted me over the wall of the garden and carried me back to my life.

by Cecilia Woloch

Failing and Flying

2014-07-27T07:10:00.002-07:00

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of triumph.

by Jack Gilbert

the invention of mathematics: two

2014-07-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

after the number two there was no stopping
troubles blossoming
in geometric progression
two to tango
and two required for murder and war
Doris Day singing
love me or leave me
and the tragic lob
of my nervous girlheart
th-thump, th-thump
she already knew
that deafening silence
when the call goes unanswered
th-thump, th-thump
with its inevitable
downbeat on two

by Amy Uyematsu

Siempre (Always)

2014-07-27T06:52:00.002-07:00

Antes de ti

no tengo celos.

Ven con un hombre

a la espalda,

ven con cien hombres en tu cabellera,

ven con mil hombres entre tu pecho y tus pies,

ven como un rio

lleno de ahogados

que encuentra el mar furioso,

la espuma eterna, el tiempo.

Traelos todos

adonde yo te espero:

siempre estaremos solos,

siempre estaremos tu y yo

solos sobre la tierra

para comenzar la vida.

by Pablo Neruda

In English...

Always

Facing you

I am not jealous.

Come with a man

at your back,

come with a hundred men in your long hair,

come with a thousand men between your chest and your feet,

come like a river

filled with drowned men

that meets the furious sea,

the eternal foam, time.

Bring them all

to where I wait for you:

we shall always be alone,

it shall always be you and me

alone upon the earth

to begin life.

After Years

2011-08-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood in the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

by Ted Kooser

Before

2011-06-23T18:06:00.000-07:00

I always thought death would be like traveling
in a car, moving through the desert,
the earth a little darker than sky at the horizon,
that your life would settle like the end of a day
and you would think of everyone you ever met,
that you would be the invisible passenger,
quiet in the car, moving through the night,
forever, with the beautiful thought of home.

By Carl Adamshick

Sonnet XLIII

2011-06-23T10:50:00.001-07:00

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

From Collected Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay,
published by Harper & Brothers Publishers. Copyright © 1956

Ezra Pound's Proposition

2011-06-23T10:48:00.000-07:00

Beauty is sexual, and sexuality
Is the fertility of the earth and the fertility
Of the earth is economics. Though he is no recommendation
For poets on the subject of finance,
I thought of him in the thick heat
Of the Bangkok night. Not more than fourteen, she saunters up to you
Outside the Shangri-la Hotel
And says, in plausible English,
“How about a party, big guy?”

Here is more or less how it works:
The World Bank arranges the credit and the dam
Floods three hundred villages, and the villagers find their way
To the city where their daughters melt into the teeming streets,
And the dam’s great turbines, beautifully tooled
In Lund or Dresden or Detroit, financed
By Lazard Frères in Paris or the Morgan Bank in New York,
Enabled by judicious gifts from Bechtel of San Francisco
Or Halliburton of Houston to the local political elite,
Spun by the force of rushing water,
Have become hives of shimmering silver
And, down river, they throw that bluish throb of light
Across her cheekbones and her lovely skin.

by Robert Hass
from Time and Materials. Poems 1997-2005
Ecco (HarperCollins Publishers), New York, © 2007

The Dry Salvages (excerpts from part I)

2011-06-23T10:41:00.000-07:00

...

The River is within us, the sea is all about us;

The sea is the land's edge also, the granite

Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses

Its hints of earlier and other creation:

The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone;

The pool where it offers to our curiosity

The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.

…

The sea has many voices

…

The distant note in the granite teeth

…

And under the oppression of the silent fog

The tolling bell

Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried

Ground swell

…

When time stops and time is never ending;

And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning

Clangs

The bell

…

by T. S. Eliot

Natural Music

2011-04-23T12:16:00.002-07:00

The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of the sick nations, the rage of the hunger smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.

by Robinson Jeffers

the hookers, the madmen and the doomed

2011-04-23T12:14:00.001-07:00

today at the track
2 or 3 days after
the death of the
jock
came this voice
over the speaker
asking us all to stand
and observe
a few moments
of silence. well,
that's a tired
formula and
I don't like it
but I do like
silence. so we
all stood: the
hookers and the
madmen and the
doomed. I was
set to be dis-
pleased but then
I looked up at the
TV screen
and there
standing silently
in the paddock
waiting to mount
up
stood the other jocks
along with
the officials and
the trainers:
quiet and thinking
of death and the
one gone,
they stood
in a semi-circle
the brave little
men in boots and
silks,
the legions of death
appeared and
vanished, the sun
blinked once
I thought of love
with its head ripped
off
still trying to
sing and
then the announcer
said, thank you
and we all went on about
our business.

by Charles Bukowski

Sins of the Father

2011-04-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

Today my child came home from school in tears.
A classmate taunted her about her clothes,
and the other kids joined in, enough of them
to make her feel as if the fault was hers,
as if she can't fit in no matter what.
A decent child, lovely, bright, considerate.
It breaks my heart. It makes me want someone
to pay. It makes me think—O Christ, it makes
me think of things I haven't thought about
in years. How we nicknamed Barbara Hoffman
"Barn," walked behind her through the halls and mooed
like cows. We kept this up for years, and not
for any reason I could tell you now
or even then except that it was fun.
Or seemed like fun. The nights that Barbara
must have cried herself to sleep, the days
she must have dreaded getting up for school.
Or Suzanne Heider. We called her "Spider."
And we were certain Gareth Schultz was queer
and let him know it. Now there's nothing I
can do but stand outside my daughter's door
listening to her cry herself to sleep.

by W. D. Ehrhart

Give me the Splendid, Silent Sun

2011-04-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

I

Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows;
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis’d grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheat—give me serene-moving animals, teaching content;
Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars;
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturb’d;
Give me for marriage a sweet-breath’d woman, of whom I should never tire;
Give me a perfect child—give me, away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural, domestic life;
Give me to warble spontaneous songs, reliev’d, recluse by myself, for my own ears only;
Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again, O Nature, your primal sanities!
—These, demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack’d by the war-strife;)
These to procure, incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city;
Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking your streets,
Where you hold me enchain’d a certain time, refusing to give me up;
Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich’d of soul—you give me forever faces;
(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries;
I see my own soul trampling down what it ask’d for.)

II

Keep your splendid, silent sun;
Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods;
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards;
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the Ninth-month bees hum;
Give me faces and streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!
Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows! give me the streets of Manhattan!
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give me the sound of the trumpets and drums!
(The soldiers in companies or regiments—some, starting away, flush’d and reckless;
Some, their time up, returning, with thinn’d ranks—young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)
—Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed with the black ships!
O such for me! O an intense life! O full to repletion, and varied!
The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!
The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torch-light procession!
The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants;
Manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as now;
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the wounded;)
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus—with varied chorus, and light of the sparkling eyes;
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

by Walt Whitman

---
troittoirs = sidewalks

Man in the Elevator

2011-04-23T12:07:00.001-07:00

With my tooth filled
and the side of my face thick as tongues,
I push the button and wait for the elevator
to carry me the twenty stories to the street.
When it opens a black man is the only
other passenger and without thinking,
without having to think, I look past him
and pretend that I have forgotten something
back in my dentist’s office and let the doors close
while I walk a few feet down the hall
so the man can see I’m going
then circle back and wait for the next elevator.
He is on his way down the street,
thinking about what happened or having
already shrugged it off, a cliche
too common to mention
the way a woman barely notices
a man grabbing his balls when she passes.
If he had been a white man I would have felt
fine letting the elevator pass, which I might
or might not have done
and to be honest if he had been Chinese
probably wouldn’t have, navigating
the mythologies of danger.
When the elevator opened I saw
who I was in that particular frame
before it closed its metal wings
and its cables returned it to the ground.
The man from the elevator is somewhere
on the street ahead of me, I could not
identify him, he is no one I know
but part of the story I tell, the way supposedly
everything in our dreams, the car,
the road through the mountains,
the mountains themselves,
are another face of the self.
A black man in an elevator
perhaps with his own filled tooth
and numb cheek,
some instinct in me refused
to spend even sixty seconds of my life with him.
He is no one I know,
but the intersection
of his life with my life
produced a chemical
like acid on tin,
metallic as blood in the mouth,
that I carry, that is as complicated
as change or as damage.

by Jacqueline Berger

Teaching My Husband to Swim

2011-04-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

Usually I'm the one who knows nothing,
frozen at the computer while my husband
tries to talk me through.
But this morning at the inn where we've come
to celebrate our second anniversary,
he tells me how many people in the past
have tried and failed to teach him how to swim.
I throw my suit on and grab our towels.
This is something I know I can do.
We've already been in the pool—a late afternoon
dip when we got here, me doing laps
and my husband dog paddling beside me,
his head above water, or holding his breath
the length of the pool before coming up for air.
Now I stand by the side, pulling my elbows back
and turning my head to demonstrate the crawl.
The fog has burned off the valley
and the pool shines, set off by the vineyards
whose grapes in another month
will be ready for harvest.
My husband in the pool tries to follow what I'm showing
but yanks his head to the surface, coughing water.
I get in with him and we discuss the mechanics

by Jacqueline Berger

On Last Lines

2011-04-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

The last line should strike like a lover’s complaint.

You should never see it coming.

And you should never hear the end of it.

by Suzanne Buffam

She Thinks of Him On Her Birthday

2011-04-23T12:03:00.000-07:00

It's still winter,
and still I don't know you
anymore, and you don't know

me. But this morning I stand
in the kitchen with the illusion,
peeling a clementine. Each piece

snaps like the nickname for a girl,
the tinny bite it was
to be one once. Again I count

your daughters and find myself in the middle,
the waist of the hourglass,
endlessly passed through and passed through

but holding nothing, dismayed
by the grubby February sun
I was born under and the cheap pleasure

it gives the window. Yet I raise the shade
for it, and try not to feel it is wrong
to want spring, to be a season

further from you—not wrong to wish
for a hard rain, a hard wind
like one we sat out in together
or came in from together.

by Deborah Garrison

excerpt from The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed byt he Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of ...

2011-04-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

Not a poem per se, but an excerpt from the play-written-mostly-in-verse, The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade ("Marat/Sade"), by Peter Weiss. An elegy for Marat as given by Jacques Roux:

Woe to the man who is different
who tries to break down all the barriers
Woe to the man
who tries to stretch the imagination of man
He shall be mocked he shall be scourged

by the blinkered guardians of morality
You wanted enlightenment and warmth

and so you studied light and heat
You wondered how forces can be controlled

so you studied electricity
You wanted to know what man is for

so you asked yourself What is this soul

this dump for hollow ideals and mangled morals
You decided that the soul is in the brain
and that it can learn to think
For to you the soul is a practical thing

a tool for ruling and mastering life
And you came one day to the Revolution

because you saw the most important vision
That our circumstances must be changed

fundamentally
and without these changes

everything we try to do must fail

by Peter Weiss