who are you,little i | e. e. cummings who are you,little i (five or six years old) peering from some high window;at the gold of november sunset (and feeling:that if day has to become night this is a beautiful way)
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Poetry Friday: I IMAGINE THE GODS | Jack Gilbert
Read moreI IMAGINE THE GODS | Jack Gilbert I imagine the gods saying, We will make it up to you. We will give you three wishes, they say. Let me see the squirrels again, I tell them. Let me eat some of the great hog stuffed…
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Poetry Friday: The World Has Need of You | Ellen Bass
Read moreThe World Has Need of You | Ellen Bass everything here seems to need us… —Rilke I can hardly imagine it as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient prayer of my arms swinging in counterpoint to my feet. Here I am, suspended between…
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Poetry Friday: Last night, as I was sleeping | Antonio Machado
Read moreLast night, as I was sleeping | Antonio Machado Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt — marvelous error!— that a spring was breaking out in my heart. I said: Along which secret aqueduct, Oh water, are you coming to me, water of a…
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Poetry Friday: Good Girl | Kim Addonizio
Read moreGood Girl | Kim Addonizio Look at you, sitting there being good. After two years you’re still dying for a cigarette. And not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up? Don’t you want to run to the corner right now for a fifth of…
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Poetry Friday: survival poem #17 | Marty McConnell
Read moresurvival poem #17 | Marty McConnell because this is what you do. get up. blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late to work. go to the couch because the bed is too empty. watch people scream about love on Jerry Springer. count the…
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Poetry Friday: The Uses of Sorrow | Mary Oliver
Read moreThe Uses of Sorrow | Mary Oliver (In my sleep I dreamed this poem) Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.
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Poetry Friday: In Blackwater Woods | Mary Oliver
Read moreIn Blackwater Woods | Mary Oliver Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds,…
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Poetry Friday: The Thing Is | Ellen Bass
Read moreThe Thing Is | Ellen Bass to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with…