Poets take us into the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, to that place where we unearth rusted-out arguments
The End and the Beginning After every warsomeone has to clean up.Things won’tstraighten themselves up, after all. Someone has to push the rubbleto the side of the road,so the corpse-filled wagonscan pass. Someone has to get miredin scum and ashes,sofa springs,splintered glass,and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a …
Poets ask us questions we need to answer
Questions Before Dark Day ends, and before sleepwhen the sky dies down, consideryour altered state: has this daychanged you? Are the cornerssharper or rounded off? Did youlive with death? Make decisionsthat quieted? Find one clear wordthat fit? At the sun’s midpointdid you notice a pitch of absence,bewilderment that invitesthe possible? …
Poets sound out over miles
Elephant Love Fourteen thousand pounds Shift silently Over ruts worn deep By the lure of water. A behemoth link In the tail to trunk chain, Slinking under night’s cover Toward the wide, gentle sea. Each massive foot, Distinct as a thumbprint, Hints at treetops and weather, Speaks of dry and …
Poets take us on a bike ride to another world
If There is Another World If there is another world, I think you can take a cab there– or ride your old bicycle down Junction Blvd. past the Paris Suites Hotel with the Eiffel Tower on the roof and past the blooming Magnolia and on– to the corner of 168th …
Poets announce their large, unadulterated cowness
Our National Poetry Month Poemapalooza is drawing to a close. By my estimation, we’ve got a week left, or perhaps less. I can never remember which months have 31 days. Is it the months on the knuckles, or the ones in-between the knuckles? Let’s throw caution to the wind and …
Poets sit down and open a vein
There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. -Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith Every writer has experienced moments in which all they can find is excuses. Not words or poetic turns of phrase or metaphor, but only excuses. Except for writers like …
Poets remind us of yes
Yes It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen. Or sunshine, love, salvation. It could, you know. That’s why we wake and look out – no guarantees in this life. But some bonuses, like morning, like right now, like noon, like evening. – William Stafford
Purely hypothetical question
Let’s say you’re 15, almost 16. Let’s say your boyfriend invited you to the Prom and you needed a black dress to match his Montreat green tartan kilt because he’s Scottish and plays the bagpipes. Let’s say you found the style you wanted, but can’t find it in black. Imagine …
Poets remind us that it is not the big things, no, not at all
What Came to Me I took the last dusty piece of chinaout of the barrel. It was your gravy boat, with a hard, brown drop of gravy still on the porcelain lip. I grieved for you then as I never had before. -Jane Kenyon
Poets remind us of how it was – and how, in fact, it still is
One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings. – Franklin Thomas The …
