Back Yard

Back Yard
by Carl Sandburg

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.

An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;
to-night they are throwing you kisses.

An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a
cherry tree in his back yard.

The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking
white thoughts you rain down.

Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.

Adjectives of Order

I remember teaching my own order of adjectives lesson in the Czech Republic.

Adjectives of Order
by Alexandra Teague

That summer, she had a student who was obsessed
with the order of adjectives. A soldier in the South
Vietnamese army, he had been taken prisoner when

Saigon fell. He wanted to know why the order
could not be altered. The sweltering city streets shook
with rockets and helicopters. The city sweltering

streets. On the dusty brown field of the chalkboard,
she wrote: The mother took warm homemade bread
from the oven. City is essential to streets as homemade

is essential to bread . He copied this down, but
he wanted to know if his brothers were lost before
older, if he worked security at a twenty-story modern

downtown bank or downtown twenty-story modern.
When he first arrived, he did not know enough English
to order a sandwich. He asked her to explain each part

of Lovely big rectangular old red English Catholic
leather Bible. Evaluation before size. Age before color.
Nationality before religion. Time before length. Adding

and, one could determine if two adjectives were equal.
After Saigon fell, he had survived nine long years
of torture. Nine and long. He knew no other way to say this.

Magdalene Poem

by John Taggart

Love enters the body

enters
almost
almost completely breaks and enters into the body

already beaten and broken

peaceful if breaking if breaking
and entering the already broken is peaceful

untouchable fortunately
untouchable.

if there are any heavens

for Connie

if there are any heavens
by e.e. cummings

if there are any heavens my mother will
(all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses.

my father will be (deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my
(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face
with hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

If There Is Something To Desire

If There Is Something To Desire, 9, 17, 18
by Vera Pavlova

9

I broke your heart.
Now barefoot I tread
on shards.


17

Why is the word yes so brief?
It should be
the longest,
the hardest,
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it.


18

—Sing me The Song of Songs.
—Don't know the words.
—Then sing the notes.
—Don't know the notes.
—Then simply hum.
—Forgot the tune.
—Then press my ear
to your ear
and sing what you hear.

National Poetry Month 2010

April is National Poetry Month! You can sign up for a poem-a-day by e-mail at the Academy of American Poets website. Last year, I posted a poem for every day in April, and though I may not have the time for such an undertaking this year, I'll try to be a little more active.

Happy poetry reading.

Sonnets on Love XIII

by Jean de Sponde

"Give me a place to stand," Archimedes said,
"and I can move the world." Paradoxical, clever,
his remark which first explained the use of the lever
was an academic joke. But if that dead

sage could return to life, he would find a clear
demonstration of his idea, which is not
pure theory after all. That putative spot
exists in the love I feel for you, my dear.

What could be more immovable or stronger?
What becomes more and more secure, the longer
it is battered by inconstancy and the stress

we find in our lives? Here is that fine fixed point
from which to move a world that is out of joint,
as he could have done, had he known a love like this.

The Buried Life

Long. But worth reading. Trust me.

The Buried Life
by Matthew Arnold

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love!, thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices? must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchained;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordained!
Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be--
By what distractions he would be possessed,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity--
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey

Even in his own despite his being's law
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;

A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives came and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves--
Hardly had skill! to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpressed.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well--but 'tis not true!
And then we will no more be racked
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafened ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

Teodoro Luna's Two Kisses

Teodoro Luna's Two Kisses
by Alberto Rios

Mr. Teodoro Luna in his later years had taken to kissing
His wife
Not so much with his lips as with his brows.
This is not to say he put his forehead
Against her mouth--
Rather, he would lift his eyebrows, once, quickly:
Not so vigorously he might be confused with the villain
Famous in the theaters, but not so little as to be thought
A slight movement, one of accident. This way
He kissed her
Often and quietly, across tables and through doorways,
Sometimes in photographs, and so through the years themselves.
This was his passion, that only she might see. The chance
He might feel some movement on her lips
Toward laughter.

There is something inside love

There is something inside love
by Juan Antonio Gonzalez-Iglesias
translated by Curtis Bauer

There is something inside love that belongs
to this world. In the multiple
instances in which everything
makes sense since you arrived,
in all the material suddenly converted
to gift, the meadow we walk through,
the terrace overlooking or wall that protects,
also in the sweetness of days,
in the humble routine of having you
beside me,
I notice it.

But something inside love isn't of this world.
Something that isn't abstract.
I try it, for example, in the warmth
of your skin, every time we fall asleep
together, and every morning
that I hope for nothing more than your first
kiss, when you recover
your place in my arms blindly.
Then we anticipate what one day we will have
definitively.
In order to name it
the notion of solstice seems necessary to me.
I won't reason this over any more. It is a kind
of first fruit.

three short poems

From a friend via Facebook.

three short poems
by Emily Remillard

1.

submerged in your deep gladness
your maple syrup joy
suspended like a slow-floating bubble
in your golden liquid presence

i marvel.

you have changed the whole conversation of my life.

2.

having just tossed something heavy and sacred into the river,
i find myself giggling.
you teach me how to make my feet light.

3.

when i wasn't looking
you replaced my rule book with our family photo album
you're telling me i looked like you all along
and didn't even know it.


(written October 2009)

Barter

Back to Sara Teasdale: flowery language on the surface, deeper underneath. I love the title and last lines of this poem. I know what it's like to barter necessities--sleep, food--for things that become more important in the moment.

Barter
by Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And childrens's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

What Was Told, That

From wherever spring arrives to heal the ground
From wherever searching comes, the look itself
A trace of what we're looking for
So be quiet now, and wait

And what was said to the rose to make it unfold
Was said to me here in my chest
So be quiet now, and rest
--David Crowder

What Was Told, That
by Jalalu'l-din Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks

What was said to the rose that made it open was said
to me here in my chest.

What was told the cypress that made it strong
and straight, what was

whispered the jasmine so it is what it is, whatever made
sugarcane sweet, whatever

was said to the inhabitants of the town of Chigil in
Turkestan that makes them

so handsome, whatever lets the pomegranate flower blush
like a human face, that is

being said to me now. I blush. Whatever put eloquence in
language, that's happening here.

The great warehouse doors open; I fill with gratitude,
chewing a piece of sugarcane,

in love with the one to whom every that belongs!

You Are The Absence

You Are The Absence

All this time I thought you’d be presence of mind,
a shocking electrical presence of mass
encroaching on my space.

I thought you’d be presence of feeling all this time,
a beating percussive presence of shape
invading my rhythm.

But you finally came,
and you are not so much a presence.

You are the quieting of my doubts,
the silence to my noise,
and the departure of the empty space at my side.

Everything good remains,
and I feel the exit of fear.
Even uncertainty whispers goodbye,
you don’t need me anymore.

To my surprise,
I lie down to sleep and realize:

you are the absence.

10.12.09
c.l.l.

The Suitor

The Suitor
by Jane Kenyon

We lie back to back. Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
Wind moves the leaves of the box elder;
they show their light undersides,
turning all at once
like a school of fish.
Suddenly I understand that I am happy.
For months this feeling
has been coming closer, stopping
for short visits, like a timid suitor.

A Blessing

I think I've forgotten to post this poem in the past, even though I love it and think its last three lines are some of the best I've ever read.



A Blessing
by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Butcher's Block

Butcher’s Block (A Song)

Orion, swing your shield down low
Cover me in this time of need
Big Dipper, swing your ladle down low
Give me water in this time of need

Butcher’s block, I’ll lie on your scars
Of the past and I’ll look at the stars
All I’d like is a candle bright
On the sill of someone I love

River, rush your waters over land
Sail me in this time of need
Crops, push through the soil over land
Feed me in this time of need

Butcher’s block, I’ll lie on your scars
Of the past and I’ll look at the stars
All I’d like is a candle bright
On the sill of someone I love

Branches, lift your leaves to the sky
Shade me in this time of need
Mountains, show off your strength to the sky
Shelter me in this time of need

Butcher’s block, I’ll lie on your scars
Of the past and look at the stars
All I’d like is a candle bright
On the sill of someone I love

9.7.09
c.l.l.

As I Walked Out One Evening

(photo courtesy of flickr user veer8)

As I Walked Out One Evening
by W.H. Auden

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

I Love You, Translated

I Love You, Translated

I’ll wait for you,
I’ll get it for you,
I’ll call you when I’m done,

safe travels,
God bless you,
okay fine, you won,

how are you,
have a good day,
I’m really not so fine,

I’m just kidding,
you make me laugh,
what’s yours is also mine,

you look nice,
have a good time,
let me help you with your coat,

whatever you wish,
this is really good,
that’s okay, you have my vote,

do you have your keys,
do you have enough cash,
do you need anything to eat,

I hope you sleep well,
I’ll get the bill,
take the comfortable seat,

I’ll hold the door,
I’ll hold the train,
let me play this song for you,

read this, you’ll like it,
I knew you’d laugh,
I know, I love it too.

8.3.09
c.l.l.

In Summer

(photo courtesy of Flickr user Rastko Radivojev)

In Summer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.