I think I don't read a lot of poetry. However, when I was thinking about this post, about twenty or so poets and/or poems immediately sprang to mind. A quick check of my bookcases confirmed my suspicion. I actually have a bunch of poetry. Several anthologies, some Pittsburgh poets, a bunch of e.e. cummings (clearly my favorite) and random poems saved on my computer. A friend recently reminded me of William Blake, which led me to remember that I took an undergrad class on the Romantic poets. Oh, Lord Byron, swoon.
I used to write a lot of poetry. I'm way less dramatic now, which is nice as a personality trait, but doesn't lend itself to writing poetry. Believe it or not, I still have my very first poem. Written in the 4th grade, I only wish I still had my fantastic illustrations to show you. I can't draw to save my life and I attempted to draw shoes of all things. Let me present, "What is Yellow?" by a young Suzy.
What is Yellow?
Yellow is the color of happiness.
Yellow is the sun.
Yellow means fun.
I like yellow because
It is a wonderful, curious color.
Yellow and orange are best buddies.
Curious, wonderful, fun and sun describe this beautiful
color.
Yellow is the color of my Easter dress
I wear because I’m happy.
I go to visit Granny because
I have no Pappy.
My mom wears her yellow shoes.
Which are in twos.
Yellow is a snappy shade.
April is National Poetry Month and I think that's spiffy. It's also Grilled Cheese Month, Jazz Appreciation Month, Kite Month, Math Awareness Month (I'm aware that I'm bad at it), and Defeat Diabetes Month. (On a totally unrelated note, I'm diabetic. It sucks. I'm doing this to raise money for a cure.) Poets.org has a Poem-a-Day email and my absolute favorite poetry month event is Poem in Your Pocket day. The idea is to carry around a poem and share it with everyone. On Thursday, April 18 ask me for me poem. Or email me for it. It's top secret right now!The weather is beautiful and I'm feeling intellectually lazy and I want to go ride my (NEW!) bike, so here are some of my favorite poems. Enjoy!
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| Photos all mine. |
Ode to Bicycles
Pablo Neruda
down
a sizzling road:
the sun popped like
a field of blazing maize,
the
earth
was hot,
an infinite circle
with an empty
blue sky overhead.
A few bicycles
passed
me by,
the only
insects
in
that dry
moment of summer,
silent,
swift,
translucent;
they
barely stirred
the air.
Workers and girls
were riding to their
factories,
giving
their eyes
to summer,
their heads to the sky,
sitting on the
hard
beetle backs
of the whirling
bicycles
that whirred
as they rode by
bridges, rosebushes, brambles
and midday.
I thought about evening when
the boys
wash up,
sing, eat, raise
a cup
of wine
in honor
of love
and life,
and waiting
at the door,
the bicycle,
stilled,
because
only moving
does it have a soul,
and fallen there
it isn't
a translucent insect
humming
through summer
but
a cold
skeleton
that will return to
life
only
when it's needed,
when it's light,
that is,
with
the
resurrection
of each day.
This reminds me of my husband. Aren't I sweet?
La Vita Nuova
Dante Alighieri
In that book which is
My memory...
On the first page
that is the chapter when
I first met you
Appear the words...
here begins a new life.
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X
e.e. cummings
You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
i like my body
e.e. cummings
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
Henry Rollins
I am drawn to her.
She is beautiful.
She is kind.
She never tells me there is no time.
She never says no.
And I think about her.
Every time I fuck you.
I am drawn to her.
She is beautiful.
She is kind.
She never tells me there is no time.
She never says no.
And I think about her.
Every time I fuck you.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Much Too Close
King Amaru
Much too close to bear his eyes
I turn my own down to my lap
I do not try to hear
the many soft words in his breath.
I make my hands stop both my ears,
then cup my cheeks that burn
at words he does not even speak.
I try so hard. But now
I feel my dress undoing me,
what do I do?
For every day poetry fun, also check out Cornell University's Mann Library's Daily Haiku! Here is one of my recent favorites:
heat lightning
all of us out at night
riding bicycles
-Rick Black
Happy Poetry-ing!
