Poetry
American Literature
2014
The Facebook Sonnet
Welcome to the endless high-school
Reunion. Welcome to past friends
And lovers, however kind or cruel.
Let's undervalue and unmend
The present. Why can't we pretend
Every stage of life is the same?
Let's exhume, resume and extend
Childhood. Let's all play the games
That preoccupy the young. Let fame
And shame intertwine. Let one's search
For God become public domain.
Let church.com become our church.
Let's sign up, sign in and confess
Here at the altar of loneliness.
-Sherman Alexie
Early December in Croton-on-Hudson
Spiked sun. The Hudson’s
Whittled down by ice.
I hear the bone dice
Of blown gravel clicking. Bonepale, the recent snow
Fastens like fur to the river.
Standstill. We were leaving to deliver
Christmas presents when the tire blew
Last year. Above the dead valves pines pared
Down by a storm stood, limbs bared . . .
I want you.
-Louise Gluck
The Angelus
Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten
music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the
sober twilight of the Present With colors of
romance: I hear your call, and see the sun
descending On rock and wave and sand, As
down the coast the Mission voices
blending Girdle the heathen land. Within the
circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew
falls; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low
ambition Passes those airy walls. Borne on
the swell of your long waves receding, I touch
the farther Past, — I see the dying glow of
Spanish glory, The sunset dream and
last! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission
towers, The white Presidio; The swart
commander in his leathern jerkin. The priest in
stole of snow. Once more I see Portola's cross
uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the
headland, northward, slowly drifting The
freighted galleon. O solemn bells! whose
consecrated masses Recall the faith of old, —
O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight
music The spiritual fold! Your voices break
and falter in the darkness, — Break, falter, and
are still; And veiled and mystic, like the Host
descending. The sun sinks from the hill.
-Bret Harte
Mission San Francisco de Asis
The Presidio
On Being Brought from Africa to America
'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.
- Phillis Wheatley
His Excellency General Washington
…Muse! Bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates…
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honors—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
Thy ev'ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine… -Phillis Wheatley
Washington’s Response
Miss Phillis,
Your favour of the 26th of October did not reach my hands ’till the middle of
December. Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer ere this. Granted.
But a variety of important occurrences, continually interposing to distract the
mind and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologize for the delay, and plead
my excuse for the seeming, but not real neglect.
I thank you most sincerely for your polite notice of me, in the elegant Lines you
enclosed; and however undeserving I may be of such encomium and panegyrick,
the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your great poetical Talents. In
honour of which, and as a tribute justly due to you, I would have published the
Poem, had I not been apprehensive, that, while I only meant to give the World
this new instance of your genius, I might have incurred the imputation of Vanity.
This and nothing else, determined me not to give it place in the public Prints.
If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near Head Quarters, I shall be happy to
see a person so favoured by the Muses, and to whom Nature has been so liberal
and beneficent in her dispensations.
I am, with great respect, your obedient humble servant,
George Washington
The Witch Has Told You a Story
You are food.
You are here for me
to eat. Fatten up,
and I will like you better.
Your brother will be first,
you must wait your turn.
Feed him yourself, you will
learn to do it. You will take him
eggs with yellow sauce, muffins
torn apart and leaking butter, fried
meats
late in the morning, and always sweets
in a sticky parade from the kitchen.
His vigilance, an ice pick of hunger
pricking his insides, will melt
in the unctuous cream fillings.
He will forget. He will thank you
for it. His little finger stuck every day
through cracks in the bars
will grow sleek and round,
his hollow face swell
like the moon. He will stop dreaming
about fear in the woods without food.
He will lean toward the maw
of the oven as it opens
every afternoon, sighing
better and better smells.
-Ava Leavell Haymon
The Author to Her Book
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less
wise than true,
Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to
trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may
judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother
call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection
would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joynts to make thee even
feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is
meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’
house I find.
In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou
roam.
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not
come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not
known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of
door.
-Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)
Oh, Could I Raise the Darkened
Veil
Oh could I raise the darken’d veil,
Which hides my future life from me,
Could unborn ages slowly sail,
Before my view—and could I see
My every action painted there,
To cast one look I would not dare.
There poverty and grief might stand,
And dark Despair’s corroding hand,
Would make me seek the lonely tomb
To slumber in its endless gloom.
Then let me never cast a look,
Within Fate’s fix’d mysterious book.
-Nathaniel Hawthorne
Lectures in the Everdark
I dress in the halflight & then it’s empty porches,
turns specter when crosshatched at its seems. Tenebrism,
the sleepy
baristas.
Emma says,
for want of hot chocolate. More coffee
I
Dark roast, yes,
even headlights as synecdoche & yet
I’m Still Life w/Donut
in search of
better verb. Something there is
that doesn’t love
pentameter, & how my thesis
auger. Mont Blanc on the
blackboard, first frost
on the quad.
-Chris McCreary
These Days
The amazing thing is not that
geese can get sucked into an
Airbus engine and cause it to
conk out or that a pilot can tell
air traffic control, “There’s
only one thing I can do,” then
take a deep breath and do it—
ditch in the Hudson with a
buck and whine, then walk the
aisle as the plane fills with
water to make sure everyone’s
gotten out— but that
afterwards many who weren’t
hurt in a lifelong way,
only shaken, scratched, no
doubt in shock, had nothing
else to do, finally, except take a
bus back to LaGuardia
and catch another plane
home. Amazing too
how before long people
stop talking about it, they move
on and eventually need an
extra beat to recognize that
camera-shy pilot when he
appears—retired now,
somehow smaller now, no
longer shy— as an air travel
expert (“Sometimes carryons just shouldn’t be carried
on”) on the nightly news and
connect his name to what he
did that day, probably— let’s
face it—because no one
died. Though most
stories don’t end like that. In
Shanxi Province, the BBC told
me late last night when I
should’ve been asleep instead
of sitting in the dark, twentyfour workers— all men, they
said, and some much older
than I would’ve imagined—
were trapped in a mile-deep
mineshaft deemed too
dangerous now for a rescue,
though apparently it was
safe enough to work in.
Shovel clang and gravel
rumble turned to
echoing silence.
Eventually the company
execs sent down a
slender silver robot with
tank treads, tiny pincer
hands, a camera for a face, but
all it found—how long it looked,
they didn’t say—was a single
miner’s helmet, dented and
dusty, its frail light still burning.
-Matthew Thorburn
Some Keep the Sabbath Going
to Church
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I, just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.
-Emily Dickinson
Because I Could not Stop for
Death
Because I could not stop for Death –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
He kindly stopped for me –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – My Tippet – only Tulle –
And Immortality.
We paused before a House that
We slowly drove – He knew no haste seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
And I had put away
The Roof was scarcely visible –
My labor and my leisure too,
The Cornice – in the Ground –
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children
strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
-Emily Dickinson
Or rather – He passed Us –
Hope is the Thing with
Feathers
“Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops - at all And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm I’ve heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
-Emily Dickinson
Images of Peaceful Protest
Images of Peaceful Protest
The Saddest Noise the
Sweetest Noise
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, The maddest noise that grows,— The birds, they
make it in the spring, At night’s delicious close. Between the March and April line— That
magical frontier Beyond which summer hesitates, Almost too heavenly near. It makes us
think of all the dead That sauntered with us here, By separation’s sorcery Made cruelly
more dear. It makes us think of what we had, And what we now deplore. We almost wish
those siren throats Would go and sing no more. An ear can break a human heart As
quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.
-Emily Dickinson
I Like to See it Lap the Miles
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at
tanks; And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties, by the sides
of roads; And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid,
hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges; Then, punctual as a star, Stop--docile and
omnipotent-- At its own stable door.
-Emily Dickinson 1891
To a Locomotive in Winter
THEE for my recitative!
Thee in the driving storm, even as now—the snow—the winter-day declining;
Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat convulsive;
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel;
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides;
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar—now tapering in the distance;
Thy great protruding head-light, fix’d in front;
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple;
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack;
Thy knitted frame—thy springs and valves—the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels;
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering:
Type of the modern! emblem of motion and power! pulse of the continent!
For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see thee,
With storm, and buffeting gusts of wind, and falling snow;
By day, thy warning, ringing bell to sound its notes,
By night, thy silent signal lamps to swing.
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all!
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding;
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide—across the lakes,
To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.
-Walt Whitman, 1900
O Captain! My Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Beat! Beat! Drums!
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying,
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
-Walt Whitman
In Midnight Sleep
IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish, Of the look at first of the mortally wounded--of that
indescribable look; Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide, I dream, I dream, I
dream.
Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;
Of skies, so beauteous after a storm--and at night the moon so unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
Long, long have they pass'd--faces and trenches and fields;
Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure--or away from the fallen,
Onward I sped at the time--But now of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
-Walt Whitman
Mississippi River Geography
Mississippi River Symbolism
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-Billy Collins
iPoem
Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.
There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,
which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the café
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it
in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.
•
-George Bilgere
House of Strays
Suddenly, a hole opens in the year and we slip into it, the riptide pull of
strange, lonely dogs and broken phone lines. You forgive me if I mistake
hunted for haunted, but I do like to rearrange things in my body every few
years. Take a can of gasoline to the frayed and ghosted. Lights out. All
hands on deck. Still you wonder why I keep losing my shoes in the
road and coaxing cats in the alley with cans of tunafish and a
flashlight. Why my contentment is beautiful, but highly improbable, sort
of like four leaf clovers or an ice cream truck in the middle of the
night. This tiny thing breathing between us that aches something
awful. By summer, I am slipping all the complimentary mints in my
coat
pockets while you pay the check. Gripping the railings on
bridges to keep diving over. Some dark dog in my throat when I say hello.
-Kristy Bowen
Yam
The potato that ate all its carrots,
can see in the dark like a mole,
its eyes the scars
from centuries of shovels, tines.
May spelled backwards
because it hates the light,
pawing its way, padding along,
there in the catacombs.
-Bruce Guernsey
Bless Their Hearts
At Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add
“Bless their hearts” after their names, you can
say
whatever you want about them and it’s OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids’
toys—they’re only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter’s greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate’s heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife’s heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he’d bless our
hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.
-Richard Newman
Christmas Tree Lots
Christmas trees lined like war refugees,
a fallen army made to stand in their greens.
Cut down at the foot, on their last leg,
they pull themselves up, arms raised.
We drop them like wood;
tied, they are driven through the streets,
dragged through the door, cornered
in a room, given a single blanket,
only water to drink, surrounded by joy.
Forced to wear a gaudy gold star,
to surrender their pride,
they do their best to look alive.
-Chris Green
Your Luck is About to Change
(A fortune cookie)
Ominous inscrutable Chinese news
to get just before Christmas,
considering my reasonable health,
marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan,
career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet.
Not bad, considering what can go wrong:
the bony finger of Uncle Sam
might point out my husband,
my own national guard,
and set him in Afghanistan;
my boss could take a personal interest;
the pain in my left knee could spread to my right.
Still, as the old year tips into the new,
I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking
his legs in the air. I won't give in
to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog,
or even the neighbors' Nativity.
Their four-year-old has arranged
his whole legion of dinosaurs
so they, too, worship the child,
joining the cow and sheep. Or else,
ultimate mortals, they've come to eat
ox and camel, Mary and Joseph,
then savor the newborn babe.
-Susan Elizabeth Howe
Try to Praise the Mutilated
World
Try to praise the mutilated world.
(Click to listen to the poem being read by its poet.)
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
-Adam Zagajewski