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