A Fable by Louise Glück

A Fable
by Louise Glück

Two women with

the same claim

came to the feet of

the wise king. Two women,

but only one baby.

The king knew

someone was lying.

What he said was

Let the child be

cut in half; that way

no one will go

empty-handed. He

drew his sword.

Then, of the two

women, one

renounced her share:

this was

the sign, the lesson.

Suppose

you saw your mother

torn between two daughters:

what could you do

to save her but be

willing to destroy

yourself—she would know

who was the rightful child,

the one who couldn’t bear

to divide the mother.

Source: Ararat (The Ecco Press, 1990)

The Untrustworthy Speaker by Louise Glück

The Untrustworthy Speaker
By Louise Glück

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.

I don’t see anything objectively.

I know myself; I’ve learned to hear like a psychiatrist.

When I speak passionately,

that’s when I’m least to be trusted.

It’s very sad, really: all my life, I’ve been praised

for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight.

In the end, they’re wasted—

I never see myself,

standing on the front steps, holding my sister’s hand.

That’s why I can’t account

for the bruises on her arm, where the sleeve ends.

In my own mind, I’m invisible: that’s why I’m dangerous.

People like me, who seem selfless,

we’re the cripples, the liars;

we’re the ones who should be factored out

in the interest of truth.

When I’m quiet, that’s when the truth emerges.

A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.

Underneath, a little gray house, the azaleas

red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself

to the older daughter, block her out:

when a living thing is hurt like that,

in its deepest workings,

all function is altered.

That’s why I’m not to be trusted.

Because a wound to the heart

is also a wound to the mind.

Source: Ararat (The Ecco Press, 1990)

Lines for Winter by Mark Strand

Lines for Winter
by Mark Strand

for Ros Krauss

Tell yourself

as it gets cold and gray falls from the air

that you will go on

walking, hearing

the same tune no matter where

you find yourself—

inside the dome of dark

or under the cracking white

of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets cold

tell yourself

what you know which is nothing

but the tune your bones play

as you keep going. And you will be able

for once to lie down under the small fire

of winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannot

go on or turn back

and you find yourself

where you will be at the end,

tell yourself

in that final flowing of cold through your limbs

that you love what you are.

 

 

Source: New Selected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)

Let's meet in a restaurant by Marge Piercy

Let's meet in a restaurant
by Marge Piercy

Is food the enemy?
Giving a dinner party has become
an ordeal. I lie awake the night
before figuring how to produce

a feast that is vegan, gluten free,
macrobiotic, avoiding all acidic
fruit and tomatoes, wine, all nuts,
low carb and still edible.

Are beetles okay for vegans?
Probably not. Forget chocolate
ants or fried grasshoppers.
Now my brains are cooked.

Finally seven o’clock arrives
and I produce the perfect meal.
At each plate for supper, a bowl
of cleanly washed pebbles. Enjoy!


Source: Made in Detroit (Knopf, 2015)

Elegy for Smoking by Patrick Phillips

Elegy for Smoking
by Patrick Phillips


It’s not the drug I miss
but all those minutes
we used to steal
outside the library,
under restaurant awnings,
out on porches, by the quiet fields.

And how kind
it used to make us
when we’d laugh
and throw our heads back
and watch the dragon’s breath
float from our mouths,
all ravenous and doomed.

Which is why I quit, of course,
like almost everyone,
and stay inside these days
staring at my phone,
chewing toothpicks
and figuring the bill,

while out the window
the smokers gather
in their same old constellations,
like memories of ourselves.

Or like the remnants
of some decimated tribe,
come down out of the hills
to tell their stories
in the lightly falling rain —

to be, for a moment, simply there
and nowhere else,
faces glowing
each time they lift to their lips
the little flame.


Source: Elegy for a Broken Machine (Knopf, 2015)

Caged Bird by Maya Angelou

Caged Bird

By Maya Angelou
 

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind   

and floats downstream   

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and   

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

Source: The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (Random House Inc., 1994)

Harlem Night Song by Langston Hughes

Harlem Night Song
by Langston Hughes

Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.

I love you.

Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining
Night sky is blue.
Stars are great drops
Of golden dew.
In the cabaret
The jazz-band's playing.

I love you.

Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.


Source: from The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes (Alfred A. Knopf, 1926)

A Bird, came down the Walk by Emily Dickinson

A Bird, came down the Walk - (359)

By Emily Dickinson

 

A Bird, came down the Walk - 

He did not know I saw -

He bit an Angle Worm in halves

And ate the fellow, raw,

And then, he drank a Dew

From a convenient Grass -

And then hopped sidewise to the Wall

To let a Beetle pass -

He glanced with rapid eyes,

That hurried all abroad -

They looked like frightened Beads, I thought,

He stirred his Velvet Head. -

Like one in danger, Cautious,

I offered him a Crumb,

And he unrolled his feathers, 

And rowed him softer Home -

Than Oars divide the Ocean,

Too silver for a seam,

Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,

Leap, plashless as they swim. 

Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition, edited by R.W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999) 

 

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman

By Maya Angelou

 

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Source: The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (Random House Inc., 1994)

National Poetry Month begins NOW!

April means poems, poems, and more poems. Yep, its that time of year - National Poetry Month.  Hurrah! This means I'll be sharing some of my favorite poems with you all throughout the month.  I hope you join in and post some of your favorites as well.

Here's the 2015 National Poetry Month from the Academy of American Poets:

Pretty awesome, eh?  It was created by Roz Chast (2014 National Book Award finalist and New Yorker cartoonist) and features a line of poetry from Mark Strand's "Eating Poetry".

And, to kick off National Poetry Month I will leave you with:

Eating Poetry

By Mark Strand
 

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.

Her eyes are sad

and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.

The light is dim.

The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,

their blond legs burn like brush.

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.

When I get on my knees and lick her hand,

she screams.

I am a new man.

I snarl at her and bark.

I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Source: Selected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1991)

A Poem by Amy Beeder...

Cabezón
by Amy Beeder

I see you shuffle up Washington Street   

whenever I am driving much too fast:   

you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf   

hands in your pockets, a smoke dangling slack   

from the slit of your pumpkin mouth,   

humped over like the eel-man or geek,   

the dummy paid to sweep out gutters,   

drown the cats. Where are you going now?   

Though someday you'll turn your gaze   

upon my shadow in this tinted glass   

I know for now you only look ahead   

at sidewalks cracked & paved with trash

but what are you slouching toward—knee-locked,   

hippity, a hitch in your zombie walk, Bighead?

Source: Poetry (February 2004).

A Sheryl Luna Poem...

Lowering Your Standards for Food Stamps 
by Sheryl Luna

Words fall out of my coat pocket,

soak in bleach water. I touch everyone’s

dirty dollars. Maslow’s got everything on me.

Fourteen hours on my feet. No breaks.

No smokes or lunch. Blank-eyed movements:

trash bags, coffee burner, fingers numb.

I am hourly protestations and false smiles.

The clock clicks its slow slowing.

Faces blur in a stream of  hurried soccer games,

sunlight, and church certainty. I have no

poem to carry, no material illusions.

Cola spilled on hands, so sticky fingered,

I’m far from poems. I’d write of politicians,

refineries, and a border’s barbed wire,

but I am unlearning America’s languages

with a mop. In a summer-hot red

polyester top, I sell lotto tickets. Cars wait for gas

billowing black. Killing time has new meaning.

A jackhammer breaks apart a life. The slow globe

spirals, and at night black space has me dizzy.

Visionaries off their meds and wacked out

meth heads sing to me. A panicky fear of robbery

and humiliation drips with my sweat.

Words some say are weeping twilight and sunrise.

I am drawn to dramas, the couple arguing, the man

headbutting his wife in the parking lot.

911: no metered aubade, and nobody but

myself to blame.

Source: Poetry (April 2014).

I, Too, Sing America by Langston Hughes

Today's the last day of National Poetry Month and to cap off the month, I decided to share one last poem.  This is one of my favorites.  I actually hadn't thought about it in awhile, but after a talk I had with my mom the other day - well, it resonated with me even more.  You see, my  mom shared about some ugly moments that she and my aunt endured as housekeepers.  They were asked to eat in the kitchen - so to speak.  Although in my aunt's case, she was told to eat outside.  Thinking about what they went through made me think of this Hughes' poem, and it made me think of a lot of other things - but that is for another day and forum.  Anyhow, here's the poem:

I, Too, Sing America
by Langston Hughes

I, Too, Sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table,
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed -

I, too, am America.

White Owned by Michele Serros

To celebrate National Poetry Month, Serena over at Savvy Verse & Wit has asked fellow bloggers to post a poem or write something about poetry - she has the schedule over on her site.  And since I love poetry and have been posting poems off and on throughout the month, I decided to snag a date on her schedule.  Here's the poem I chose to share with you all:

White Owned for Guillermo Gomez-Peña   (from chicana falsa)
by Michele Serros


Pink mama tugs at pink baby.
"Don't wander off,"
she warns.
I sympathize
like any hopeful mother to be.

"You never know,"
pink mama says,
"people today are crazy
just crazy,
       ...'specially the Spanish,"

"You mean people
from Spain?"
I ask.

"No,
Spanish people
                  ...from Mexico.
They snatch white babies
drag 'em across the border
for pornography,
slave labor,
            human sacrifice."

Unemployment lines are long,
rent is months overdue
outspoken counter service
means immediate
                termination.
So I stay silent
wrap her dry-cleaned clothes
in airtight plastic,
watch pink mama and child walk away,
holding the knot in my stomach
and wonder if white boyfriend
will give me beige baby
everyone thinks I stole.

Dreams by Langston Hughes

Dreams
by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Oranges by Gary Soto

Oranges
by Gary Soto

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December.  Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge.  I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used card lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore.  We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted -
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth.  I fingered
A nickel in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter.  When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

            Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees,
I took my girl's hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

Quinceañera by Judith Ortiz Cofer

Quinceañera (from Silent Dancing)

by Judith Ortiz Cofer

My dolls have been put away like dead

children in a chest I will carry

with me when I marry.

I reach under my skirt to feel

a satin slip bought for this day.  It is soft

as the inside of my thighs.  My hair

has been nailed back with my mother's

black hairpins to my skull.  Her hands

stretched my eyes open as she twisted

braids into a tight circle at the nape

of my neck.  I am to wash my own clothes

and sheets from this day on, as if

the fluids of my body were poison, as if

the trickle of blood I believe

travels from my heart to the world were

shameful.  Is not the blood of saints and 

men in battle beautiful?  Do Christ's hands

not bleed into your eyes from His cross?

At night I hear myself growing and wake

to find my hands drifting of their own will

to soothe skin stretched tight

over my bones.

I am wound like the guts of a clock,

waiting for each hour to release me.

Curtains by Sandra Cisneros

Curtains (from My Wicked Wicked Ways: Poems)
by Sandra Cisneros

Rich people don't need them.
Poor people tie theirs into fists
or draw them tight as modest brides
up to the neck.

Inside they hide bright walls.
Turquoise or lipstick pink.
Good colors in another country.
Here they can't make you forget

the dinette set that isn't paid for,
floorboards the landlord needs to fix,
raw wood, linoleum roses,
the what you wanted but didn't get.

An Atwood Poem

Margaret Atwood is a brilliant author of speculative fiction ( I just love Alias Grace and The Handmaid's Tale ).  And her poetry is nothing less of excellent.  So, to honor National Poetry Month, here is one of my favorite Atwood poems.  Enjoy!

This Is a Photograph of Me
by Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago. 
At first it seems to be 
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks 
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner 
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree 
(balsam or spruce) emerging 
and, to the right, halfway up 
what ought to be a gentle 
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake, 
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center 
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where 
precisely, or to say 
how large or small I am:
the effect of water 
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough, 
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

National Poetry Month is here...

Poems, poems, poems.  That is what I'll be reading this month - well, that and some fiction mixed in with a memoir or two.  I'll be honest and admit that I'm not a poetry expert by any means, but I do enjoy reading it (and when I was in college, I did enjoy writing it).  So, throughout April, I'll be posting a poem or two by some of my favorite poets.

Here's the first one (ENJOY!):

anyone lived in a pretty how town 
by e. e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain