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Poem a Day 26

4/26/2015

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Branch Library by Edward Hirsch
I wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boy
who perched in the branches of the old branch library.

He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacks
and the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor,   

pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratching
notes under his own corner patch of sky.

I'd give anything to find that birdy boy again
bursting out into the dusky blue afternoon

with his satchel of scrawls and scribbles,
radiating heat, singing with joy.
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Poem a Day 25

4/26/2015

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Spring Song by Lucille Clifton
The green of Jesus
is breaking the ground
and the sweet
smell of delicious Jesus
is opening the house and
the dance of Jesus music
has hold of the air and
the world is turning
in the body of Jesus and
the future is possible
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Poem a Day 24

4/26/2015

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Petition by Dilruba Ahmed
What god will catch me
when I’m down, when I’ve taken
sufficient drink to reveal
myself, when my words are little
more than a blurring
of consonant and vowel?
 
I’m drunk on spring:
branches of waxy leaves that
greet me at my driveway,
a family clutching
trays of sweets.
How can I sing of this?
 
If I cannot sing, then
make me mute. Or lend me
words, send me
the taste of another’s prayer,
cool as a coin
newly minted on the tongue.
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Poem a Day 23

4/26/2015

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A Shropshire Lad 2: Loveliest of trees, the cherry now by A.E. Housman
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
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Poem a Day 22

4/26/2015

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Turning the Tables by Joel Dias-Porter
First hold the needle
     like a lover’s hand
Lower it slowly
     let it tongue
     the record’s ear
Then cultivate
     the sweet beats
     blooming in the valley
     of the groove
Laugh at folks
     that make requests
What chef would let
     the diners determine
Which entrees
     make up the menu?
Young boys
     think it’s about
     flashy flicks
     of the wrist
But it’s about filling the floor
     with the manic
     language of dance
About knowing the beat
     of every record
     like a mama knows
     her child’s cries
Nobody cares
     how fast you scratch
Cuz it ain’t about
     soothing any itch
It’s about how many hairstyles
     are still standing
At the end of the night.

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Poem a Day 21

4/26/2015

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Star of the Nativity by Joseph Brodsky
In the cold season, in a locality accustomed to heat more than
to cold, to horizontality more than to a mountain,
a child was born in a cave in order to save the world;
it blew as only in deserts in winter it blows, athwart.

To Him, all things seemed enormous: His mother’s breast, the steam
out of the ox’s nostrils, Caspar, Balthazar, Melchior—the team
of Magi, their presents heaped by the door, ajar.
He was but a dot, and a dot was the star.

Keenly, without blinking, through pallid, stray
clouds, upon the child in the manger, from far away--
from the depth of the universe, from its opposite end—the star
was looking into the cave. And that was the Father’s stare.
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Poem a Day 20

4/20/2015

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Our Happiness by Eileen Myles
was when the
lights were
out

the whole city
in darkness

& we drove north
to our friend’s
yellow apt.
where she had
power & we
could work

later we stayed
in the darkened
apt. you sick
in bed & me
writing ambitiously
by candle light
in thin blue
books

your neighbor had
a generator &
after a while
we had a little
bit of light

I walked the
dog & you
were still
a little bit
sick

we sat on a stoop
one day in the
late afternoon
we had very little
money. enough for
a strong cappuccino
which we shared
sitting there &
suddenly the
city was lit.


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Poem a Day 19

4/20/2015

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The Line-Gang by Robert Frost
Here come the line-gang pioneering by.
They throw a forest down less cut than broken.
They plant dead trees for living, and the dead
They string together with a living thread.
They string an instrument against the sky
Wherein words whether beaten out or spoken
Will run as hushed as when they were a thought
But in no hush they string it: they go past
With shouts afar to pull the cable taut,
To hold it hard until they make it fast,
To ease away—they have it. With a laugh,
An oath of towns that set the wild at naught
They bring the telephone and telegraph.
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Poem a Day 18

4/20/2015

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Love is More Thicker Than Forget by e. e. cummings
Love is more thicker than forget 
more thinner than recall 
more seldom than a wave is wet 
more frequent than to fail 

It's most mad and moonly 
and less it shall unbe 
than all the sea which only 
is deeper than the sea 

Love is more always than to win 
less never than alive 
less bigger than the least begin 
less litter than forgive 

It's most sane and sunly 
and more it cannot die 
than all the sky which only 
is higher than the sky

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And also, this... 

4/17/2015

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In my quest this month to find a poem a day to celebrate National Poetry Month, I came across a quote that makes me smile and with which I can identify.  I've included the link to the blog on which I found it; I believe the quote is from artist Robert Rauschenberg:


“I used to think of that line in Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, about ‘the sad cup of coffee.’ I’ve had cold coffee and hot coffee, good coffee and lousy coffee, but I’ve never had a sad cup of coffee."

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2008/05/ive-never-had-a-sad-cup-of-coffee/?woo 



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