Why poetry?

Poetry (I'm learning now I've graduated) isn't something you run across often outside of the classroom. But poetry is meant for more than just Monday, Wednesday, Friday from 3:00-4:00 so here is a place to always find poems and suggestions of more places to seek them out. You can agree or disagree with my choices, but my hope is that you'll be inspired to let poetry (the poems I find or ones you find on your own) be a part of your every day.

Monday, May 23, 2011

"Tornado" by May Williams Ward

My thoughts and prayers are with all those in Joplin, MO today.

Tornado
by May Williams Ward

Leaves stood still, and our hearts stood still,
But the sky was a-boil with clouds,
A coppery wrack, and the greenish black
Of shrouds.
We dove for shelter and none too soon.
The universe swayed and swirled,
And the monstrous horn of a unicorn
Gored the world.

Found at: http://www.skyways.org/poetry/tornado.html

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

[Murmurs from the earth of this land] by Muriel Rukeyser

The theme that appears to be revealing its' self this month is a combination of nature and slowing down enough to listen to it. This makes sense as most of us are finally emerging from our winter caves and starting to look around again. Sounds of the world waking up from winter are everywhere. I know we’re all anxious for summer, but take a second to breathe (you non allergy sufferers anyway) and just listen. What do you hear?

[Murmurs from the earth of this land]
by Muriel Rukeyser


Murmurs from the earth of this land, from the caves and craters,
       from the bowl of darkness. Down watercourses of our
       dragon childhood, where we ran barefoot.
We stand as growing women and men. Murmurs come down
        where water has not run for sixty years.
Murmurs from the tulip tree and the catalpa, from the ax of
        the stars, from the house on fire, ringing of glass; from
        the abandoned iron-black mill.
Stars with voices crying like mountain lions over forgotten
        colors.
Blue directions and a horizon, milky around the cities where the
        murmurs are deep enough to penetrate deep rock.
Trapping the lightning-bird, trapping the red central roots.
You know the murmurs. They come from your own throat.
You are the bridges to the city and the blazing food-plant green;
The sun of plants speaks in your voice, and the infinite shells of
        accretions
A beach of dream before the smoking mirror.
You are close to that surf, and the leaves heated by noon, and
        the star-ax, the miner’s glitter walls. The crests of the sea
Are the same strength you wake with, the darkness is the eyes
        of children forming for a blaze of sight and soon, soon,
Everywhere, you own silence, who drink from the crater, the
        nebula, one another, the changes of the soul.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/241696

Monday, May 9, 2011

"Roots" by John Piller

I’m liking this game. Okay. The line “Our ropes are our roots” from the last post leads us to today’s poem, "Roots". But notice how these poems have much more in common than a word. They are both poems about place and belonging. The John Pillar poem also feels timely because it’s that time of year when many students are packing up their dorm rooms and going home for the summer. Many people are leaving home for trips and adventures to other places they wish were their home instead. It’s also the first time in four year that spring has rolled around, the school year has ended, and I’m not going “home.” I won’t bore you with my musing on place today. It is Monday after all so I’ll be kind. However, I will say that if you haven’t already (and don’t think this is so cliché you would rather die), after reading this poem, sit down either in the morning or the evening in with a cup of tea and take a minute to think about what the words “roots” and “home” mean to you. As a person? As a reader? As a writer? …

Roots
By John Piller

Mendota, Illinois

It's easy to believe you can go back
Whenever you desire, jump in the car
And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour

You recall most vividly—and walk
Among the buildings spread across the farm,
Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.

There is music in the leaves, in the dense
Columns of green corn. The wind lays down
The tune. You can play it, too, simply

By walking with eyes closed, arms
Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.
Who wouldn't desire, like the children

Lost in so many similar fields,
To sit down on the turned earth and drift
Away on the rhythms of his own

First possible death? Rescuing
Voices come closer, veer off. Flashlight beams
Strobe over your head. You do not care.

Each building you remember—hen house,
Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,
The walls and roofs collapsing with a final

Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.
No one you will ever know works that land now.
It is as green as Eden. Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/29524

Friday, May 6, 2011

"Sand Flesh and Sky" by Clarence Major

Remember, instead of a theme we’re letting one poem lead us to the next this month. The phrase “trembling sky” from yesterday’s poem leads us to this beautiful piece. However right or wrong, today’s poem makes me think of Old Man and the Sea. I can’t even remember if I liked that book (I did read it in the 8th grade) but I do know that I love when the form and language of a poem or prose reflects the content.
Like the scene it describes, today’s poem is deceptively simple as it's marked by stripped down and solid language. But hang out with those metaphors and you'll realize there's nothing simple about it. It's a fairly accessible poem but rich in imagery and meaning so take your time. Just remember, it takes more than going to the thesaurus and picking the biggest or fanciest words to make a poem poetic.

Sand Flesh and Sky
by Clarence Major

Our ropes are the roots
of our life. We fish
low in the earth,
the river beneath runs through our veins,
blue and cold in a riverbed.

When the sun comes up,
the moon moves slowly to the left.

I tie the logs and limbs together,
holding them in place.

The ocean beats them
smooth like rock.
Here my sense of time is flat.

I find in a strip of damp sand
footprints and marks of hands,
and torn pieces of flesh.

Night is a beast.
The tide moves, gushing
back and forth.

Sunlight touches our faces,
turning us, turning us, turning us
in our morning sleep.

1976

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180518

Thursday, May 5, 2011

"Rain Song" by Khaled Mattawa

I’ve decided... no theme for May. I think we’ll take the stream of consciousness approach this month and let one poem lead to the next. There are so many poems worth reading that sometimes a theme is helpful in focusing while other times its restricting like a thick wool turtleneck sweater that fits too tight. It might keep you warm but you aren’t comfortable. Since it’s spring, we’ll take a break from our old wool sweater, put on a light cotton dress, and see what poems the spring storms blow our way...

Rain Song
by Khaled Mattawa
 
After Al-Sayyah
             The radio blares “Dialogue of Souls,”
and the woman who hated clouds
                          watches the sky.
             Where is the sea now? she asks.
Where is it from here?
                          What is its name?—
             this rain on a morning ride to school,
winter, my seventh year,
                          my father driving
             through rain, his eyes fixed on a world
of credit and debt. On the
                          radio, devotion to
             the lifter of harm from those who despair,
             knower of secrets with the knowledge of certainty.
Not even the anguish of those
                          years, the heavy
             traffic, cold and wind could have
touched me. I was certain the palm
                          holding me would be
             struck again. Chance allows
for that and for stars to throb
                          in reachable depths.
             Filled with grief bordering happiness,
I didn’t care if I was safe,
                          whether the storm
             was over, only that it came, the slash
of lightning, the groaning sky,
                          and the storms we made,
             how rain stripped everything of urgency,
how to the lifter of harm rise
             those who despair.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/240904

Monday, May 2, 2011

"Metaphors" by Sylvia Plath

It's been a bit busy so I haven’t decided yet on a theme for May, but since a few of you took the time to vote in the “Who’s your favorite poet” poll (thanks for doing that!), I’ll buy myself some time to think of themes and meanwhile post a poem from the winning poet. Enjoy!

Metaphors
by Sylvia Plath

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Found at: http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/sylviaplath/7854