[little tree] by E.E. Cummings

I’m going to spend another chilly 3 hours tonight volunteering on the Christmas tree lot for the Downtown Optimists so this little poem about a little tree by E.E. Cummings felt in order. Plus, any of you who know me know that I am all for talking to the trees. Enjoy!

[little tree]

by E.E. Cummings

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel"

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176724

"The Education of a Poet" by Leslie Monsour

“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.” ~Edgar Allan Poe

We haven’t looked at a structured or obviously rhyming poem in awhile and since it’s still National Poetry Month I think it’s a good time to look at what I call in very technical terms, "a poemy poem." A "poemy poem" is what when you were in middle school you thought all poems were like. Then in high school you discover poems don’t have to always rhyme or count syllables and you never look back. It’s easy to get caught up in the freedom of what poetry can also be that it’s easy to ignore or even write off as elementary the poems that stick with tradition. So today in honor of Poetry Month (though it’s not what I usually gravitate towards) we look at a syllabic piece (fixed syllables per line) that reminds that it takes more than just line breaks. It’s deliberate language that transforms everyday words into a poem.

The Education of a Poet
by Leslie Monsour

Her pencil poised, she's ready to create,
Then listens to her mind's perverse debate
On whether what she does serves any use;
And that is all she needs for an excuse
To spend all afternoon and half the night
Enjoying poems other people write.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178169

"Poetry" by Don Paterson

Why this poem? Why so many poems about poetry? Because it's National Poetry Month and because this is a poetry blog. That's why.

Poetry
by Don Paterson

In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet's early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's -- boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.

Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.

Found at: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/027.html

"The Poet" by Tom Wayman

Despite the world feeling like it's falling to pieces (or at least the government), National Poetry Month continues without a pause. Our search for poets writing about poetry (reading it, writing it, and everything in-between ) never rests. I post this poem today for anyone who is or knows a poet…

The Poet
by Tom Wayman

Loses his position on worksheet or page in textbook
May speak much but makes little sense
Cannot give clear verbal instructions
Does not understand what he reads
Does not understand what he hears
Cannot handle “yes-no” questions

Has great difficulty interpreting proverbs
Has difficulty recalling what he ate for breakfast, etc.
Cannot tell a story from a picture
Cannot recognize visual absurdities

Has difficulty classifying and categorizing objects
Has difficulty retaining such things as
addition and subtraction facts, or multiplication tables
May recognize a word one day and not the next

Found at: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/015.html

"Let Me Count the Waves" by Sandra Beasley

Well, for my Poetry Month search I was looking for poems about poetry and this one certainly fits the bill. Ha! (once you read the poem you’ll understand how lame a pun that is…) Anyway, this poem is a fun way to get your brain moving on this Monday morning. I think what I love most about it is how it unfolds in its complexity and pulls you deeper into the poem without you realizing it until the end. But read it and see what you think…


Let Me Count the Waves
by Sandra Beasley

We must not look for poetry in poems.
—Donald Revell

You must not skirt the issue wearing skirts.
You must not duck the bullet using ducks.
You must not face the music with your face.
Headbutting, don’t use your head. Or your butt.
You must not use a house to build a home,
and never look for poetry in poems.

In fact, inject giraffes into your poems.
Let loose the circus monkeys in their skirts.
Explain the nest of wood is not a home
at all, but a blind for shooting wild ducks.
Grab the shotgun by its metrical butt;
aim at your Muse’s quacking, Pringled face.

It’s good we’re talking like this, face to face.
There should be more headbutting over poems.
Citing an 80s brand has its cost but
honors the teenage me, always in skirts,
showing my sister how to Be the Duck
with a potato-chip beak. Take me home,

Mr. Revell. Or make yourself at home
in my postbellum, Reconstruction face—
my gray eyes, my rebel ears, all my ducks
in the row of a defeated mouth. Poems
were once civil. But war has torn my skirts
off at the first ruffle, baring my butt

or as termed in verse, my luminous butt.
Whitman once made a hospital his home.
Emily built a prison of her skirts.
Tigers roamed the sad veldt of Stevens’s face.
That was the old landscape. All the new poems
map the two dimensions of cartoon ducks.

We’re young and green. We’re braces of mallards,
not barrels of fish. Shoot if you must but
Donald, we’re with you. Trying to save poems,
we settle and frame their ramshackle homes.
What is form? Turning art to artifice,
trading pelts for a more durable skirt.

Even urban ducklings deserve a home.
Make way. In the modern: Make way, Buttface.
A poem is coming through, lifting her skirt.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=236984

"A Poet's Poem" by Brenda Shaughnessy

Yesterday at work I wished someone "Happy National Poetry Month!" and they asked if that was an April Fools joke. Oh, I'm so happy you all know that Poetry Month is no joking matter. But since it's the weekend and while celebrating poetry may be no joke, it's not all serious either so today we move forward with our month's theme (poems about poetry) and look at somewhat humorously at the frustrations of writing a poem...

A Poet’s Poem
by Brenda Shaughnessy

If it takes me all day,
I will get the word freshened out of this poem.

I put it in the first line, then moved it to the second,
and now it won’t come out.

It’s stuck. I’m so frustrated,
so I went out to my little porch all covered in snow

and watched the icicles drip, as I smoked
a cigarette.

Finally I reached up and broke a big, clear spike
off the roof with my bare hand.

And used it to write a word in the snow.
I wrote the word snow.

I can’t stand myself.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182964

"Eating Poetry" by Mark Strand

HAPPY NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!!! Even though you should read poetry all year long, Poetry Month is a great time to really celebrate poetry. I hope you take this month as an excuse to revisit some of your favorite poets or find some new ones. I love poetry month (though I'm sure that as a keeper of a poetry blog, that doesn't surprise you) and making time to look at back at some of my favorites like "Eating Poetry". Even though I’ve read it a million times, I get such a kick out of this poem by Mark Strand and it seems like the perfect way to get Poetry Month started. Oh, and just so you know, our theme for the month of April will be poems about poetry. Poems about writing it, reading it, loving it, hating it, eating it…

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.

Found at: http://www.poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=237702

"Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou

Obviously we can't get very far into our women and poetry month without looking at this poem. You may have read it 20 times before or even took a test on it, but one of the great things about most poetry is that it's not long so take a minute and read it again...

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou 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.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=178942

"I'm a Fool to Love You" by Cornelius Eady

I'm in love with this poem (sound and rhythm here are worth noting), but I won't distract you with my commentary. I'll just remind you we're looking at non-traditional love poems (good love, broken love, and otherwise) and beg you to please read this poem out loud. It's meant to be read/ heard/ experienced (hence it being found at http://www.poetryoutloud.org/). Enjoy!

I'm a Fool to Love You
by Cornelius Eady

Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don't want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That's how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it's the only leverage
You've got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man's kisses
A healing.

Found at: http://www.poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=179454

"Ophelia's Technicolor G-String: An Urban Mythology" by Susan B. Anthony Somers-Willett

You'll have to forgive me for moving abruptly from Auden to something much more contemporary, but I've been dying to post this poem. Conveniently it fits in with my mythology theme for the week. But here's something to think about- while very different, in both the Auden poem and this poem (and in most all poems alluding to a myth), the poet counts on and depends highly on a reader's outside knowledge that she/he already has. This collaborative effort enables the poet to manipulate a familiar story or myth because the framework and assumpitons are already there. These myth poems are fun because they force you to think about your role as a reader.

A few questions to get started- How does your previous ideas of Ophelia inform your reading of the poem? What if it wasn't Ophelia? Would the idea of three inch heels and a technicolor g-string then be as striking? If you don't have a clue who she is, who Hamlet is, then what is lost? Okay. That's enough questions for now...

Ophelia's Technicolor G-String: An Urban Mythology
by Susan B. Anthony Somers-Willett

The air tonight is thick as curry;
like every night this summer I could cut it
with my wine glass, spray it with mace.
Over and over it would heal together
like a wound, follow my click and pace of heels
down Conti Street, St. Ann, Bourbon.

Oh Hamlet, if you could see me now
as I pump and swagger across that stage, cape dripping to the floor,
me in three-inch heels and a technicolor G-string—
you would not wish me in a convent.
They've made me a queen here, married me off
to a quarter bag and a pint of gin.

The old men tend bark and splatter, rabid
at each table. I think they stay up all night
just to spite the moon. They bring their diseased
mouths to the French Market in the morning,
sell Creole tomatoes to tourists who don't know
what they are. Each bald head shines plump and red.

It seems like so long ago that I modeled
for those legs outside of Big Daddy's—
the ones over the door that swing in, out, in, out—
the sculptor made me painted as Mardi Gras.
I thought you might recognize them if you ever passed
with the boys, parading from Abbey to Tavern,
or think them royal feet in need of slippers.

Someday I expect to find you here,
sitting at the table between the first and second rows,
fingering bones or something worse.
And in the end you will throw me a columbine,
light me a Marlboro and take me to a 24-7 where
jukebox light quivers, makes us as thin as ghosts.

But for now, I will dance for the fat man
who sits in your place and sweats his love for me at 3 a.m.,
because only he knows I am Horatio in drag.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=179687

"Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by W.H. Auden

In keeping with the mythology theme for this week, I've choosen one of my favorite poems by W.H. Auden. It's a beautiful and haunting poem and one I recommed you read outloud for full effect. Also, while there are many essays analyzing the poem, Musee des Beaux Arts has a good concise description of the poem and accompanying art by Breughel to get you started.


"Fall of Icarus" by Breughel


Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
by W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

Found at: http://poetrypages.lemon8.nl/life/musee/museebeauxarts.htm

"Persophone, Falling" by Rita Dove

I've decided that the end of January I'll look at poems that use a figure or story from mythology. This incorporates a huge amount of poetry so perhaps this themed poetry search will follow us into February, but we'll worry about that later. To get us started we have an interesting poem by a former Poet Laureate...

Persephone, Falling
by Rita Dove

One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful
flowers, one unlike all the others! She pulled,
stooped to pull harder—
when, sprung out of the earth
on his glittering terrible
carriage, he claimed his due.
It is finished. No one heard her.
No one! She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.
This is important, stop fooling around!
Don't answer to strangers. Stick
with your playmates. Keep your eyes down.)
This is how easily the pit
opens. This is how one foot sinks into the ground.

Found at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19856

"For the White poets who would be Indian" by Wendy Rose

Maybe your brain needs a break this weekend so save this poem for Monday. It's one that deserves a little thought. If you're really looking for some way to pass the time (like I am) then take a few minutes to look up what others have to say about the poem. There's some interesting and thoughtful criticism around this poem and poet. And remember- you don't need an excuse like class to justify learning more about what you're reading...

"For the White poets who would be Indian" by Wendy Rose

just once
just long enough
to snap up the words
fish-hooked from
our tongues.
You think of us now
when you kneel
on the earth,
turn holy
in a temporary tourism
of our souls.

With words
you paint your faces,
chew your doeskin,
touch breast to tree
as if sharing a mother
were all it takes,
could bring instant and primal
knowledge.
You think of us only
when your voices
want for roots,
when you have sat back
on your heels and
become
primitive.

You finish your poem
and go back.

Found at: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/m_r/rose/online.htm

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?' by Emily Dickinson

This poem by Dickinson is one of my favorite poems. When I was eight I found this poem in a book of my grandfather's and memorized it. When I returned from school after our Thanksgiving vacation to California, I had memorized it and recited it in front of the class. I guess my obsession with Emily Dickinson started early...

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog --
To tell one's name -- the livelong June --
To an admiring Bog!

"Dancers Exercising" by Amy Clampitt

I found this poem on poetryoutloud.org which is a great poetry recourse. And I'm obsessed with the first sentence of this poem. This is a poem which begs to be read out loud, hence it being found on poetryoutloud.org. So don't disappoint the poem. Read it out loud...

"Dancers Exercising" by Amy Clampitt

Frame within frame, the evolving conversation
is dancelike, as though two could play
at improvising snowflakes’
six-feather-vaned evanescence,
no two ever alike. All process
and no arrival: the happier we are,
the less there is for memory to take hold of,
or—memory being so largely a predilection
for the exceptional—come to a halt
in front of. But finding, one evening
on a street not quite familiar,
inside a gated
November-sodden garden, a building
of uncertain provenance,
peering into whose vestibule we were
arrested—a frame within a frame,
a lozenge of impeccable clarity—
by the reflection, no, not
of our two selves, but of
dancers exercising in a mirror,
at the center
of that clarity, what we saw
was not stillness
but movement: the perfection
of memory consisting, it would seem,
in the never-to-be-completed.
We saw them mirroring themselves,
never guessing the vestibule
that defined them, frame within frame,
contained two other mirrors.

Found at: http://www.poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=179051

"Selecting a Reader" by Ted Kooser

"Selecting a Reader" by Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

Found at: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/053.html

"Snow Day" by Billy Collins

Because I move somewhere new and the snow follows me all the way from Colorado...

"Snow Day" by Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with -- some will be delighted to hear --

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

Found at: http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/Billy-Collins/1758

"Keeping Things Whole" by Mark Strand

Because I have moving on my mind...


"Keeping Things Whole" by Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=177001

"River Moons" by Carl Sandburg

Instead of packing like I should for my move in 3 days, I'm searching for interesting things to read. I ran across this poem by Carl Sandburg and just loved it. Perhaps you'll find something in it, too. Enjoy!

"River Moons" by Carl Sandburg

THE DOUBLE moon, one on the high back drop of the west, one on the curve of the river face,
The sky moon of fire and the river moon of water, I am taking these home in a basket, hung on an elbow, such a teeny weeny elbow, in my head.
I saw them last night, a cradle moon, two horns of a moon, such an early hopeful moon, such a child’s moon for all young hearts to make a picture of.
The river—I remember this like a picture—the river was the upper twist of a written question mark.
I know now it takes many many years to write a river, a twist of water asking a question.
And white stars moved when the moon moved, and one red star kept burning, and the Big Dipper was almost overhead.

Found at: http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/carl_sandburg/poems/2757.html

"On Last Lines" by Suzanne Buffam

Because the new year is for sticking to self inflicted resolutions, I resolve to at least once a week post a poem. In turn I think everyone should resolve to at least once a week read a poem, but last I heard I don't think I'm allowed to make resolutions for other people. Still, I'll try to subtly help you along by sharing some poems I find the most interesting and the places I love to look for them.

I'm assuming that most people are still recovering from the holidays so today's poem is short. Not simple, but at only 3 lines, it's a quick read. Enjoy!

"On Last Lines" by Suzanne Buffam

The last line should strike like a lover’s complaint.
You should never see it coming.
And you should never hear the end of it.

Found at-- http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=239576