(Poem #13)Marengo Out of the sump rise the marigolds. From the rim of the marsh, muslin with mosquitoes, rises the egret, in his cloud-cloth. Through the soft rain, like mist, and mica, the withered acres of moss begin again. When I have to die, I would like to die on a day of rain-- long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end. And I would like to have whatever little ceremony there might be take place while the rain is shoveled and shoveled out of the sky, and anyone who comes must travel, slowly and with thought, as around the edges of the great swamp. |
Marengo -- Mary Oliver
The Comforters -- Dora Sigerson Shorter
(Poem #12)The Comforters When I crept over the hill, broken with tears, When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears, I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair. When I stood lone on the height, my sorrow did speak, As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. When I went to thy grave, broken with tears, When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind soft in my ears, I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair. When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak, When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. |
I Finally Managed To Speak To Her -- Hal Sirowitz
(Poem #11)I Finally Managed To Speak To Her She was sitting across from me on the bus. I said, "The trees look so much greener in this part of the country. In New York City everything looks so drab." She said, "It looks the same to me. Show me a tree that's different." "That one," I said. "Which one?" she said. "It's too late," I said; "we already passed it." "When you find another one," she said, "let me know." And then she went back to reading her book. |
Selecting A Reader -- Ted Kooser
(Poem #10)Selecting A Reader 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. |
Second Chance -- Louis McKee
(Poem #9)Second Chance In my dream I return to the place I went wrong, and given this chance to change things, I go on down the way I went before. Even in sleep I know there is only one go— and it went well the first time. Where it didn't- well, it will be good to see her again. |
Things Shouldn't Be So Hard -- Kay Ryan
(Poem #8)Things Shouldn't Be So Hard A life should leave deep tracks: ruts where she went out and back to get the mail or move the hose around the yard; where she used to stand before the sink, a worn-out place; beneath her hand the china knobs rubbed down to white pastilles; the switch she used to feel for in the dark almost erased. Her things should keep her marks. The passage of a life should show; it should abrade. And when life stops, a certain space— however small— should be left scarred by the grand and damaging parade. Things shouldn't be so hard. |
A Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal -- Billy Collins
(Poem #7)A Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal Every morning I sit across from you at the same small table, the sun all over the breakfast things— curve of a blue-and-white pitcher, a dish of berries— me in a sweatshirt or robe, you invisible. Most days, we are suspended over a deep pool of silence. I stare straight through you or look out the window at the garden, the powerful sky, a cloud passing behind a tree. There is no need to pass the toast, the pot of jam, or pour you a cup of tea, and I can hide behind the paper, rotate in its drum of calamitous news. But some days I may notice a little door swinging open in the morning air, and maybe the tea leaves of some dream will be stuck to the china slope of the hour— then I will lean forward, elbows on the table, with something to tell you, and you will look up, as always, your spoon dripping milk, ready to listen. |
One Art -- Elizabeth Bishop
(Poem #7)One Art The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. ---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. |
The Past is Still There -- Deborah Garrison
(Poem #5)The Past is Still There I've forgotten so much. What it felt like back then, what we said to each other. But sometimes when I'm standing at the kitchen counter after dinner and I look out the window at the dark thinking of nothing, something swims up. Tonight this: your laughing into my mouth as you were trying to kiss me. |
Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye -- Leonard Cohen
(Poem #4)Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm, your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm, yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new, in city and in forest they smiled like me and you, but now it's come to distances and both of us must try, your eyes are soft with sorrow, Hey, that's no way to say goodbye. I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time, walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me, it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea, but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie, your eyes are soft with sorrow, Hey, that's no way to say goodbye. I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm, your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm, yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new, in city and in forest they smiled like me and you, but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie, your eyes are soft with sorrow, Hey, that's no way to say goodbye. |