Waking Elsewhere -- Cecilia Woloch

(Poem #184)Waking Elsewhere I woke up dreaming my mother's garden— fields in autumn, green turning gold, grasses scythed down in the late, dark sun; and here will be corn, she was saying, tomatoes, flowers I never knew she loved. I woke to a child climbing into my bed —four-year-old girl of my sister's son— hair like silk and the color of wheat falling into her eyes, begging me to get up. And in my mother's kitchen the strong light smelled of coffee and autumn, in fact. In fact, my mother,  who hasn't gardened in twenty years, was taking a bath. I heard her splashing through the walls. It was October; the child came forward, one fresh egg cupped in her palm. I woke up dreaming the harrowed fields, sharp with stubble, my mother's lands. She was already preparing for spring; she was already stepping naked from the bath, away from grief— a widow with work to do, weeds in the yard, and the child calling softly to me, come on, come on, come on. -- Cecilia Woloch

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud -- William Wordsworth

(Poem #183)I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. -- William Wordsworth

Litany -- Billy Collins

[BC] This is another poem that involves lifting lines, and in this case I took two lines not just out of the middle of the poem but actually took the first two lines of someone else’s poem and essentially re-wrote the poem 
for him (laughter). This is a professional courtesy. I came across this poem in a magazine, it’s a love poem, and it just seemed to suffer from a very outdated theory about how to approach women in poetry that male 
poets were laboring under. The assumption was that what women really wanted more than anything in life was not loyalty, or passion, or fidelity, or respect – they just wanted similes. You know, they just wanted to be 
compared to stuff (continued laughter).  

(Poem #182)Litany       You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight. However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air. It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk. And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse. It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof. I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table. I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman's tea cup. But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine. -- Billy Collins

Sitting All Evening Alone in the Kitchen -- Ted Kooser

(Poem #181)Sitting All Evening Alone in the Kitchen The cat has fallen asleep,  the dull book of a dead moth  loose in its paws. The moon in the window, the tide  gurgling out through the broken shells  in the old refrigerator. Late, I turn out the lights.  The little towns on top of the stove  glow faintly neon,  sad women alone at the bar. -- Ted Kooser

In an Artist's Studio -- Christina Rossetti

(Poem #180)In an Artist's Studio One face looks out from all his canvasses, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans; We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer greens, A saint, an angel--every canvass means The same one meaning, neither more nor less. He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light; Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream. -- Christina Rossetti

Hope -- Emily Dickinson

(Poem #179)Hope Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. -- Emily Dickinson

He wishes for the cloths of heaven -- William Butler Yeats

(Poem #178)He wishes for the cloths of heaven Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams. -- William Butler Yeats