Category Archives: Poetry

A Poem for Easter Morning, 2017

Image result for james wright horses

Easter is as old as dirt, yet the year, 2017, sounds like something out of science fiction, if you were born midway through the 20th century as I was. And in this age of instant information, I woke to scan the world for its morning news: clashes in Berkley, a failed rocket launch in North Korea, a child crushed to death in a rotating restaurant atop a skyscraper in Atlanta. Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me.

Here’s a poem by James Wright.

A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

 

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Lucia Perillo Is Gone

I just read Lucia Perillo died. She came to our school years ago and gave such a brilliant reading, I’ve been following her career ever since. I learned so much from her poetry–the art of humor, the freedom to talk about things you don’t talk about. There were her beautiful lines that I admired, stole from. There was her honesty that took us into the vulnerable corners, and her courage. So many of her later poems talked about the body as a cage, as meat. She had MS, and she knew it was coming for her. Below is one of her most famous poems, I suppose the poem that tells the story of the moment she first realized her life would never be the same. My heart goes out to her husband, James, and to Lucia, now freed of the body.

 

THE BODY MUTINIES (from The Atlantic)

When the doctor runs out of words and still

I won’t leave, he latches my shoulder and

steers me out doors. Where I see his blurred hand,

through the milk glass, flapping good-bye like a sail

(& me not griefstruck yet but still amazed: how

words and names–medicine’s blunt instruments–

undid me. And the seconds, the half seconds,

it took for him to say those words). For now,

I’ll just stand in the courtyard watching bodies

struggle in then out of one lean shadow

a tall fir lays across the wet flagstones.

Before the sun clears the valance of gray trees

and finds the surgical-supply-shop window

and makes the dusty bedpans glint like coins.

 

 

One Sentence from Salinger

I came across this line by J.D. Salinger and thought it was a line from a poem:

She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.

It’s not a line from a poem. It’s from a short story, “A Girl I Knew.” The story is about a girl a young man knew. The girl later became a Nazi victim. The man returns to her apartment after the war, and realizes everything has change.

Somehow, I don’t care what the story is about. The line is enough.

Here are other beautiful lines to ponder.

Christmas Trees

Christmas Trees

By William Logan

How should I now recall
the icy lace of the pane
like a sheet of cellophane,
or the skies of alcohol

poured over the saltbox town?
On that stony New England tableau,
the halo of falling snow
glared like a waxy crown.

Through blue frozen lots
my giant parents strolled,
wrapped tight against the cold
like woolen Argonauts,

searching for that tall
perfection of Scotch pine
from the hundreds laid in line
like the dead at Guadalcanal.

The clapboard village aglow
that starry stark December
I barely now remember,
or the brutish ache of snow

burning my face like quicklime.
Yet one thing was still missing.
I saw my parents kissing,
perhaps for the last time.

 

from Poetry (June 2012).

 

 

 

 

The Web Poet: Best Selling Tyler Knott Gregson

In The New York Times, Alexandra Alternov writes about a new breed of poet: Tyler Knott Gregson, a web poet whose found success with his viral verse: “Seven years ago, Mr. Gregson, 34, was scraping by as a freelance copywriter, churning out descriptions of exercise equipment, hair products and medical imaging devices. Now, thanks to his 560,000 Instagram and Tumblr followers, he has become the literary equivalent of a unicorn: a best-selling celebrity poet.” Check out the unheard-of-before success of his first book of poetry, Chasers of Light, here.

 

Henri Cole Interviewed in The Paris Review

There’s a wonderful interview with Henri Cole in The Paris Review–many insights on craft and the artistic mindset. Here’s a glimpse into how he wrote Middle Earth:

“I decided to try writing free-verse sonnets and bringing to them some of the qualities of Japanese poetry, valuing sincerity over artifice, frequent use of simile, the presence of nature as an emblem for interior states, and so on. The first poems I wrote were in a rather minimalist style, like a rock garden. I tried to write poems of pure contentment, because I was so deeply moved by the setting—the rice fields were being planted and were full of happy frogs that talked all night and accompanied my sleep. It was intense. And slowly, I wrote about it. And these were the poems that became Middle Earth.”

The New Yorker’s Poetry Podcast

I’ve listened to The New Yorker Fiction Podcast for years.  It’s free online and in iTunes.  To hear a story read, and then to be able to sit in with a writer and editor talking about said story–what works and, sometimes, doesn’t work in the story–well, it’s like being in an MFA workshop with guest speakers.  Now the magazine has a Poetry Podcast, started just this past December.  Paul Muldoon, New Yorker poetry editor, offers this description:

The structure of the Poetry Podcast is very simple. Each podcast consists of a conversation between myself and a guest poet. In each, the guest reads not only a poem of hers that has appeared in The New Yorker but also introduces, and reads, a poem by another contributor to the magazine that she particularly admires.