DPF/Tate

For absurdity, from Dome of the Hidden Pavilion. Some absurdity is necessary, like Tate, and some is not.

from Peace / by James Tate

“… You were just sitting here by yourself doing nothing?”

he said. “I watched the sunset. It was quite lovely,” I said.

“Isn’t that against the law?” he said. “Not that I know of,”

I said. “Well, you’re an absurd man,” he said. “Maybe I am,

maybe I’m not. It makes no difference to me…”

DPF / Tanning

For National Poetry Month and for all the essential and noisy and noiseless waiting, from my very favorite door connoisseur; Dorotheatanning.org.

from “Waiting” / by Dorothea Tanning

 
Surely this everywhere present is real
enough and eager, yet unable, to tell me
what I am waiting for now.

DPF / Plath

For all the travelers sending us their impossible postcards freely through the social-media ether, from Crossing the Water.

from Black Rook in Rainy Weather / by Sylvia Plath

A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects —

DPF/Beaumont

For happy National Poetry Month, from The Doll Collection, edited by Diane Lockward.

from Dream Doll in the Making / by Marie Beaumont

She named here Serendipity-do.
She became a continuously floating thing.
A fishbowl notoriety followed her everywhere.
Against the elements, she fared well.

DPF / Collins

For a happy birthday to you and to me and to Stephen Spender (2.28.1909), from The Rain in Portugal.

from 2128 / by Billy Collins

It’s the year when everyone is celebrating
the 200th birthday of Donald Hall,
but I don’t know what to do with myself.

No one ever thought to tell me
that he and I would live
beyond anyone’s expectations
and that the challenge would be
to figure out how to keep ourselves busy.

DPF / Mark

For you and for beloved Sabrina and Beatrice on the most wished-to-be-beloved of days, from Tsim Tsum.

from Where Babies Come From / by Sabrina Orah Mark

‘Where,’ asked Beatrice, ‘do babies come from?’ Walter B. was hanging a painting in the crawl space. It was a painting of the babies. ‘Basically,’ said Walter B., ‘babies come from rubbing babies together. They rub and they rub. Once, I heard them rubbing.’ ‘Are you sure those are the babies where babies come from?’ asked Beatrice. She was staring at the painting. It was a painting of the babies. ‘They seem,’ said Beatrice, ‘to be different babies. Walter B. tilted his head. A door slammed. They stood for a long time and examined the painting. Beatrice was right. These were not the same babies. These were different babies. Some of these babies carried twine….

DPF / Meinke

For a misnomer of a love poem, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.

from Love Poem / by Peter Meinke

When I was a man sharp as a polished axe in the polleny
      orchard
I loved a woman whose perfume swayed in the air, turning
      the modest flowers scarlet and loose
till the jonquils opened their throats and cackled out loud