This is from her book, Crown of Weeds, bought, possibly, on Dubuque Street, at Prairie Lights. Or, that’s the bookmark that was in it when I bought it.
from Crown of Weeds / by Amy Gerstler
Much of me is dead, but more of me
is stronger. I still consume the world
with my eyes
from Anna Akhmatova / by Fanny Howe
you’d know me as your own.
If only I could call you
mother!
from The Hill / by Anthony Hecht
And that was all, except for the cold and silence
That promised to last forever, like the hill.
So many things, daily, remind me of Bartleby.
from Poem Beginning with a Fragment from Bartleby the Scrivener / by August Kleinzahler
Something about that it was the princess, not
the Pavane, that was supposed to be dead.
from The Mirrors / by Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen
All day the mirrors kindle their brilliance
Never are they empty
1612?-1672 — sailed in with the founding party of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
from In Honor of that High and Mighty Princess, Queen Elizabeth, of Most Happy Memory: Her Epitaph / by Anne Bradstreet
Here sleeps the Queen, this is the royal bed,
O’th’ damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,
Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air
No Roethke yet? Oh no.
from The Lost Son / by Theodore Roethke
A lively understandable spirit
Once entertained you.
It will come again.
Be still.
Wait.
from 73 Poems: #19 / by E. E. Cummings
Q: how numb can an unworld get?
A: number
from The Darkling Thrush / by Thomas Hardy
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
I did not know she was a classmate of Marianne Moore’s. Wonder if they got along? I picture HD slumped in the back, and Marianne Moore bent over her paper in the front row.
from Moonrise / by H.D.
She is great,
we measure her by the pine trees.
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