For four of my very favorite lines in all of poetry, from The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Fourth Edition, 1.
from The Canterbury Tales / by Geoffrey Chaucer (1343-1400)
Whan that April with his showres soote
The droughte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veine in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flowr
A classic for spring’s second day, from poetryfoundation.org.
from To Daffodils / by Robert Herrick
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon
For time, from Poetry, 2015.
from The Clock in Literature / by Adam Saroyan
The clock in literature
Holds that moon.
For light, from The Academy of American Poets, poets.org. Ms. Limon has already been posted once, now twice, and I’m still trying not to duplicate any names yet; so, here’s a new poet for today’s (other) post.
from Sunset Park / by Patrick Phillips
Something like sadness,
like joy, like a sudden
love for my life
A love poem for the end of the world, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Conditional / by Ada Limón, b 1976
Say we never get to see it: bright
future, stuck like a bum star, never
For women who aren’t like this, the so many I’ve known, from Poetryfoundation.org. I heard this on the treadmill this morning while listening to a Poetry podcast. The rest of the poem is here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/245154
from Their Pleas / by Kelly Cherry, b. Louisiana
For Irish writers, daughters, and the earth, from Poetryfoundation.org. The rest of the poem is here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180325
from The Lost Land / by Eavan Boland, b. Dublin, 1944
For wishes and space, from Poetry, December, 2014.
from Waste / by Afaa Michael Weaver
feeling as if all the things that were falling
would fall and make their thunder, leave
For Berkeley and owls, from A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
from Adult / by Linda Gregg, b. 1942
I could be the ghost of my own life returning
to the places I lived best.
For blackberries and blue, from Fairy Tale Review, The Mauve Issue.
from In Every Tale of Hunger / by Emma Bolden
In winter the husband walks ever northward.
The wife stays dark and light in their house.
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