For troubled histories, from poetryfoundation.org.
from You Say, Columbus with his Argosies / by Trumbull Stickney
For cross country running, for this is what came up in the search at poetryfoundation.org.
from Elegy in a Country Courtyard / by GK Chesterton
And birds and bees of England
About the cross can roam.
For sleep, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Night in Sine / by LÉOPOLD SÉDAR SENGHOR, TRANSLATED BY MELVIN DIXON
Woman, place your soothing hands upon my brow,
Your hands softer than fur.
Above us balance the palm trees, barely rustling
In the night breeze. Not even a lullaby.
For locks and scenes, from The Best American Poetry, 1997, edited by James Tate.
from Downward Mobility / by Lewis Warsh
I’ll probably make the same mistake at least one more time in my life before I learn there’s an alternative.
For dreams, from The Best American Poetry, 1997, edited by James Tate.
from Recruiting Poster / by Hillel Schwartz
Be what or who or where
ever, but be torrid.
Oh, be most, then more so, then beyond.
An apologetic delay with some unapologetic lines from a poet with whom I ate dinner once in Florida (as did our whole graduate class) thanks to our William Logan. I sat beside Derek Walcott. He was a friendly giant. This one’s from The Best American Poetry, 1997, edited by James Tate.
from Italian Eclogues / by Derek Walcott
metaphors
breed and flit in the cave of the mind, and one hears
in the waves’ incantation and the August conifers,
and reads the ornate cyrillics
For mothers and daughters, from The Best American Poetry, 1997, edited by James Tate.
from Diversion / by Rosanna Warren
“Darling, I can’t
locate myself–” “Where
are you?”
For bus stops, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.
from Tuesday / by Denver Butson
A man standing at the bus stop
reading a newspaper is on fire
For St. Bridget Press, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.
from The Printer’s Error / by Aaron Fogel
First: I hold that all books
and all printed
matter have
errors, obvious or no,
and that these are their
most significant moments
For the new month and the hopeful-small showers it brought already, from poetryfoundation.org.
from October / by Bill Berkson, b. 1939
The October wind . . . nests
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