For oobleck and other oddities, from The Poetry of Surrealism: An Anthology, edited by Michael Benedikt.
from Sport Items / by Philippe Soupault, translated by Joachim Neugroschel
But ever since that day there have been a lot of clouds in the sky
a lot of birds in the trees
and a lot of salt in the sea
For one place to look for muses is here, in The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, translated by Juidth Hemschemeyer and edited by Roberta Reeder.
from The White House / by Anna Akhmatova
But someone has carried it off,
Taken it to another town,
Or torn from my memory forever
The road that leads there…
The sound of the bagpipes dies down,
Snow flies, like cherry blossoms…
And it’s obvious nobody knows
That the white house is gone.
For the day, from poetryfoundation.org.
from March / by Richard Kenney
For the story of Oedipus, from The Throne of Labdacus.
from One: The God Tunes the Strings / by Gjertrud Schnackenberg
Then the god begins tuning the strings
With the squeak of the wooden pegs
Rotating in their holes,
As if he were setting the tragic text
To the music of houseflies.
For finding any way to share one’s own opinion and to communicate, from Phantom Pains of Madness.
from The Stars / by Noelle Kocot
But
The
Only
Thing
I
Can
Do
Is
To
Wave
My
Purple
Scarf
For sometimes there’s sudden and unexplained light, from Fairy Tale Review: The Mauve Issue.
from Six: A / by Rachel Zavecz
{A} ntlers sprouted her head she was a child starlight caught in their translucent branches
For those speaking trees, from The Best American Poetry, 2013, Guest Editor Denise Duhamel, Series Editor, David Lehman.
from Henry’s Song / by Beckian Fritz Goldberg
the trees here taller than any trees in your dreams. You’re afraid
if you stay here they might talk
For gathering against silence, from The House on Marshland.
from The School Children / Louise Glück
The children go forward with their little satchels.
And all morning the mothers have labored
to gather the late apples, red and gold,
like words of another language.
For artists can be figures of speech too, from Black Aperture.
from Monet as a Verb / by Matt Rasmussen
or the one
after another
that Monet the
city behind
the window.
For walking alone, from The Star by My Head: Poets from Sweden.
from Visitor / by Bruno K. Öijer
and my head spanned the night
where a star continually fell
out of my mouth rain emerged
like a brittle and deserted ringing from
a little clock made of brass
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