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