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 sometimes it does seem that night dreams have lives of their own, from Up Country: Poems of New England. For this book, Kumin shared illustrator Barbara Swan with her friend, Anne Sexton.
from The Dreamer, The Dream / by Maxine Kumin
and all this they do in secret
climbing behind his back
lumbering from their dark fissure
going up like a dream going on
For when it’s your birthday, you get to choose a favorite moment of poetic prose and call it, not “purple prose,” but poetry, from The Sound and the Fury.
from The Sound and the Fury: April Eighth 1928 / by William Faulkner
She wore a stiff black straw hat perched upon her turban, and a maroon velvet cape with a border of mangy and anonymous fur above a dress of purple silk, and she stood in the door for awhile with her myriad and sunken face lifted to the weather, and one gaunt hand flac-soled as the belly of a fish, then she moved the cape aside and examined the bosom of her gown.
For moments which pass so quickly, from The Widening Spell of the Leaves.
from The Spell of the Leaves / by Larry Levis
On Sundays, hiking, the boy finds wildflowers.
They look them up in a field guide before
She places them, like stillness itself, in a vase —
For Valentine’s Day, from Ordinary Things.
from Outside the Frame / by Jean Valentine
It is enough, now, anywhere,
with everyone you love there to talk to.
For the children, from Faithful and Virtuous Night.
from Utopia / by Louise Glück
When the train stops, the woman said, you must get on it. But how will I know, the child asked, it is the right train? It will be the right train, said the woman, because it is the right time.
For love of the arts, from One Train.
from Aesthetics of Cézanne / by Kenneth Koch
To have painted
the apples
that were in
the orchard
For sometimes Tate is the only answer, from Selected Poems.
from Conjuring Roethke / by James Tate
Hello again mad turnip.
Let’s tango together
down to the clear
glad river.
For it seems like a good time for this one, from The Lorax.
from The Lorax / by Dr. Seuss
At the far end of town
where the Grickle-grass grows
and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows
and no birds ever sing excepting old crows…
is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.
For Mary. We will miss you so much. While I can’t exactly condone my own action, I looked for a poem to commemorate Mary Tyler Moore’s passing today at 80, and not finding what I wanted, I came back to this; so, please forgive, but this one’s by me. The complete poem is also here: https://michelepizarroharman.com/about/. From Sycamore Review, Winter/Spring 1997, where it was originally published. The journal’s current website may be found at: http://www.sycamorereview.com/.
from The Mary Tyler Moore Show: Ninth Episode / by Michele Pizarro Harman
Return to the place of new-driven snow. Become again Mary, Scarlett, Eve.
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