For the school year which nears an end, from The Apple that Astonished Paris.
from Schoolsville / by Billy Collins
Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.
I can see it nestled in a paper landscape
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.
For the ocean and its persistence, from Selected Poems, edited by Richard S. Kennedy.
from 5 (maggie and milly and molly and may) / by E.E. Cummings
and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles, and
For the excitement of awaiting the next race, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Joy / by Maurine Smith
Joy, Joy, run over me
Like water over a shining stone
For Happy Mother’s Day, from Selected Poems.
from Portraits: 2 / by E. E. Cummings
if there are any heavens mother will (all by herself) have
one.
For Ohio, from Collected Poems.
from The Jewel / by James Wright
When I stand upright in the wind,
My bones turn to dark emeralds.
For trees and birds, two of my favorite things, from one of Plath’s kind angels of influence, and from The Far Field.
from The Tree, the Bird / by Theodore Roethke
Uprose, uprose, the stony field uprose,
And every snail dipped toward me its pure horn.
The sweet light met me as I walked toward
A small voice calling from a drifting cloud.
For a beloved book with a great title that always feels especially relevant in May, especially if one is a teacher, from The Art of Drowning.
from The Biography of a Cloud / by Billy Collins
We do know this much:
that it billowed white at the mountainous top
and its flat underside was the gray of headstones;
that it slid onto the land and felt its way
over the contours of several western states,
always moving eastward, from left to right,
the way the eye moves over print
as if it were reading the earth with its blind shadow.
For a most-famous simile, from The Complete Poems, 1927-1979.
from The Bight / by Elizabeth Bishop
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
For if it’s your birthday today, happy birthday to you, from The Dream Songs.
from Dream Song #112 / by John Berryman
I say again, It is my Lady’s birthday
which must be honoured, for her high black hair
but not for that alone:
for every word she utters everywhere
shows her good soul, as true as a healed bone,–
being part of what I meant to say.
For may your muse be kinder and gentler than Ms. Hawley’s, from The Collected Poems.
from The Muse / by Beatrice Hawley
or she stands with her face
pressed against my window
trying to shatter glass
by turns with ice, with fire.
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