For no one would exactly call this a heat wave, with our current temperatures in the high 70’s, but starting Friday, we’ll see our fireplaces back on, so this is for the brief heat and capris, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Record-Breaking Heat Wave / by Jeff Friedman
a day
when you hear
the wasps under the roof
drumming lightly
the paper walls of their nest
For National Poetry Month, which I’m supposing is our month because of Eliot, from The Waste Land.
from The Waste Land / by T.S. Eliot
For our poet-nurse, amazing Catherine, from Keeping My Name.
from Chemist’s Daughter / by Catherine Tufariello
Thumping the dinner table, Dad would say
it too was atoms – massed in galaxies
made mainly of empty space.
For these best clouds ever, which we rarely see here, from poetryfoundation.org. And, this one’s for the magical Kay Ryan, who I met in Lancaster, California, when she read at her community college alma mater, and later in Key West, when she read and spoke and paneled at the 2010 Key West Literary Seminar.
from Cloud / by Kay Ryan
For mind and imagination, from the imaginative mind of one of my teachers at UF, Dr. Justice, from Compendium: A Collection of Thoughts on Prosody, by Donald Justice, edited by David Koehn & Alan Soldofsky.
from The Garden / by Andrew Marvell
For a woman who lived the dark in a fairytale and couldn’t unearth her way out, from Transformations.
from One-Eye, Two-Eyes, Three-Eyes / by Anne Sexton
The next morning they all saw
a great tree with leaves of silver
glittering like tinfoil
and apples made of fourteen carat gold.
For dreams and other oddities, from Memoir of the Hawk.
from Hanging By a Thread / by James Tate
They looked puzzled, what did
we mean? They had gone to bed early and slept
well. They knew nothing about sledding at
midnight, nothing at all.
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 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
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