For gathering the passing moments, from the September 16th entry of Poem A Day, Volume 2.
from Miniature / by Yannis Ritsos, translated by Edmund Keeley
…with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
For sis, from The Sleep Book.
from The Sleep Book / by Dr. Seuss
Way out in the west, in the town of Mercedd,
The Hinkle-Horn Honking Club just went to bed.
For our many worries over our friends and our friends’ homes in Florida, from Poetry, March 1918.
from The Hurricane / by Baker Brownell
The wind, night, rain,
With huge onwardness,
West, south, east, north, poured itself
Bitterly on the flat earth.
For the Swedish poets, from A Star by My Head, poems translated by Malena Mörling and Jonas Ellerström.
from Poetics / by Gunnar Ekelöf
What I have written
is written between the lines
For Work & Fancy who walk along holding hands sometimes, and, like any other couple, sometimes don’t; from The New American Poetry, edited by Donald M. Allen.
from The Instruction Manual / by John Ashbery
As I sit looking out of a window of the building
I wish I did not have to write the instruction manual on the uses of a new metal.
For fabulous beasts, from poetry 180.
from The Late Passenger / by C.S. Lewis
The sky was low, the sounding rain was falling dense and dark,
And Noah’s sons were standing at the window of the Ark.
For this Labor Day weekend’s College Football season openers, from poetry 180; supporting teams who lost isn’t difficult, UCLA & UF. If you’re a fan, stay loyal.
from Football / by Louis Jenkins
I take the snap from the center, fake to the right, fade back…
I’ve got protection. I’ve got a receiver open downfield…
For another poet we will miss, from poetryfoundation.org: July 28, 1927-September 3, 2017.
from How to Continue / by John Ashbery (1927-2017)
For the rain in Texas, which sometimes falls too little and sometimes falls so much too much, from The Spirit Level.
from The Rain Stick / by Seamus Heaney
Upend the rain stick and what happens next
Is a music that you never would have known
To listen for.
For fathers and paper boats, from The Spirit Level.
from The Flight Path / by Seamus Heaney
A dove rose in my breast
Every time my father’s hands came clean
With a paper boat between them, ark in air,
The lines of it as taut as a pegged tent
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