For baseball, from The Old Life.
from The Thirteenth Inning / by Donald Hall
When the moon rises, light standards cast eldritch shadows
on players who cast no shadows, and we observe four
transparent pitchers superimposed on each other,
from ghostly Babe Ruth past Cy Young and Smokey Joe Wood
to Parson Lewis.
For grace, from the FSG book of Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry, edited by Ilan Stavans.
from The Disappearance of Luisa Porto / by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, translated by Thomas Colchie
No more searching. Silence the radios.
The calm of petals opening
in a blue garden
where hearts are unburdened
For pillars and dances, from Early Poems, 1935-1955.
from In Uxmal / by Octavio Paz
The time is transparent:
even if the bird is invisible,
let us see the color of his song.
For storks and books, from Ordinary Words.
from Reading / by Ruth Stone
The girl wraps her hands in her apron.
Small yellow flowers
have clumped among the tussocks
of coarse grass.
For full circles and the sea, from Selected Poems.
from Flowers by the Sea / by William Carlos Williams
When over the flowery, sharp pasture’s
edge, unseen, the salt ocean
lifts its form–chicory and daisies
tied, released, seem hardly flowers alone
but color and the movement
For graduation season, and for our niece, who graduated from nursing school yesterday, from poetryfoundation.org. This is a repeated poem, but it bears re-visiting.
from The School Where I Studied / by Yehuda Amichai, translated by Chana Bloch
The windows of a classroom always open
to the future
When under stress, try Tate. For the care and feeding of the imagination, from The Eternal Ones of the Dream.
from Behind the Milk Bottle / by James Tate
Once as a river of molten lava
poured through my living room
I was cut off from my emergency kit
For undecipherable lilacs, from The Star by My Head.
from You Have to Practice Reality / by Werner Aspenström, translated by Malena Mörling and Jonas Ellerström
When your sister comes to visit
you often talk of lilacs
as if lilacs were an extinct species
and did not bloom new each June
in halls of mild honey and the songs of thrushes.
For Seville and Córdova, from The Burial of the Count of Orgaz & other poems.
from Tauromachian Emblems / by Pablo Picasso, translated by Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris
Ibarra (Don Eduardo) Seville
blue turquoise and straw yellow emblems
For basalt eggs and swans’ feet, from North.
from The Grauballe Man / by Seamus Heaney
As if he had been poured
in tar, he lies
on a pillow of turf
and seems to weep
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