For happy National Poetry Month, from The Doll Collection, edited by Diane Lockward.
from Dream Doll in the Making / by Marie Beaumont
She named her Serendipity-do.
She became a continuously floating thing.
A fishbowl notoriety followed her everywhere.
Against the elements, she fared well.
For a happy birthday to you and to me and to Stephen Spender (2.28.1909), from The Rain in Portugal.
from 2128 / by Billy Collins
It’s the year when everyone is celebrating
the 200th birthday of Donald Hall,
but I don’t know what to do with myself.
No one ever thought to tell me
that he and I would live
beyond anyone’s expectations
and that the challenge would be
to figure out how to keep ourselves busy.
For you and for beloved Sabrina and Beatrice on the most wished-to-be-beloved of days, from Tsim Tsum.
from Where Babies Come From / by Sabrina Orah Mark
‘Where,’ asked Beatrice, ‘do babies come from?’ Walter B. was hanging a painting in the crawl space. It was a painting of the babies. ‘Basically,’ said Walter B., ‘babies come from rubbing babies together. They rub and they rub. Once, I heard them rubbing.’ ‘Are you sure those are the babies where babies come from?’ asked Beatrice. She was staring at the painting. It was a painting of the babies. ‘They seem,’ said Beatrice, ‘to be different babies. Walter B. tilted his head. A door slammed. They stood for a long time and examined the painting. Beatrice was right. These were not the same babies. These were different babies. Some of these babies carried twine….
For a misnomer of a love poem, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.
from Love Poem / by Peter Meinke
When I was a man sharp as a polished axe in the polleny
I loved a woman whose perfume swayed in the air, turning
the modest flowers scarlet and loose
till the jonquils opened their throats and cackled out loud
For John Ashbery, too, one of our many missing voices who would have added thoughtful input to the international overflow of powerful emotion occurring on all sides of the political free-for-all, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Sitting on a Desk Together at SMU, 1982 / by Sandra McPherson
There’s a bird crowd beachcombing.
going to fragments —
For paying attention to the moment as it is given, from a poet whose hand I’ve had the pleasure of shaking, and from The Rain in Portugal.
from Bashō in Ireland / by Billy Collins
I am like the Japanese poet
who longed to be in Kyoto
even though he was already in Kyoto.
Dear Poetry Followers, this one’s for Ms. Dickinson, from THE MS OF MY KIN.
from 1862.29 / by Janet Holmes
No one could
Dear Poetry Followers, this one’s for the clock, which gets a starring role this upcoming weekend, from The Most of It.
from My Pet, My Clock / by Mary Ruefle
A clock, on the other hand and against all appearances, is a very poor way to tell time, for all it does is sit there or hang on the wall, and very seldom does it do anything of itself to remind you of time.
Dear Poetry Followers, here’s a fragment from a new book published just this month; it’s from one of our favorite Floridians, and from the book, Rift of Light.
from Complaint / by William Logan
If there are dream houses,
are there undreamed houses
full of the things we desire
or only those we deserve?
For a poet to whom I sent a fan note about twenty years ago, from Heart in a Jar, her new book.
from Dear Life: A Ten-Specimen Cento / by Kathleen McGookey
Whale bones litter the only sky. Fireflies are strung up and dangle by the glass walls.