For if you need some kings, queens and dragons this week, from The Norton Anthology of Literature, Fourth Edition.
from The Faerie Queene / by Edmund Spenser
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low,
And over all a blacke stole she did throw,
As one that inly mournd: so was she sad,
And heavie sat upon her palfrey slow:
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had
For poetry, from Poetry, July/August 2017.
from Essay on Craft / by Ocean Vuong
Because the butterfly’s yellow wing
flickering in black mud
was a word
stranded by its language.
For bridges and boycotts, from Poetry, July/August 2017: Asian American Poets.
from The Prize / by Hayan Charara
A book with poems
about Bessie Smith,
Marilyn Monroe,
Queen Elizabeth,
William Tell
For a Happy 4th, if you celebrate it, and for a happy Tuesday, if not, from poetryfoundation.org.
from I Hear America Singing / by Walt Whitman
For dragons, from Chinese Love Poems.
from Dragon of the Shoreless Sea / by Li Hung-chang, translated by Peter Rudolph
Carry her away in your ship of ghosts, and carry me away with her … that we may float forever together on that sea
For the upcoming holiday and weather and kings who wish for control of everything, even the weather, from Bartholmew and the Oobleck.
from Bartholomew and the Oobleck: (Magicians’ Chant) / by Dr. Seuss
‘Oh, snow and rain are not enough!
Oh, we must make some brand-new stuff!
So feed the fire with wet mouse hair,
Burn an onion. Burn a chair.
Burn a whisker from your chin.
And burn a long sour lizard skin….’
For English poetry, from Poetry, May 2017.
from Kaftan / by Lucy Tunstall
My mother has taken me to Paddington station.
We are inside a whale.
For language and poor maidens and the last day of June, since I know how to count these things after all, from Sound the Deep Waters: Women’s Romantic Poetry in the Victorian Age.
from The Mountain Maid / by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Half seated on a mossy crag,
Half crouching in the heather;
I found a little Irish maid,
All in June’s golden weather.
For moments that shine, wherever you find them, from Poem A Day, Volume 2.
from Sparkles from the Wheel / by Walt Whitman
Where the city’s ceaseless crowd moves on the livelong day,
Withdrawn I join a group of children watching, I pause aside with them.
For your waxing crescent moon today, from Metamorphoses, translated by Charles Martin.
from Metamorphoses: Medea and Aeson / by Publius Ovidius Naso/Ovid
[the moon] sets out walking barefoot from her house,
with garments loosened and with unbound hair
cascading down her back, and makes her way
without companion, straying through the deep
silence of midnight, when men and birds and beasts
are all released into profound repose,
with not a peep or murmur from the hedgerow,
and in the trees the leaves are stilly silent,
and even the dewy air is motionless;
she lifts her arms up to the brilliant stars
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