Another American poet, another woman writing in the 1980’s. I have been to Spain, but my only earthquakes were in Los Angeles and one felt as far south as North County San Diego. http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/548
from The Earthquake She Slept Through / by Mary Jo Bang
She slept through the earthquake in Spain.
The day after was full of dead things.
And, another American poet, a woman, and a woman writing in the 1980’s. Harvard, Cambridge, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, Atlantic Monthly, New Republic, Japan and a smile as enigmatic as Ms. Sarandon’s. As well, this one’s thematically linked to the previous one.
from Home Movies: A Sort of Ode / by Mary Jo Salter
Another American poet, another woman writing in the 1980’s. This one’s from *my* book, The Gold Cell, from 1987. She and I couldn’t be more different as writers; however, if you look into anything deeply enough, your mind will offer up connections.
from I Go Back to May 1937 / by Sharon Olds
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it — she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man
An American poet who also happens to be a woman and who also happened to be writing in the 1980’s.
from The Dream of the Unified Field / by Jorie Graham
black, shiny, twirling on its single stem,
rooting, one foot on the earth,
twisting and twisting —
As I continue to try to not repeat poets and to not split infinitives (eventually, I will repeat, but, for now, it’s fun to see how many days I can go without doing so) I thought I might try something very loosely thematic. Robinson Jeffers placed keepsakes from around the world in the concrete of the stone pathways, in the tower, and in the exterior and interior walls of the home he built in Carmel. It’s a useful metaphor; so, this week, beginning with today, while building this part of my online home, I will embed some fragments from 20th-Century Women American Poets very loosely linked by the fact that they each wrote poetry in the 1980’s. This one’s from Blood Pressure, 1988. Too, I love to read her reading poems.
from The Last Poem About the Snow Queen / by Sandra M. Gilbert
and they love you
the way the teeth of winter
love the last red shred of November.
Something saintly for this weekend. I’m no Rilke expert, having put more focus on American poetry. I’ve been reading poetry for more than three decades, and the more I read, the more there is to read, not just the poems that have already been written, but, poets keep writing poems: go hunting for a good one this weekend. You’ll find multitudes from which to choose. This one is from *my* book, New Poems [1908]: The Other Part, by Rilke, and translated by Edward Snow.
from Saint George / by Rainer Maria Rilke
Alongside his battle
stood, the way towers stand, her prayer.
No Heaney yet? After I typed out the post, below, I flipped back to read the bio in The Spirit Level, and saw a note to myself that said I finished reading the book 7.1.96, and then a little postcard from myself fell out with my favorite poem from the book written on it, “‘Postscript,’ page 82.”
from Postscript / by Seamus Heaney
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
From French Symbolist Poetry, Trans. by CF MacIntyre. For Dr. Justice.
from Parisian Sketch / by Paul Verlaine
Dreaming of Plato, I walked on,
and of Phidias,
of Salamis and Marathon,
under winking eyes of blue jets of gas.
from Learning to Read / by Franz Wright
My father was unavailable, and my mother
looked like she was about to break,
and not into blossom, each time I spoke.
from Horses / by Murilo Mendes trans. by WS Merwin
The spirited horses shake out their long blue manes.
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