For the first day of autumn, a day on which the high temperature fell twenty-four degrees from Tuesday, in honor of the day, from poetryfoundation.org.
from To Autumn / by John Keats
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease
For fairy tales, wherever they may be found, from Transformations.
from Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty) / by Anne Sexton
Consider
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist’s trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
For all the cats our family has known, from The Complete Poems and Plays.
from The Naming of Cats / by T.S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficulty matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
For patience and waiting and pausing, as one season currently (barely) hides the next, from One Train.
from One Train / by Kenneth Koch
One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one man
May hide another. Pause to let the first one pass.
You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It can be
important
To have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.
PIA: from an April 30.
For the last day of National Poetry Month, 2016, from a sweet friend and her book, Keeping My Name.
from Chemist’s Daughter / by Catherine Tufariello
a Milky Way
was whirling on the tip of my fingernail,
ten thousand planets dancing on its pale
half moon
PIA: from September 28, 2014.
For beauty sleep, which I could really use about now, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.
from The History of Poetry / by Peter Cooley
Centuries yawned and fell back, stuporous,
eons stretched out
For, “why do I have three hard-cover copies of this book?” I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with my shared attachment to Plath. This one’s from Birthday Letters.
from Fairy Tale / by Ted Hughes
Forty-nine was your magic number.
Forty-nine this.
Forty-nine that. Forty-eight
Doors in your high palace
For time to start saying goodbye to the flowers, 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
For fun, from a great athlete.
from [Google] / by Muhammad Ali
Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare.
For the moments before, when the world was one kind of world, some different from what it became during and after those moments, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Photograph from September 11 / by Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Clare Cavanagh
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