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
Poetry
DPF / Kelly
For unexplainable happenings, from Song.
from Song / by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named
The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after
The night’s bush of stars, because the goat’s silky hair
Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit.
DPF / Harvey
For griffins and centaurs, from Modern Life.
from You Know This Too / by Matthea Harvey
The bird on the gate and the goat nosing the grass below make a funny little fraction, thinks the centaur. He wonders if this thought is more human than horse, more poetry than prose.
DPF / Gerstler
For one of May’s most welcome weathers, from Crown of Weeds.
from Introducing: The Clouds / by Amy Gerstler
Introducing: the clouds.
Billowing, tufted,
or ragged. Flying
DPF / Pasternak
For the most beautiful weather, from Selected Poems.
from Storm, Instantaneous Forever / by Boris Pasternak, translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
The lilac darkened. And the storm
Came bounding in from the meadows
With a sheaf of lightning flashes
DPF / Lowell
For editing, travels and side trips, from Day by Day. Yesterday, corrected.
from Ulysses and Circe / by Robert Lowell
What is more uxorious than waking at five
with the sun and three hours free?
DPF / Rasmussen
For impressionism, from Black Aperture.
from Monet as a Verb / by Matt Rasmussen
The raindrop
that splatters
on a blade
of grass is
no more
worshipped
than the one
DPF / Lowell
For travels and side trips, from Day by Day.
from Ulysses and Circe / by Robert Lowell
What is more uxorious than waking at five
with the sun and three hours free?
DPF / Carson
For Emily Brontë and things we see through, from Glass, Irony and God.
from The Glass Essay / by Anne Carson
But it has no name.
It is transparent.
Sometimes she calls it Thou.
DPF / Milosz
For the passing moment, from Bells in Winter.
from Encounter / by Czeslaw Milosz, translated by the author and Lillian Vallee
That was long ago. Today, neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 