For flying, from poetryfoundation.org. The rest is here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/249964#about
from The Hawk’s Cry in Autumn / by Joseph Brodsky (1940-1996)
For gold of the kind that grows on trees and stems, from poetryfoundation.org. The rest of the poem is here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177244
from Feuerzauber / by Louis Untermeyer (1885-1977)
For catching passing ships, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Ships That Pass in the Night / by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872–1906)
And catch the gleaming of a random light,
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.
For birth and its magic, from The Oxford Book of American Poetry, edited by David Lehman. Happy birthday, Baby Ezra!
from November Cotton Flower / by Jean Toomer (1894-1967)
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed
Significance.
Oh, no, no Ashbery yet? This is for Ashbery, then, and for gray weather and lamps, from The Poetry of Surrealism, edited by Michael Benedikt.
from Love Again / by John Ashbery, b. 1927
Nights of sleep without waking in a bed that is too deep
For wind and winter, from Selected Translations, by W.S. Merwin.
from Chinese Figures / by Anonymous
A judge decides for ten reasons
nine of which nobody knows
For flotsam and fisher gulls, from the Poetry Foundation app.
from It Is There / by Babette Deutsch (1895-1982)
Motionless hulls
Enormous under a dead grey sky.
For grandfathers and lizards, from A Book of Luminous Things, by Czeslaw Milosz.
from Of His Life / by Wayne Dodd b.1930
Below the road
the whiteface cattle graze
in the morning peace.
For mailmen and armchairs, from The Best American Poetry 2014, Guest Editor, Terrance Hayes, Series Editor, David Lehman. A different one from Ms. Griggs, here:
http://www.pw.org/content/sky_girl_rosemary_griggs
from Script Poem / by Rosemary Griggs
CROW (V.O.)
Caw, caw, caw, caw.
For our January fog (which I love) whose job it is to keep the green at bay while inadvertently encouraging it, from The Oxford Book of American Poetry, edited by David Lehman.
from To John Keats, Poet at Spring Time / by Countee Cullen (1903-1946)
Somehow I feel your sensitive will
Is pulsing up some tremulous
Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves
Grow music as they grow
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