An apologetic delay with some unapologetic lines from a poet with whom I ate dinner once in Florida (as did our whole graduate class) thanks to our William Logan. I sat beside Derek Walcott. He was a friendly giant. This one’s from The Best American Poetry, 1997, edited by James Tate.
from Italian Eclogues / by Derek Walcott
metaphors
breed and flit in the cave of the mind, and one hears
in the waves’ incantation and the August conifers,
and reads the ornate cyrillics
For mothers and daughters, from The Best American Poetry, 1997, edited by James Tate.
from Diversion / by Rosanna Warren
“Darling, I can’t
locate myself–” “Where
are you?”
For bus stops, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.
from Tuesday / by Denver Butson
A man standing at the bus stop
reading a newspaper is on fire
For St. Bridget Press, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.
from The Printer’s Error / by Aaron Fogel
First: I hold that all books
and all printed
matter have
errors, obvious or no,
and that these are their
most significant moments
Another for trees from Georgia, and from poetryfoundation.org.
from Autumn Shade / by Edgar Bowers (1924-2000)
For the trees, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Trees are Down / by Charlotte Mew
In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.
There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;
They must have heard the sparrows flying,
While this should be a “first-day-of-autumn” poem, as it turns out, it’s a last-day-of-summer poem for centenarians from a centenarian, from poetryfoundation.org.
from End of Summer / by Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006)
For the love of poetry, from Contemporary Russian Poetry, selected and translated by Gerald S. Smith.
from 135 / by Yurii Kublanovsky
The fate of verse is world-sovereign,
though the column it makes be short,
if into the mysterious, missing the manifest,
it’s spectral remnant is inserted.
For poems by children, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Autumn / by Joan Mitchell
The fields are matted with sun-tanned stalks —
Wind rushes by.
For the squirrel ‘ s in paradise, from Contemporary Russian Poetry, selected and translated by Gerald S. Smith.
from There surely must be such places / by Dmitril Bobyshev
There surely must be such places,
where animals too have a simple life.
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