For trying to reach back through the years to parent your own younger self, from The Star by My Head: Poets from Sweden, edited and translated by Malena Mörling and Jonas Ellerström.
from Hold Him There / by Bruno K. Öijer
I had phoned my childhood
listened to the dial tone that went through
and when my mom answered
I asked to speak to myself
For these best clouds ever, which we rarely see here, from poetryfoundation.org. And, this one’s for the magical Kay Ryan, who I met in Lancaster, California, when she read at her community college alma mater, and later in Key West, when she read and spoke and paneled at the 2010 Key West Literary Seminar.
from Cloud / by Kay Ryan
For caves at the bottom of lakes and grief as large as mountains, from Poetry, April 2017.
from Dear, Beloved / by Sumita Chakraborty
It would be winter, with a thin snow. An aged sunbeam
would fall on me, then on a nearby summit, until a mass
of ice would come upon me like a crown of master diamonds
in shades of gold and pink.
For the day, which is all blue and green today before the storm tomorrow, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Spring / by Gerard Manley Hopkins
For mind and imagination, from the imaginative mind of one of my teachers at UF, Dr. Justice, from Compendium: A Collection of Thoughts on Prosody, by Donald Justice, edited by David Koehn & Alan Soldofsky.
from The Garden / by Andrew Marvell
For a woman who lived the dark in a fairytale and couldn’t unearth her way out, from Transformations.
from One-Eye, Two-Eyes, Three-Eyes / by Anne Sexton
The next morning they all saw
a great tree with leaves of silver
glittering like tinfoil
and apples made of fourteen carat gold.
For Derek Walcott, the Nobel-prize winning poet we lost Friday on one of our last days of winter, from poetryfoundation.org. I sat next to him at dinner after a poetry workshop which William Logan had arranged for our class. Walcott carried his island with him and seemed like a man thoroughly at home anywhere.
from The Season of Phantasmal Peace / by Derek Walcott
For dreams and other oddities, from Memoir of the Hawk.
from Hanging By a Thread / by James Tate
They looked puzzled, what did
we mean? They had gone to bed early and slept
well. They knew nothing about sledding at
midnight, nothing at all.
For how could I forget Heaney on St. Patrick’s Day? This one’s a favorite 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
the black river of himself.
For poetry on St. Patrick’s Day, from a poet to whom I passed the handshake passed to me from a hand that shook Emily Dickinson’s, and from The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems.
from The Trouble with Poetry / by Billy Collins
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
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