For writing as salvation, from Nurture. I saw Maxine Kumin speak at the Key West Literary Seminar in January of 2010 (kwls.org). She had such a peaceful spirit and calming manner.
from On Being Asked to Write a Poem in Memory of Anne Sexton / by Maxine Kumin (1925-2014)
The elk discards his antlers every spring.
They rebud, they grow, they are growing
an inch a day to form a rococo rack
For waiting of all kinds, from The End.
from Lines Out to Silence / by Fanny Howe
How long I’ve waited, I can’t count
Long days in green — eternal advent —
For a favorite poem of late autumn, from late summer, and from The Norton Introduction to Literature, Ninth Edition, edited by Alison Booth, J. Paul Hunter, and Kelly J. Mays.
from [That time of year thou mayst in me behold] / by William Shakespeare, 1609
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
For a Monday at home, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Labor Day / by Rodney Koeneke
While time for them is a melody
played at long intervals across condominiums
we who are the power
know our systems so much better
now come to this hour outside it
now give it new form on guitar
For the long weekend, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Labor Day / by Joseph Millar
For beauty from anywhere, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Autobiographical Fragment / by Katie Petersen
In those days I began to see light under every
bushel basket
For small towns, fragments, and returns, from What Thou Lovest Well, Remains American.
from Reading at the Old Federal Courts Building, St. Paul / by Richard Hugo
That girl who laughed,
first trial, is teaching high school and she
didn’t know me when she said she loved my poems,
was using them in class to demonstrate how
worlds are put together, one fragment at a time.
For fairytales, from The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova.
from Lullaby / by Anna Akhmatova
Far off in the enormous forest,
Near the dark blue river,
There lived in a dark hut with his children
A poor woodcutter.
For work, from The Dream Songs.
from Dream Song #30 / by John Berryman
As a little boy I always thought
“I’m an archaeologist”; who
could be more respected peaceful serious than that?
For forever and never, from a favorite woman and her book-a-favorite book, Tsim Tsum.
from The Oldest Animal Writes a Letter Home / by Sabrina Orah Mark
May it is not impossibled the arms wave gloryisplea in the wynds for me? I ask the sheeps. The sheeps say everything is not impossibled. I knowed those arms is not That Mutter’s arms. I clopse my eyes and pretend.
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