You are as gold as the half-ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through the half-opened flowers of the great flower tufts thick on the black limbs of an Illyrian apple bough. Can honey distill such fragrance As your bright hair— For your face is as fair as rain, yet as rain that lies clear on white honey-comb, lends radiance to the white wax, so your hair on your brow casts light for a shadow.
From Hymen, 1921. From The Imagist Poem: Modern Poetry in Miniature: An Anthology of the Finest Imagist Poems, edited by William Pratt and published by Story Line Press. © 2001 by the Estate of Hilda Doolittle. Posted with permission of Story Line Press. All rights reserved.
In cold
spring air the
white wisp-
visible
breath of
a blackbird
singing—
we don’t know
to un-
wrap these blind-
folds we
keep thinking
we are
seeing through
From Creatures of a Day by Reginald Gibbons. Copyright © 2008 by Reginald Gibbons. Reprinted by permission of LSU Press. All rights reserved.
This is what our dying looks like.
You believe in the sun. I believe
I can’t love you. Always be closing,
Said our favorite professor before
He let the gun go off in his mouth.
I turned 29 the way any man turns
In his sleep, unaware of the earth
Moving beneath him, its plates in
Their places, a dated disagreement.
Let’s fight it out, baby. You have
Only so long left—a man turning
In his sleep—so I take a picture.
I won’t look at it, of course. It’s
His bad side, his Mr. Hyde, the hole
In a husband’s head, the O
Of his wife’s mouth. Every night,
I take a pill. Miss one, and I’m gone.
Miss two, and we’re through. Hotels
Bore me, unless I get a mountain view,
A room in which my cell won’t work,
And there’s nothing to do but see
The sun go down into the ground
That cradles us as any coffin can.
Copyright © 2010 by Jericho Brown. Used by permission of the author.
my words are impoverished,
i don’t make cents here
a mouth that has no reason,
has no season
how sad it is that life is bent,
on how well you spoke
a bull’s thistle and a fox’s tail
You had taken your leave when the white man asked You to
You had taken your stance when the white man threatened You to
johnson’s grass and a lady’s thumb
and when their life tipped,
at the end of your rifle
they forgot their words—gook
they forgot their hate—freed
in a morning glory among witch’s grass
the heavens from above see all, she says
21 November 2004
Copyright © 2017 by May Yang. Used with permission of the author.
I walked the three floors
of the local antique store
and imagined white plaques
adorning each room
—but unlike museums
I could touch the displays,
and could take a seat
at a beautiful walnut table—
I could wonder about the moment
its palm-stained patina
went from simply dirty
to expensively antique—that
singular moment the thing
became slightly more
than a thing by simply
continuing to be
the very same thing—all its cracks
thick as the edge of a quarter—
all its smoothed over corners—
all its dark knots flourishing—
and I thought I could live
for awhile in this very
same body—and did, somehow,
and was loved, somehow,
into a third body, which totters
across the living room,
and whose knees I kiss
when he stumbles,
and the difference between
just now and not
is an aperture’s quick snap—
is breath-delicate—
it must have been Luck
—I see it—that saddled me,
the blind horse rising
and falling as the carnival
blared from the brass pipes,
as the carousel twirled
its crown of lights,
and one by one the bulbs
went dark—and so it is,
this life—this goddamn
lucky life—the organ
sounding off the melody,
the platform winding down,
and the horses still bounding.
Copyright © 2016 by Keith Leonard. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 7, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.