A father is fate
say the ancient oracles
or the modernist therapist
or the son despondent
harrowing against.
A mother
is mystery or
memory, a makeshift
stay against the father.
And me? I see now
how easy it was to be
a son. How if the son dies
before the father
there is no end to it
and so what eases
the father is the imminence
of his death, which eases
too the son
if the son is not
a child. And a mother?
Her death is that hole.
In the earth or the universe.
In the heart or the hell
the family has wrought
where the father vanishes
and all is her absence.
No one solves these.
No one outlives these.
There are reasons poems live,
people die. There are reasons.
Copyright © 2024 by David Mura. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 29, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the
same thing may be said for all of us—that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand. The bat,
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base—
ball fan, the statistician—case after case
could be cited did
one wish it; nor is it valid
to discriminate against “business documents and
school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
nor till the autocrats among us can be
“literalists of
the imagination”—above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion—
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness, and
that which is on the other hand,
genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
From Others for 1919: An Anthology of the New Verse (Nicholas L. Brown, 1920), edited by Alfred Kreymborg. This poem is in the public domain.
is a field
as long as the butterflies say
it is a field
with their flight
it takes a long time
to see
like light or sound or language
to arrive
and keep
arriving
we have more
than six sense dialect
and i
am still
adjusting to time
the distance and its permanence
i have found my shortcuts
and landmarks
to place
where i first took form
in the field
Copyright © 2022 by Marwa Helal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 3, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.