When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything blooming.
I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.
From Alive Together: New and Selected Poems (Louisiana State University Press, 1996). Copyright © 1996 by Lisel Mueller. Reprinted by permission of Louisiana State University Press.
If in the blue gloom of early morning,
the sky heavy with portents of snowfall,
the air crisp with the cold that will
gather about us for the long season ahead,
you see the slick blackness of my car
humming in the empty A lot; and if you
see the light of the dash against
my face, and notice my mouth moving
like a sputtering madman’s might,
and if you see me wave a hand
toward my head and pull away
the knit tam I wear close to the skull,
and if you see me rocking, eyes
closed—then do not second guess
yourself—it is true, I have been
transported into the net of naked
trees, above it all, and my soul
is crying out the deep confusion
of gospel—the wet swelling in my chest
is the longing in me, and these tears
are the language of the unspeakable,
Reproduced from Nebraska: Poems by Kwame Dawes by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 2019 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska.
I’m tired of the gloom
In a four-walled room;
Heart-weary, I sigh
For the open sky,
And the solitude
Of the greening wood;
Where the bluebirds call,
And the sunbeams fall,
And the daisies lure
The soul to be pure.
I’m tired of the life
In the ways of strife;
Heart-weary, I long
For the river’s song,
And the murmur of rills
In the breezy hills;
Where the pipe of Pan—
The hairy half-man—
The bright silence breaks
By the sleeping lakes.
I understand what
a jump shot is,
certain mechanics
of the body, hand
positions, elbow
alignment, follow
through. Enough
player names to
mention around
the imaginary water-
cooler if I found
myself there. A body
at rest still needs
to hydrate. I cried
watching Bird
and Magic in that
documentary and
own a small collection
of expensive high-top
sneakers in various
colorways—used
exclusively to walk
my pets or to the
coffee shop for
an almond croissant.
Fresh to death. On
my mantle, four second
place trophies from
intramural wrestling
all before fifth grade.
Pitter patter sprawl.
I can’t remember
swimming. I mean,
I can’t swim. I can’t
drive. Sometimes
I miss a high five,
the pat on the ass.
I swung and missed
at tee-ball, golf. Traded
cards for the love
of the potential investment.
George Brett, I’ll always
love your name.
I appreciate highlights,
trick plays as much as
the next: The Statue
of Liberty, Flea Flickers,
The Changing Light
at Sandover. I was
born in the suburbs
of the city of brotherly
bullies, poor sports,
famous boo-ers and
stadium court houses.
I was the only boy
cut from my seventh
grade soccer team.
It’s in my blood to lose
at all games, even Uno,
especially Monopoly,
and when I do, I spit
into my palm or refuse
to shake hands.
Copyright © 2015 Brett Fletcher Lauer. Originally published in the Winter 2015 issue of Prairie Schooner. Used with permission of Prairie Schooner.
What was done was done
in our names; we ourselves
would never have done
what was done to anyone.
We wanted to be good,
polite, obedient, fun,
wanted only not to ever
ask What have we done?
And yet, in our names,
what was done was done.
Copyright © 2018 Richard Hoffman. This poem originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Summer 2018. Used with permission of the author.