Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow,
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they shed,
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead,
And do disgraceful things on rugs,
And track mud on the floor,
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
She's making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think
She will not want this snake.
From If I Were in Charge of the World and Other Worries . . ., published by Macmillan, 1981. Used with permission.
I saw a great teapot I wanted to get you this stupendous 100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt, There was a red and black striped one too Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles They laced up to about two inches above your ankles All leather and in red, black or purple It was hard to have no money today I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces Brilliant enough for any of the Graces Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm But I can only praise you with this poem— Its being is the same as the meaning of your name
Copyright © 2005 by Bernadette Mayer. From Scarlet Tanager. Reprinted with permission of New Directions Publishing.
for Sally Sellers
Like a fading piece of cloth
I am a failure
No longer do I cover tables filled with food and laughter
My seams are frayed my hems falling my strength no longer able
To hold the hot and cold
I wish for those first days
When just woven I could keep water
From seeping through
Repelled stains with the tightness of my weave
Dazzled the sunlight with my
Reflection
I grow old though pleased with my memories
The tasks I can no longer complete
Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past
I offer no apology only
this plea:
When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end
Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt
That I might keep some child warm
And some old person with no one else to talk to
Will hear my whispers
And cuddle
near
Copyright © Nikki Giovanni. From the Visual Verse Project. Used with permission of the author.
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
’Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
From Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well By Maya Angelou. Copyright © 1975 by Maya Angelou. Reprinted with permission of Random House, Inc. For online information about other Random House, Inc. books and authors, visit the website at www.randomhouse.com.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
This poem is in the public domain.
To grow old is to lose everything. Aging, everybody knows it. Even when we are young, we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads when a grandfather dies. Then we row for years on the midsummer pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage, that began without harm, scatters into debris on the shore, and a friend from school drops cold on a rocky strand. If a new love carries us past middle age, our wife will die at her strongest and most beautiful. New women come and go. All go. The pretty lover who announces that she is temporary is temporary. The bold woman, middle-aged against our old age, sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand. Another friend of decades estranges himself in words that pollute thirty years. Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge and affirm that it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.
Reproduced by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. Copyright © 2002 by Donald Hall. All rights reserved.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
This poem is in the public domain.
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving—all come back together. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he— "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
This poem is in the public domain.
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
From New and Collected Poems, published by Harcourt Brace, 1988. Copyright © 1969 by Richard Wilbur. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
It's all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget
Some one the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
This poem is in the public domain.
The light of a candle
is transferred to another candle—
spring twilight.
From Haiku Master Buson by Yosa Buson. Copyright © 2007 by Yosa Buson, translated by Edith Shiffert. Reprinted by permission of White Pine Press.
I was twenty-six the first time I held a human heart in my hand. It was sixty-four and heavier than I expected, its chambers slack; and I was stupidly surprised at how cold it was. It was the middle of the third week before I could look at her face, before I could spend more than an hour learning the secrets of cirrhosis, the dark truth of diabetes, the black lungs of the Marlboro woman, the exquisite painful shape of kidney stones, without eating an entire box of Altoids to smother the smell of formaldehyde. After seeing her face, I could not help but wonder if she had a favorite color; if she hated beets, or loved country music before her hearing faded, or learned to read before cataracts placed her in perpetual twilight. I wondered if her mother had once been happy when she'd come home from school or if she'd ever had a valentine from a secret admirer. In the weeks that followed, I would drive the highways, scanning billboards. I would see her face, her eyes squinting away the cigarette smoke, or she would turn up at the bus stop pushing a grocery cart of empty beer cans and soda bottles. I wondered if that was how she'd paid for all those smokes or if the scars of repeated infections in her womb spoke to a more universal currency. Did she die, I wondered, in a cardboard box under the Burnside Bridge, nursing a bottle of strawberry wine, telling herself she felt a little warmer now, or in the Good Faith Shelter, her few belongings safe under the sheet held to her faltering heart? Or in the emergency room, lying on a wheeled gurney, the pitiless lights above, the gauzy curtains around? Did she ever wonder what it all was for? I wish I could have told her in those days what I've now come to know: that it was for this--the baring of her body on the stainless steel table-- that I might come to know its secrets and, knowing them, might listen to the machine-shop hum of aortic stenosis in an old woman's chest, smile a little to myself and, in gratitude to her who taught me, put away my stethoscope, turn to my patient and say Let's talk about your heart.
From Intensive Care: More Poetry and Prose by Nurses by Cortney Davis and Judy Schaefer, published by the University of Iowa Press. Copyright © 2002 by University of Iowa Press. All rights reserved.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
This poem is in the public domain.
Jaques to Duke Senior
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Lines 139-166. This poem is in the public domain.
I feel foolish, like those silly robins jumping on the ditch boughs when I run by them. Those robins do not have the grand style of the red tailed hawk, no design, no dream, just robins acting stupid. They've never smoked cigarettes, drank whiskey, consumed drugs as I have. In their mindless fluttering about filled with nonsense, they tell me how they love the Great Spirit, scold me not to be self-pitying, to open my life and make this day a bough on a tree leaning over infinity, where eternity flows forward and with day the river runs carrying all that falls in it. Be happy Jimmy, they chirp, Jimmy, be silly, make this day a tree leaning over the river eternity and fuss about in its branches.
From Spring Poems Along the Rio Grande by Jimmy Santiago Baca. Copyright © 2007 by Jimmy Santiago Baca. Reproduced by permission of New Directions.