Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
From The Poetry of Robert Frost by Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1916, 1923, 1928, 1930, 1934, 1939, 1947, 1949, © 1969 by Holt Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Copyright 1936, 1942, 1944, 1945, 1947, 1948, 1951, 1953, 1954, © 1956, 1958, 1959, 1961, 1962 by Robert Frost. Copyright © 1962, 1967, 1970 by Leslie Frost Ballantine.
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Poetry used by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W. Franklin ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
This version appeared in the Richmond Semi-Weekly Examiner, September 25, 1849. For other versions, please visit the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore’s site: http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/index.htm#R.
If you could know the empty ache of loneliness,
Masked well behind the calm indifferent face
Of us who pass you by in studied hurriedness,
Intent upon our way, lest in the little space
Of one forgetful moment hungry eyes implore
You to be kind, to open up your heart a little more,
I’m sure you’d smile a little kindlier, sometimes,
To those of us you’ve never seen before.
If you could know the eagerness we’d grasp
The hand you’d give to us in friendliness;
What vast, potential friendship in that clasp
We’d press, and love you for your gentleness;
If you could know the wide, wide reach
Of love that simple friendliness could teach,
I’m sure you’d say “Hello, my friend,” sometimes,
And now and then extend a hand in friendliness to each.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 7, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
In a dark hour, tasting the Earth.
As I lay on my couch in the muffled night, and the rain lashed at my window,
And my forsaken heart would give me no rest, no pause and no peace,
Though I turned my face far from the wailing of my bereavement...
Then I said: I will eat of this sorrow to its last shred,
I will take it unto me utterly,
I will see if I be not strong enough to contain it...
What do I fear? Discomfort?
How can it hurt me, this bitterness?
The miracle, then!
Turning toward it, and giving up to it,
I found it deeper than my own self...
O dark great mother-globe so close beneath me...
It was she with her inexhaustable grief,
Ages of blood-drenched jungles, and the smoking of craters, and the roar of tempests,
And moan of the forsaken seas,
It was she with the hills beginning to walk in the shapes of the dark-hearted animals,
It was she risen, dashing away tears and praying to dumb skies, in the pomp-crumbling tragedy of man...
It was she, container of all griefs, and the buried dust of broken hearts,
Cry of the christs and the lovers and the child-stripped mothers,
And ambition gone down to defeat, and the battle overborne,
And the dreams that have no waking...
My heart became her ancient heart:
On the food of the strong I fed, on dark strange life itself:
Wisdom-giving and sombre with the unremitting love of ages...
There was dank soil in my mouth,
And bitter sea on my lips,
In a dark hour, tasting the Earth.
This poem is in the public domain
—for Melissa
What sadness anywhere is sadness where
I could just stand and walk to you from sadness
Go home to you though I bring home my sadness
What sadness there though I have felt sad there
Before when I come home from far away
What sadness then or from three blocks uptown
My office where I write this poem down
In a room full of the dimness that fills spac-
es anywhere where you are not a film
Obscuring every surface but it is a light
Not shining ever from surfaces
You are not near what sadness where you might
By being near reveal each thing for what it is
What sadness where each thing is whole
Copyright © 2020 by Shane McCrae. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 28, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.
All the public places I’ve cried:
airports, beaches, parking lots—
so many—waiting rooms,
parks, train platforms,
benches. Whose loss
is shed? The bluish distillate
in Rilke’s saucerless cup
was watered down with tears
to be more bearable.
In this morning’s coffee
tears dissolved like comets
into darkness. If I need a good cry
I watch that astronaut singing
“Major Tom,” playing his guitar.
Astronaut tears are Jell-O.
Even this physics makes my heart
confetti. You’re too emotional,
you said, as my eyes irrigated
the flower beds. In India, Colombia,
Chile, Japan, and the Philippines,
you can still hire a professional
mourner. Crying in public
ought to be easier. Designated
trees or hilltops might help.
Or an hour of tears,
when we can howl in unison
and then return to our
diluteness. I mean dailiness.
Crying is inevitable
when headlines read
like requiems. When
Cihuacoatl prophesied
the conquest of Mexico
all she could do was cry.
LLORONA
Todos los lugares públicos donde he llorado:
aeropuertos, playas, parqueaderos
—tantos— salas de espera,
parques, andenes de trenes,
bancos. ¿La pérdida de quién
se derrama? El destilado azul
en la taza sin platillo de Rilke
fue diluido con lágrimas
para ser más soportable.
En el café de esta mañana
mis lágrimas se disolvieron como cometas
en la oscuridad. Si necesito un buen llanto
miro a ese astronauta cantando
“Mayor Tom,” tocando su guitarra.
Las lágrimas de astronauta son gelatina.
Esta física hace de mi corazón
confeti. Eres demasiado emocional,
dijiste, mientras mis ojos irrigaban
las flores. En la India, Colombia,
Chile, Japón y Filipinas,
todavía puedes contratar a una plañidera
profesional. Llorar en público
debería ser más fácil. Designados
árboles o cimas de colinas podrían ayudar.
O una hora de lágrimas,
cuando podemos aullar al unísono
y luego volver a nuestra
diligencia, a lo diario.
El llanto es inevitable
cuando los titulares suenan
como réquiems. Cuando
Cihuacoatl profetizó
la conquista de México
lo único que podía hacer era llorar.
With two white roses on her breasts,
White candles at head and feet,
Dark Madonna of the grave she rests;
Lord Death has found her sweet.
Her mother pawned her wedding ring
To lay her out in white;
She'd be so proud she'd dance and sing
To see herself tonight.
This poem is in the public domain.
In California, someone is found hanging
from a tree, and no one knows why;
in my anger, I forget to explain
to our white neighbor, why it matters
that he’s black,
if only she knew
the luxury of not having to worry
whether her life mattered or not–
*
The first time I learned
about the color of my skin
I spent months
crossing a border
where my kind was not welcomed;
the first time I was othered
I was still in the womb
breaking in my naming–
*
In California, a man is found hanging
from a tree, and no one knows why;
someone said,
it must have been a suicide,
what country is this
where suicide becomes the hopeful thing–
I want to talk about this,
I say to my husband,
do you know what this means?
I have run out of ways
of telling him that he, too, is a black, black man
living in a white, white world
but his body knows
our bodies always know–
*
In California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, and no one knows why;
when they hear the news, someone asks
what kind of tree,
what country is this
where life is not life if it inhabits a black body
where we have to march in the streets
and get beaten, gassed, hunted down
so someone, anyone, can see this,
this us we see, this us we are, this humanness.
*
I am filled with a quiet furor. What happens
when the body is marked before it is born,
what happens to it
when it is filled with grief
what happens
when no one sees it as such
what happens
to black bodies riddled with war
what war is this
that continues to kill, kill, kill.
*
In California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, and someone knows why;
we want to say many things
but none seem to get through;
our mother’s grief
is too great to contain us,
too deep to keep us safe
what do you call a country
that kills its people
and calls itself free,
what freedom is this
that has us running
that holds us hostage
that invades our every being
that hunts our children
that takes our fathers
that murders, murders, murders
Stop–
listen to this:
In California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, do you know why?
Does it matter
what kind of tree it was, what kind of earth
housed the roots of such tree,
does it matter
whether the man was in his early twenties
with glimmering black skin
and dancing dreadlocks
would you feel better
if it was a suicide
would it be better
if you never heard about this
do you find yourself thinking,
who would do such a thing,
do you find yourself breaking
completely split open
and parts of you erupting out,
did you wonder
about his mother
about her grief
about his beloveds
did you tell yourself
something nice
to forget this hanging body
did you will it away
what else did you do
to let yourself forget
as you did with all the others
did you tell yourself
I would never–but wait, wait:
did you hear:
in California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, and you know why;
there is nothing more to say
no further reasoning you need to do
no way out of this,
listen closely:
a black man
is found hanging
from a tree
I know you must like trees
these tall muscular giants
housing small fruits,
breathing, living things,
I know you must think
this is a horrific thing
that has happened to a black man
but how many trees
have housed black bodies
how many were complicit
in our collective dying,
how quick are we to forget
the marred history of this land
built on the blood and bones
of our ancestors
how many more
will need to die
until you see, see, see
how many more
gunned down, beaten, suffocated
until you hear
our rightful pleading
how much blood
must you have on your hands
before our children
are finally set free,
listen:
a black man
hangs from a tree
a black man
hangs
from a tree
a black man
hanging from a tree,
how dare you try and absolve yourself
from our collective lynching–
Copyright © 2021 by Mahtem Shiferraw. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 9, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
in loving memory of Concepcion Cruz Agullana
Everywhere is a cemetery,
and there will be no funeral. on either side of the Pacific Ocean.
No one will give last rites to my lola, No guessing nurse will call my name or hers
I will have heard no doctor’s steely voice There’ll be no waiting room
to call her ‘the body.’ Over the body. There will be no priest
swinging a pendulum of incense no prayers no rosaries there’s no money
No undertaker will proclaim her life There’ll be no glass plate covering
her wooden casket. There will be no casket it’s too expensive There will be no party
no lumpia no noodles for no life long enough
No black attire No hands clasping tissue or other hands
‘The body’ will not be seen There will be my grandma in an urn–a tiny basket
her curled body that lilted into the afterlife after dementia twenty years after grandpa
there’s no room for every body
there’s no house for everybody to come in and stay no room for sorrows There will be no placeholder no
land no candles no water no six-foot empty she will be unmarked
my lola, an unnamed earthquake
No one will hear her long name how it stretches a sunset if my lola dies and no one sees is
she still my lola? is a canyon a series of cliffs? there’s no place in the apartment for what rituals
maybe they will send her to the Philippines my grandma is a maybe and we are not they
did you know when airlines carry the deceased
they are called passengers
they travel in their coffins passengers in seats are called existing passengers
this small poem the only eulogy where we’ll put my grandma her existence laid to rest in a
poem
in this non-ilokano language a killer rows and rows of dirt
money doesn’t grow maybe someone there will bury her
how will i carry her when only darkness has the space?
where will we put my grandma when we can’t afford our grief?
Copyright © Janice Sapigao. This poem originally appeared in Drunk in a Midnight Choir. Used with permission of the author.