April 18, 2014
Paul Revere’s Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen, my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
April 17, 2014
Motion by Octavio Paz
If you are the amber mare
. .I am the road of blood
If you are the first snow
. .I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
If you are the tower of night
. .I am the spike burning in your mind Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 17th”
April 16, 2014
Giraffes by Mary Ann Hoberman
Giraffes
I like them.
Ask me why.
Because they hold their heads up high.
Because their necks stretch to the sky.
Because they’re quiet, calm, and shy.
Because they run so fast they fly.
Because their eyes are velvet brown.
Because their coats are spotted tan.
Because they eat the tops of trees.
Because their legs have knobby knees.
Because
Because
Because
Because. That’s why
I like giraffes.
This poem was selected by Jan B. (Head of Children’s Services)
April 15, 2014
Dust If You Must by Rose Milligan
Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear, and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world’s out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come round again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kine.
And when you go – and go you must –
You, yourself, will make more dust.
This poem was selected by Nancy E. (North Branch)
April 14, 2014
Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams
If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,–
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,–
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
This poem was selected by Russell J. (Adult Services Librarian)
April 13, 2014
I Write by Larrinita Starks
As I sit down on the bed and cut off the lights
I think about my life and begin to write
I write for the families dying on the streets
I am scared to lay down because of the gunshots in my sleep
I write because I am hurting, there are no more tears to cry
I am patiently waiting for my time to die Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 13th”
April 12, 2014
Check out this rare footage of New York School poet Frank O’Hara reading “Having a Coke with You.” Enjoy!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDLwivcpFe8]
Ode to My Socks by Pablo Neruda (translated by Robert Bly)
Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks. Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 12th”
April 11, 2014
Insomniac by Maya Angelou
There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.
This poem was selected by Lesley W. (Head of Adult Services)
April 10, 2014
Song of Myself (excerpt) by Walt Whitman
1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same
and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
