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.
April 9, 2014
Poetry by Marianne Moore
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 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
April 8, 2014
It’s Spring! by Eduard Morike
Spring unfurls its blue ribbon
To flutter in the air again;
Sweet, familiar breezes
Brush the earth with promises.
Violets, already dreaming,
Are eager to arrive.
Listen—a harp in the distance!
Yes! It’s you, Spring!
I knew you were coming!
This poem was selected by Laura H. (Adult Services Librarian)
April 7, 2014
Free-floating anxiety sounds like a pretty balloon by Bob Hicok
I need a soft day, soft hour, a minute
without edge or the stare of a man
with homicide in his teeth.
Need a cigarette you can smoke
to get in shape, that sucks
tension out while putting
slimmer thighs in your quiver, something
in menthol or better yet a Cajun
gasper, fag, coffin stick
for blackened lungs that puff on
after the fidgeting fit
have blown their gaskets. Need
to jump from 30 stories up & scream
through tumbling of Olympic merit,
to have my heart stop one two three
times faster than the speed of thought
and land on a serial killer
to applause for my good deed & aim. Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 7th”
April 6, 2014
A Moment of Happiness by Rumi
A moment of happiness,
you and I sitting on the veranda,
apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here,
you and I, with the garden’s beauty
and the birds singing.
The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together,
indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.
The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar
as we laugh together, you and I.
In one form upon this earth,
and in another form in a timeless sweet land.
This poem was selected by Lesley W. (Head of Adult Services)
April 5, 2014
Chicago by Carl Sandburg
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
April 4, 2014
The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
This poem was selected by Jarrett Dapier (The Loft)
April 3, 2014
Maybe Dats Your Pwoblem Too by James W. Hall
All my pwoblems who knows,
maybe evwybody’s pwoblems is due to da fact,
due to da awful twuth dat I am
SPIDERMAN.
I know, I know. All da dumb jokes:
No flies on you, ha ha,
and da ones about what do I do wit all doze extwa legs in bed.
Well, dat’s funny yeah. But you twy being
SPIDERMAN for a month or two.
Go ahead.
April 2, 2014
Poem to Be Read at 3 a.m. by Donald Justice
Excepting the diner
On the outskirts
The town of Ladora
At 3 a.m.
Was dark but
For my headlights
And up in
One second-story room
A single light
Where someone
Was sick or
Perhaps reading
As I drove past
At seventy
Not thinking
This poem
Is for whoever
Had the light on
This poem was selected by Hannah J. (Circulation)
