Tag: poetry

National Poetry Month: April 16th

April 16, 2012

“I Am Not I” by Juan Ramon Jimenez

I am not I.
                 I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
who remains calm and silent while I talk,
and forgives, gently, when I hate,
who walks where I am not,
who will remain standing when I die.

This poem was selected by Russell J. (Readers’ Services)

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National Poetry Month: April 15th

April 15, 2012

Living in Sin by Adrienne Rich

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime.  A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman’s tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night’s cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own–
envoy from some village in the moldings…
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.

This poem was selected by Lesley W. (Head of Adult Services)

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National Poetry Month: April 13th

April 13, 2012

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
                                                                                        .
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.  The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that–
We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat. Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 13th” →

National Poetry Month: April 12th

April 12, 2012

Psalm and Lament by Donald Justice

     In memory of my mother (1897-1974)
     Hialeah, Florida
.
The clocks are sorry, the clocks are very sad.
One stops, one goes on striking the wrong hours.
.
And the grass burns terribly in the sun,
The grass turns yellow secretly at the roots.
.
Now suddenly the yard chairs look empty, the sky looks empty,

National Poetry Month: April 11th

April 11, 2012

The Guest House by Rumi

This being human, is the guest house.
Every morning a new arrival!
                                                                                                                                                 .
A joy, a lament, a slight.
A momentary awareness that comes
in as an unexpected visitor.
                                                                                                                                                                 .
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are as a bunch of sorrows,
who sweep your house
empty of its furniture.
Treat each guest honorably.
They may be cleaning your house for some new beginning.
                                                                                                                                               .
The dark thought, a shame, a malice.
Meet them a the door laughing and invite them in.
                                                                                                                                   .
Be grateful for whatever comes!
Because each one has been
sent to the guest house
as a mentor.

This poem was selected by Don W. (Maintenance)

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National Poetry Month: April 9th

April 9, 2012

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
                                                                                .
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging.  I look down
                                                                                                   .
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

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