Tag: poetry

National Poetry Month: April 19th

April 19, 2011

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact.  I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful —
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles.  I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart.  But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake.  A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her.  She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

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

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National Poetry Month: April 18th

April 18, 2011

Passing Remark by William Stafford

In scenery I like flat country.
In life I don’t like much to happen.
In personalities I like mild colorless people.
And in colors I prefer gray and brown.
My wife, a vivid girl from the mountains,
says, “Then why did you choose me?”
Mildly I lower my brown eyes —
there are so many things admirable people do not understand.

This poem was selected by Olivia M. (Reader’s Services)

Poetry Copyright Notice

National Poetry Month: April 17th

April 17, 2011

Selecting a Reader by Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it.  She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on the shelf.  She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.”  And she will.

This poem was selected by Mary H. (Reader’s Services)

Poetry Copyright Notice

National Poetry Month: April 16th

April 16, 2011

In Memory of My Mother by Patrick Kavanagh

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily
Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday –
You meet me and you say:
‘Don’t forget to see about the cattle – ‘
Among your earthiest words the angels stray. Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 16th” →

National Poetry Month: April 15th

April 15, 2011

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

The name of the author is a first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never heard of.
It is as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemispheres of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Continue reading “National Poetry Month: April 15th” →

National Poetry Month: April 14th

April 14, 2011

The Fairies by William Allingham

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,

National Poetry Month: April 13th

April 13, 2011

Choose Something Like a Star by Robert Frost

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud —
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something!  And it says “I burn.”
But say with what degress of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats’ Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height.
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

This poem was selected by Margaret S. (Reference Librarian)

Poetry Copyright Notice

National Poetry Month: April 12th

April 12, 2011

The Dishonest Mailmen by Robert Creeley

They are taking all my letters, and they
put them into a fire.
                             I see the flames, etc.
But do not care, etc.
They burn everything I have, or what little
I have.  I don’t care, etc.
The poem supreme, addressed to
emptiness — this is the courage
necessary.  This is something
quite different.

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

Poetry Copyright Notice

10th Anniversary of Cowboy Poetry Week

April 11, 2011

This year is the 10th anniversary of Cowboy Poetry Week in the United States. According to Nevada Magazine, there are almost 150 festivals which celebrate cowboy poetry throughout the country.

Texas Governor Rick Perry, a huge fan, has issued many proclamations celebrating cowboy poetry in his beloved home, eloquently stating that “through cowboy poetry, we can gain insight into the emotions and thoughts of those who made history and those who continue to live and work in the cowboy culture today.  …cowboy poetry gives us access to life on the range with all its accompanying excitement, hardships, and dreams.”

Continue reading “10th Anniversary of Cowboy Poetry Week” →

National Poetry Month: April 11th

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain.  I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow

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