All posts tagged: poem for the weekend

Poem For The Weekend #53

A poem dear to my heart (but anything worth doing is worth doing badly) for your weekend. Mine is just ending here, one degree north of the equator (hence my silence these past few weeks.) I’ve been travelling, and concurrently sick as a dog, taking in new sights and sounds and smells with the stuffiest nose and hurtiest head I’ve ever known. On the mend now, with lots to tell of Singapore, Saigon and surroundings – all in time. Say hello to England for me, won’t you? 🙂 Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every …

Poem For The Weekend #52

In your next letter, please describe the weather in great detail. If possible, enclose a fist of snow or mud, everything you know about the soil, how tomato leaves rub green against your skin and make you itch, how slow the corn is growing on the hill. Thank you for the photographs of where the chicken coop once stood, clouds that did not become tornadoes. When I try to explain where I’m from, people imagine corn bread, cast-iron, cows drifting across grass. I interrupt with barbed wire, wind, harvest air that reeks of wheat and diesel. I hope your sleep comes easy now that you’ve surrendered the upstairs, hope the sun still lets you drink one bitter cup before its rise. I don’t miss flannel shirts, radios with only AM stations, but there’s a certain kind of star I can’t see from where I am— bright, clear, unconcerned. I need your recipes for gravy, pie crust, canned green beans. I’m sending you the buttons I can’t sew back on. Please put them in the jar …

Poem For The Weekend #47

Marriage of Many Years Most of what happens happens beyond words. The lexicon of lip and fingertip defies translation into common speech. I recognize the musk of your dark hair. It always thrills me, though I can’t describe it. My finger on your thigh does not touch skin— it touches your skin warming to my touch. You are a language I have learned by heart. This intimate patois will vanish with us, its only native speakers. Does it matter? Our tribal chants, our dances round the fire performed the sorcery we most required. They bound us in a spell time could not break. Let the young vaunt their ecstasy. We keep our tribe of two in sovereign secrecy. What must be lost was never lost on us. – Dana Gioia

Poem for the (Non) Weekend #28

Had I not been awake I would have missed it, A wind that rose and whirled until the roof Pattered with quick leaves off the sycamore And got me up, the whole of me a-patter, Alive and ticking like an electric fence: Had I not been awake I would have missed it It came and went too unexpectedly And almost it seemed dangerously, Hurtling like an animal at the house, A courier blast that there and then Lapsed ordinary. But not ever Afterwards. And not now. Seamus Heaney

Poem for the Weekend #21

A piece of poetry-prose this weekend. This is the final paragraph of Brian Doyle’s wondrous heart-wrenching essay ‘Joyas Voladoras’ (which you can read in full here – and you should! Oh, you should!) It turns me to tears every time, without fail. This last paragraph especially. Truer words have not been written. Have a lovely weekend, all. xo “So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one in the end—not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored …