All posts tagged: poems

Poem For The Weekend #48

The cat calls for her dinner. On the porch I bend and pour brown soy stars into her bowl, stroke her dark fur. It’s not quite night. Pinpricks of light in the eastern sky. Above my neighbor’s roof, a transparent moon, a pink rag of cloud. Inside my house are those who love me. My daughter dusts biscuit dough. And there’s a man who will lift my hair in his hands, brush it until it throws sparks. Everything is just as I’ve left it. Dinner simmers on the stove. Glass bowls wait to be filled with gold broth. Sprigs of parsley on the cutting board. I want to smell this rich soup, the air around me going dark, as stars press their simple shapes into the sky. I want to stay on the back porch while the world tilts toward sleep, until what I love misses me, and calls me in. – Dorianne Laux

Poem for the Weekend #23

leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. train your heart like a dog. change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. you lucky, lucky girl. you have an apartment just your size. a bathtub full of tea. a heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. you had to have him. and you did. and now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. don’t lose too much weight. stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. and you are not stupid. you loved a …

Poem for the (not) Weekend #18

Image from here. Poem taken from a poetry anthology presented to me by Cindy on my last day in Seattle. (Thank you so much!) Have a good week. xo Whose woods these are I think I know.    His house is in the village though;    He will not see me stopping here    To watch his woods fill up with snow.      My little horse must think it queer    To stop without a farmhouse near    Between the woods and frozen lake    The darkest evening of the year.      He gives his harness bells a shake    To ask if there is some mistake.    The only other sound’s the sweep    Of easy wind and downy flake.      The woods are lovely, dark and deep,    But I have promises to keep,    And miles to go before I sleep,    And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost

Poem for the Weekend #17

An old favourite, perfect for summer, and a return to Poems for the Weekend after two months off. Have a lovely Sunday. xo This Is Just To Say William Carlos Williams I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold.

Poem for the Weekend #16

History repeats itself. Last Monday – a pocket of hours to fill as I wished – I sauntered into Bücher Pustet in Regensburg once more and spent a lonesome 10 Euro note on another E. E. Cummings anthology. Where books (and sugar, but that’s another story) are concerned, I am helpless. This particular poem, devoured greedily on the train to Munich as a biblical thunderstorm writhed outside the window, is a new favourite. Have a lovely weekend! xo You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. Come with me, then, And we’ll leave it far and far away— (Only you and I, understand!) You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody …