In the streets, T.S. Eliot, "East Coker"
"Using words to describe things that can't be described by words..." - Marcus Herron
comic version of The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock
Walt Whitman, 1887 - beautiful colorization of photo
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
Chazen - Bridge Poetry series
Alternate Take: Levon Helm by Tracy K. Smith ..... You know how, shoulders hiked nice and high, chin tipped back, So the song has to climb its way out like a man from a mine. Read more www.newyorker.com...
Coming - Phillip Larkin On longer evenings, Light, chill and yellow, Bathes the serene Foreheads of houses. A thrush sings, Laurel-surrounded In the deep bare garden, Its fresh-peeled voice Astonishing the brickwork. It will be spring soon, It will be spring soon — And I, whose childhood Is a forgotten boredom, Feel like a child Who comes on a scene Of adult reconciling, And can understand nothing But the unusual laughter, And starts to be happy. phillip larkin
Coming - Phillip Larkin On longer evenings, Light, chill and yellow, Bathes the serene Foreheads of houses. A thrush sings, Laurel-surrounded In the deep bare garden, Its fresh-peeled voice Astonishing the brickwork. It will be spring soon, It will be spring soon — And I, whose childhood Is a forgotten boredom, Feel like a child Who comes on a scene Of adult reconciling, And can understand nothing But the unusual laughter, And starts to be happy.
The Mower By Philip Larkin The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, Killed. It had been in the long grass. I had seen it before, and even fed it, once. Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world Unmendably. Burial was no help: Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.
Jim Harrison read this poem of his on the Montana episode of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations .
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. Carl Sandburg
Phillip Levine - 2012 National Poetry Month poster - @Amy Yam, you should order one for your library pronto - they're free!
A Ritual to Read to Each Other William Stafford
Because I could not stop for Death... Emily Dickinson mural at West Cemetery, Amherst
1923 Edna St Vincent Millay for Ballad of the Harp Weaver "Son," said my mother, When I was knee-high, "you've need of clothes to cover you, and not a rag have I. "There's nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with, Nor thread to take stitches. "There's nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a woman's head Nobody will buy," And she began to cry. ......... http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/ednamillay/7356 awesom peopl, literari light, photograph, edna st, vincent millay, inspir, poetri, influenti author, writer
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Meditation at Lagunitas By Robert Hass All the new thinking is about loss. In this it resembles all the old thinking. The idea, for example, that each particular erases the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown- faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk of that black birch is, by his presence, some tragic falling off from a first world of undivided light. Or the other notion that, because there is in this world no one thing to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds, a word is elegy to what it signifies. We talked about it late last night and in the voice of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone almost querulous. After a while I understood that, talking this way, everything dissolves: justice, pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman I made love to and I remembered how, holding her small shoulders in my hands sometimes, I felt a violent wonder at her presence like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat, muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her. Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances. I must have been the same to her. But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread, the thing her father said that hurt her, what she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing. Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
"Meadowlark Mending Song" by Margaret Hasse, from Everyday Poems for City Sidewalk in St. Paul, MN: "What hurt you today / was taken out of your heart / by the meadowlark / who slipped the silver needle / of her song / in and out of the gray day / and mended what was torn." quotabl quot, happi, songs, sidewalks, poetry
This is a quote in Saint Paul, MN on the sidewalk outside of the Happy Gnome. There are over 500 quotes all over the city by local poets. This one is my favorite