Virtual Poetry Anthology - WordPress.com · 2017. 1. 11. ·...
Transcript of Virtual Poetry Anthology - WordPress.com · 2017. 1. 11. ·...
“.05” by Ishmael Reed If i had a nickel For all the women who’ve Rejected me in my life I would be the head of the World Bank with a flunkie To hold my derby as i Prepared to fly chartered Jet to sign a check Giving India a new lease On life If i had a nickel for All the women who’ve loved Me in my life i would be The World Bank’s assistant Janitor and wouldn’t need To wear a derby All i’d think about would Be going home “#7 (from Heart’s Needle)” by W.D. Snodgrass Here in the scuffled dust is our ground of play. I lift you on your swing and must shove you away, see you return again, drive you off again, then stand quiet till you come. You, though you climb higher, farther from me, longer, will fall back to me stronger. Bad penny, pendulum, you keep my constant time to bob in blue July where the fat goldfinches fly over the glittering, fecund reach of our growing lands. Once more now, this second, I hold you in my hands.
“A Good List” by Brad Leithauser hommage to Lorenz Hart Some nights, can’t sleep, I draw up a list, Of everything I’ve never done wrong. To look at me now, you might insist My list could hardly be long. But I’ve stolen no gnomes from my neighbor’s yard, Or struck his dog, backing up my car. Never ate my way up and down the Loire On a stranger’s credit card. I’ve never given a cop the slip, Stuffed stiffs in a gravel quarry, Or silenced Cub Scouts on a first camping trip With an unspeakable ghost story. Never lifted a vase from a museum foyer, Or trifled a Turkish tourist’s backpack. Never cheated at gold. Or slipped out a blackjack And flattened a patent lawyer. I never forged a lottery ticket, Took three on a two-‐for-‐one pass, Or, as a child, toasted a cricket With a magnifying glass. I never said “air” to mean “err,” or obstructed Justice, or defrauded a securities firm. Never mulcted – so far as I understand the term. Or unjustly usufructed. I never swindled a widow or all her stuff By means of a false deed and title Or stood up and shouted, My God, that’s enough! At a nephew’s piano recital. Never practiced arson, even as a prank, Brightened church-‐suppers with off-‐color jokes, Concocted an archaeological hoax – Or dumped bleach in a goldfish tank. Never smoked opium. Or smuggled gold Across the Panamanian Isthmus. Never hauled back and knocked a rival out cold, Or missed a family Christmas. Never borrowed a book I intended to keep. . . . My list, once started, continues to grow,
Which is all for the good, but just goes to show It’s the good who do not sleep. “After the Dentist” by May Swenson My left upper lip and half my nose is gone. I drink my coffee on the right from a warped cup whose left lip dips. My cigarette’s thick as a finger. Somebody else’s. I put lip-‐ stick on a cloth-‐ stuffed doll’s face that’s surprised when one side smiles. “An Instructor’s Dream” by Bill Knott Many decades after graduation the students sneak back onto the school-‐grounds at night and within the pane-‐lit windows catch me their teacher at the desk or blackboard cradling a chalk: someone has erased their youth, and as they crouch closer to see more it grows darker and quieter than they have known in their lives, the lesson never learned surrounds them: why have they come? Is there any more to memorize now
at the end than there was then— What is it they peer at through shades of time to hear, X times X repeated, my vain efforts to corner a room’s snickers? Do they mock me? Forever? Out there my past has risen in the eyes of all my former pupils but I wonder if behind them others younger and younger stretch away to a day whose dawn will never ring its end, its commencement bell. “Before I Was a Gazan” by Naomi Shihab Nye I was a boy and my homework was missing, paper with numbers on it, stacked and lined, I was looking for my piece of paper, proud of this plus that, then multiplied, not remembering if I had left it on the table after showing to my uncle or the shelf after combing my hair but it was still somewhere and I was going to find it and turn it in, make my teacher happy, make her say my name to the whole class, before everything got subtracted in a minute even my uncle even my teacher even the best math student and his baby sister who couldn’t talk yet. And now I would do anything for a problem I could solve. “Bus Stop” by Donald Justice Lights are burning In quiet rooms Where lives go on Resembling ours.
The quiet lives That follow us— These lives we lead But do not own— Stand in the rain So quietly When we are gone, So quietly . . . And the last bus Comes letting dark Umbrellas out— Black flowers, black flowers. And lives go on. And lives go on. Like sudden lights At street corners Or like the lights In quiet rooms Left on for hours, Burning, burning. “Cause and Effect” by Peter Spiro Cause you are poor you go to public school. Cause public school is free you get a lousy education. Cause you get a lousy education you are uneducated. Cause you are uneducated you are treated with contempt. Cause you are treated with contempt you are contemptuous of others Cause you are contemptuous of others you do not abide by the rules. Cause you do not abide by the rules you do not have a job. Cause you do not have a job you steal. Cause you steal
you go to prison. Cause you go to prison your life is wasted. Cause your life is wasted you are angry. Cause you are angry you are dangerous. Cause you are dangerous you are a bad effect. And you are destroyed. cause you were a bad effect cause you were dangerous cause you were angry cause your life was wasted cause you went to prison cause you stole cause you didn’t have a job cause you did not abide by the rules cause you were contemptuous of others cause you were treated with contempt cause you were uneducated cause you got a lousy education cause you went to public school cause you were poor. “Dead Deer” by David Groff Bolt, thwarted vault, late brake, gasp of impact, temblor of thud— the beast drops on the blade of hood, ribs rip from their roots, hearts seize, the windshield goes dark as an eyelid curtaining to a horizon of blood, black glass laced with lightning— I am hit with wheel, steel, doe embracing me backward as speed crushes me forward into a bursting hug, sternums to spines, past last words, no extra second to follow the plan to tell God I am sorry, no foxhole repentance,
no appeal to the fate-‐maker, my sentence incomplete, a fragment, a run-‐on, no scenes spun out so fast that the brain convulses with conclusion and love— I do not even think of you, cough no torn word for you to live by— I mesh corpse into carcass, I am dead, dear, I leave you my velocity and there at the edge of the road I give you my fawn. “Deformed Finger” by Hal Sirowitz Don’t stick your finger in the ketchup bottle, Mother said. It might get stuck, & then you’ll have to wait for your father to get home to pull it out. He won’t be happy to find a dirty fingernail squirming in the ketchup that he’s going to use on his hamburger. He’ll yank it out so hard that for the rest of your life you won’t be able to wear a ring on that finger. And if you ever get a girlfriend, & you hold hands, she’s bound to ask you why one of your fingers is deformed, & you’ll be obligated to tell her how you didn’t listen to your mother, & insisted on playing with a ketchup bottle, & she’ll get to thinking, he probably won’t listen to me either, & she’ll push your hand away. “Dinosaur Love” by Eliot Katz On the Museum of Natural History’s 4th floor I greeted my old friend: “Hey, T. Rex! Long time, no see!” My buddy flashed his killer teeth: “Over two years, E. Katz, I missed you.”
Surprised, I asked, “You missed me? I didn’t know dinosaurs had emotions. Rexy, did you know love?” Rexy sighed: “I knew love not as humans can but as humans do: love of self and love of finding something weaker to pounce upon. E. Katz, can your species be saved by love’s possibilities?” “Rexy,” I answered, “you haven’t lost your ability to ask the tough question. Let me ask you something we humans have been curious about for centuries. How did you die?” “I don’t know. One day I looked around and I wasn’t there.” “Eating Poetry” by Mark Strand Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark. “Fast Break” by Edward Hirsch In Memory of Dennis Turner, 1946-‐1984 A hook shot kisses the rim and hangs there, helplessly, but doesn’t drop, and for once our gangly starting center boxes out his man and times his jump perfectly, gathering the orange leather from the air like a cherished possession and spinning around to throw a strike to the outlet who is already shoveling an underhand pass toward the other guard scissoring past a flat-‐footed defender who looks stunned and nailed to the floor in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight of a high, gliding dribble and a man letting the play develop in front of him in slow motion, almost exactly like a coach’s drawing on the blackboard, both forwards racing down the court the way that forwards should, fanning out and filling the lanes in tandem, moving together as brothers passing the ball between them without a dribble, without a single bounce hitting the hardwood until the guard finally lunges out and commits to the wrong man
while the power-‐forward explodes past them in a fury, taking the ball into the air by himself now and laying it gently against the glass for a lay-‐up, but losing his balance in the process, inexplicably falling, hitting the floor with a wild, headlong motion for the game he loved like a country and swiveling back to see an orange blur floating perfectly through the net. “Foul Shot” by Edwin A. Hoey With two 60s stuck on the scoreboard And two seconds hanging on the clock, The solemn boy in the center of eyes, Squeezed by silence, Seeks out the line with his feet, Soothes his hands along his uniform, Gently drums the ball against the floor, Then measures the waiting net, Raises the ball on his right hand, Balances it with his left, Calms it with fingertips, Breathes, Crouches, Waits, And then through a stretching of stillness, Nudges it upwards. The ball Slides up and out, Lands, Leans, Wobbles, Wavers, Hesitates, Plays it coy Until every face begs with unsounding screams-‐-‐ And then
And then And then, Right before ROAR-‐UP, Drives down and through. “How to Eat a Poem” by Eve Merriam Don’t be polite. Bite in. Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth. For there is no core or stem or rind or pit or seed or skin to throw away. “Introduction to Poetry” by Billy Collins I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a house into a poem And watch him probe his way out, Or walk inside the poem’s room And feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski Across the surface of a poem Waving at the author’s name on the shore. But all they want to do
Is tie the poem to a chair with rope And torture a confession out of it They begin beating it with a hose To find out what it really means. “Ladies and Gentlemen in Outer Space” by Ron Padgett Here is my philosophy: Everything changes (the word “everything” has just changed as the word “change” has: it now means “no change”) so quickly that it literally surpasses my belief, charges right past it like some of the giant ideas in this area. I had no beginning and I shall have no end: the beam of light stretches out before and behind and I cook the vegetables for a few minutes only, the fewer the better. Butter and serve. Here is my philosophy: butter and serve. “Like Any Good American” by Brynn Saito I bathe my television in total attention I give it my corneas I give it my eardrums I give it my longing In return I get pictures of girls fighting and men flying and women in big houses with tight faces blotting down tears with tiny knuckles Sometimes my mother calls and I don’t answer Sometimes a siren sings past the window and summer air pushes in dripping with the scent of human sweat But what do I care I’ve given my skin to the TV I’ve given it my tastes In return it gives me so many different sounds to fill the silence where the secrets of my life flash by like ad space for the coming season
“Lines” by Martha Collins Draw a line. Write a line. There. Stay in line, hold the line, a glance between the lines is fine but don’t turn corners, cross, cut in, go over or out, between two points of no return’s a line of flight, between two points of view’s a line of vision. But a line of thought is rarely straight, an open line’s no party line, however fine our point. A line of fire communicates, but drop your weapons and drop your line, consider the shortest distance from x to y, let x be me, let y be you. “Listening to grownups quarreling” by Ruth Whitman standing in the hall against the wall with my little brother, blown like leaves against the wall by their voices, my head like a pingpong ball between the paddles of their anger: I knew what it meant to tremble like a leaf. Cold with their wrath. I heard the claws of the rain pounce. Floods poured through the city, skies clapped over me, and I was shaken, shaken like a mouse between their jaws. “Losing the 440-‐Yard Dash” by Afaa Michael Weaver If he hits the curve before you do, all is lost is all I remember when the coach yelled out to start, to kick it down the short straightaway into the curve, the curve a devil’s handiwork,
with Worsenski ahead of me, two hundred sixty pounds, one hundred pounds more than me, and all I could see were the Converse soles of a boy I dusted in my dreams on the bus out here to make the track team, letters for my sweater, girls going goo-‐goo over me, coaches from big-‐league schools with papers to say I was headed for glory, my unkempt disappointment in me now sealed by winged feet beating me in the curve, Worsenski as big as the USS Enterprise sliding through Pacific waters, parting the air in front of him that sucked back behind just to hold me in my grip of deep shame until I wished I were not there. I wanted more than being human, a warrior of field and track would be bursting out now ripping open my chest with masculinity to make Jesse Owens proud or jealous, or inspired or something other than me the pulling-‐up caboose slower than mud running like an old man really walking, all the most valuable parts of me inside my brain in wishes, in dreams, in things not yet born into the world, in calculations of beauty, in yearning for love, for the word of love, for some adoration from Wanda, the most beautiful girl in the whole block, black like me and wondering just what life had to give those of us who can fly. “Not Bad, Dad, Not Bad” by Jan Heller Levi I think you are most yourself when you’re swimming; slicing the water with each stroke, the funny way you breathe, your mouth cocked as though you’re yawning.
You’re neither fantastic nor miserable at getting from here to there. You wouldn’t win any medals, Dad, but you wouldn’t drown. I think how different everything might have been had I judged your loving like I judge your sidestroke, your butterfly, your Australian crawl. But I always thought I was drowning in that icy ocean between us, I always thoughts you were moving too slowly to save me, when you were moving as fast as you can. “Ordinance on Arrival” by Naomi Lazard Welcome to you who have managed to get here. It’s been a terrible trip’ you should be happy you have survived it. Statistics prove that not many do. You would like a bath, a hot meal, a good night’s sleep. Some of you need medical attention. None of this is available. These things have always been in short supply; now they are impossible to obtain. This is not a temporary situation; it is permanent. Our condolences on your disappointment. It is not our responsibility everything you have heard about this place is false. It is not our fault you have been deceived, ruined your health getting here. For reasons beyond our control there is no vehicle out.
“Poem [Lana Turner has collapsed!]” by Frank O’Hara Lana Turner has collapsed! I was trotting along and suddenly it started raining and snowing and you said it was hailing but hailing hits you on the head hard so it was really snowing and raining and I was in such a hurry to meet you but the traffic was acting exactly like the sky and suddenly I see a headline LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! there is no snow in Hollywood there is no rain in California I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up “Possum Crossing” by Nikki Giovanni Backing out the driveway the car lights cast an eerie glow in the morning fog centering on movement in the rain slick street Hitting brakes I anticipate a squirrel or a cat or sometimes a little raccoon I once braked for a blind little mole who try though he did could not escape the cat toying with his life Mother-‐to-‐be possum occasionally lopes home . . . being naturally . . . slow her condition makes her even more ginger We need a sign POSSUM CROSSING to warn coffee-‐gurgling neighbors: we share the streets with more than trucks and vans and railroad crossings All birds being the living kin of dinosaurs think themselves invincible and pay no heed to the rolling wheels while they dine on an unlucky rabbit I hit brakes for the flutter of the lights hoping it’s not a deer or a skunk or a groundhog
coffee splashes over the cup which I quickly put away from me and into the empty passenger seat I look . . . relieved and exasperated ... to discover I have just missed a big wet leaf struggling . . . to lift itself into the wind and live “Run Every Race as if It’s Your Last” by Lisa Olstein as you round the bend keep the steel and mouse-‐skinned rabbit front left center and the track and the crowd and its cries are a blurred ovation as you stumble and recover and then fully fall even if only onto the rough gravel of your inside mind or outside in what is called the real world as how many drunken grandfathers holding little girls’ hands and broken peanut shells go swirling by why are you racing what are you racing from from what fixed arm does this moth-‐eaten rabbit run captive is different than stupid near dead is different than dead they call it a decoy but we know a mirror when we see ourselves lurch and dive for one “Saturday at the Canal” by Gary Soto I was hoping to be happy by seventeen. School was a sharp check mark in the roll book, An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team Was going to win at night. The teachers were Too close to dying to understand. The hallways Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus, A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday, Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard On a bedroom wall. We wanted to go there, Hitchhike under the last migrating birds And be with people who knew more than three chords On a guitar. We didn’t’ drink or smoke, But our hair was shoulder length, wild when The wind picked up and the shadows of This loneliness gripped loose dirt. By bus or car, By the sway of the train over a long bridge, We wanted to get out. The years froze As we sat on the bank. Our eyes followed the water, White-‐tipped but dark underneath, racing out of town. “Sick” by Shel Silverstein “I cannot go to school today," Said little Peggy Ann McKay. “I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps. My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I’m going blind in my right eye. My tonsils are as big as rocks, I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox And there’s one more—that’s seventeen, And don’t you think my face looks green? My leg is cut—my eyes are blue— It might be instamatic flu. I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I’m sure that my left leg is broke— My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button’s caving in, My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained, My ‘pendix pains each time it rains. My nose is cold, my toes are numb. I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth, I think my hair is falling out. My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight, My temperature is one-‐o-‐eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There is a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say? You say today is. . .Saturday? G’bye, I’m going out to play!” “The Border: A Double Sonnet” by Alberto Ríos The border is a line that birds cannot see. The border is a beautiful piece of paper folded carelessly in half. The border is where flint first met steel, starting a century of fires. The border is a belt that is too tight, holding things up but making it hard to breathe. The border is a rusted hinge that does not bend. The border is the blood clot in the river’s vein. The border says stop to the wind, but the wind speaks another language, and keeps going. The border is a brand, the “Double-‐X” of barbed wire scarred into the skin of so many. The border has always been a welcome stopping place but is now a stop sign, always red. The border is a jump rope still there even after the game is finished. The border is a real crack in an imaginary dam. The border used to be an actual place, but now, it is the act of a thousand imaginations. The border, the word border, sounds like order, but in this place they do not rhyme. The border is a handshake that becomes a squeezing contest. The border smells like cars at noon and wood smoke in the evening. The border is the place between the two pages in a book where the spine is bent too far. The border is two men in love with the same woman. The border is an equation in search of an equals sign. The border is the location of the factory where lightning and thunder are made. The border is “NoNo” The Clown, who can’t make anyone laugh. The border is a locked door that has been promoted. The border is a moat but without a castle on either side. The border has become Checkpoint Chale. The border is a place of plans constantly broken and repaired and broken. The border is mighty, but even the parting of the seas created a path, not a barrier. The border is a big, neat, clean, clear black line on a map that does not exist. The border is the line in new bifocals: below, small things get bigger; above, nothing changes. The border is a skunk with a white line down its back. “The Church of Michael Jordan” by Jeffrey McDaniel The hoop is not metal, but a pair of outstretched arms, God’s arms, joined at the fingers. And God is saying throw it to me. It’s not a ball anymore. It’s an orange prayer I’m offering with all four chambers. And the other players—
the Pollack of limbs, flashing hands and teeth— are just temptations, obstacles between me and the Lord’s light. Once during an interview I slipped, I didn’t pray well tonight, and the reporter looked at me, the same one who’d called me a baller of destiny, and said you mean play, right? Of course, I nodded. Don’t misunderstand—I’m no reverend of the flesh. Priests embarrass me. A real priest wouldn’t put on that robe, wouldn’t need the public affirmation. A real priest works in disguise, leads by example, preaches with his feet. Yes, Jesus walked on water, but how about a staircase of air? And when the clock is down to its final ticks, I rise up and over the palms of a nonbeliever—the whole world watching, thinking it can’t be done—I let the faith roll off my fingertips, the ball drunk with backspin, a whole stadium of people holding the same breath simultaneously, the net flying up like a curtain, the lord’s truth visible for an instant, converting nonbelievers by the bushel, who will swear for years they’ve witnessed a miracle. “The Hand” by Mary Ruefle The teacher asks a question. You know the answer, you suspect you are the only one in the classroom who knows the answer, because the person in question is yourself, and on that you are the greatest living authority, but you don’t raise your hand. You raise the top of your desk and take out an apple. You look out the window. You don’t raise your hand and there is some essential beauty in your fingers, which aren’t even drumming, but lie flat and peaceful. The teacher repeats the question.
Outside the window, an overhanging branch, a robin is ruffling its feathers and spring is in the air. “The Sick Wife” by Jane Kenyon The sick wife stayed in the car while he bought a few groceries. Not yet fifty, she had learned what it’s like not to be able to button a button. It was the middle of the day— and so only mothers with small children or retired couples stepped through the muddy parking lot. Dry cleaning swung and gleamed on hangers in the cars of the prosperous. How easily they moved— with such freedom, even the old and relatively infirm. The windows began to steam up. The cars on either side of her pulled away so brisky that it made her sick at heart. “Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes The instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple? I am twenty-‐two, colored, born in Winston-‐Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-‐two, my age. But I guess I’m what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me—who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white— yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That’s American. Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that’s true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me— although you’re older—and white— and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B. “Theories of Time and Space” by Natasha Trethewey You can get there from here, though there’s no going home. Everywhere you go will be somewhere you’ve never been. Try this: head south on Mississippi 49, one— by—one mile markers ticking off
another minute of your life. Follow this to its natural conclusion—dead end at the coast, the pier at Gulfport where riggings of shrimp boats are loose stitches in a sky threatening rain. Cross over the man-‐made beach, 26 miles of sand dumped on a mangrove swamp—buried terrain of the past. Bring only what you must carry—tome of memory its random blank pages. On the dock where you board the boat for Ship Island, someone will take your picture: the photograph—who you were— will be waiting when you return “This is Just to Say” by 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 “Tin Wedding Whistle” by Ogden Nash Though you know it anyhow Listen to me, darling, now,
Proving what I need not prove How I know I love you, love. Near and far, near and far, I am happy where you are; Likewise I have never learnt How to be it where you aren’t. Far and wide, far and wide, I can walk with you beside; Furthermore, I tell you what, I sit and sulk where you are not. Visitors remark my frown When you’re upstairs and I am down, Yes, and I’m afraid I pout When I’m indoors and you are out; But how contentedly I view Any room containing you. In fact I care not where you be, Just as long as it’s with me. In all your absences I glimpse Fire and flood and trolls and imps. Is your train a minute slothful? I goad the stationmaster wrothful. When with friends to bridge you drive I never know if you’re alive, And when you linger late in shops I long to telephone the cops. Yet how worth the waiting for, To see you coming through the door. Somehow, I can be complacent Never but with you adjacent. Near and far, near and far, I am happy where you are;
Likewise I have never learnt How to be it where you aren’t. Then grudge me not my fond endeavor, To hold you in my sight forever; Let none, not even you, disparage Such valid reason for a marriage. “Tuesday 9:00 AM” by Denver Butson A man standing at the bus stop reading the newspaper is on fire Flames are peaking out from beneath his collar and cuffs His shoes have begun to melt The woman next to him wants to mention it to him that he is burning but she is drowning Water is everywhere in her mouth and ears in her eyes A stream of water runs steadily from her blouse Another woman stands at the bus stop freezing to death She tries to stand near the man who is on fire to try to melt the icicles that have formed on her eyelashes and on her nostrils to stop her teeth long enough from chattering to say something to the woman who is drowning but the woman who is freezing to death has trouble moving with blocks of ice on her feet It takes the three some time to board the bus what with the flames and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs and take their seats the driver doesn’t even notice that none of them has paid because he is tortured by visions and is wondering if the man who got off at the last stop was really being mauled to death by wild dogs. “Unwanted” by Edward Field The poster with my picture on it Is hanging on the bulletin board in the Post Office. I stand by it hoping to be recognized Posing first full face and then profile But everybody passes by and I have to admit The photograph was taken some years ago. I was unwanted then and I’m unwanted now Ah guess ah’ll go up echo mountain and crah. I wish someone would find my fingerprints somewhere Maybe on a corpse and say, You’re it. Description: Male, or reasonably so White, but not lily-‐white and usually deep-‐red Thirty-‐fivish, and looks it lately Five-‐feet-‐nine and one-‐hundred-‐thirty pounds: no physique Black hair going gray, hairline receding fast What used to be curly, now fuzzy Brown eyes starey under beetling brow Mole on chin, probably will become a wen It is perfectly obvious that he was not popular at school No good at baseball, and wet his bed. His aliases tell his history: Dumbell, Good-‐for-‐nothing, Jewboy, Fieldinsky, Skinny, Fierce Face, Greaseball, Sissy.
Warning: This man is not dangerous, answers to any name Responds to love, don’t call him or he will come. “Variations on a Theme” by William Carlos Williams by Kenneth Koch 1 I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer. I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do and its wooden beams were so inviting. 2 We laughed at the hollyhocks together and then I sprayed them with lye. Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing. 3 I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years. The man who asked for it was shabby and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold. 4 Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg. Foprgive me. I was clumsy, and I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor! “When in Rome” by Mari Evans Marrie dear, the box is full . . . take whatever you like to eat . . . (an egg or soup . . . there ain’t no meat.) there’s endive there and cottage cheese . . . (whew! if I had some black-‐eyed peas . . .) there’s sardines on the shelves
and such . . . but don’t get my anchovies . . . they cost too much! (me get the anchovies indeed! what she think, she got— a bird to feed?) there’s plenty in there to fill you up . . . (yes’m. just the sight’s enough! Hope I lives till I get home I’m tired of eatin’ what they eats in Rome . . .) “Where is She?” by Peter Churches Where is she, I wondered, when she wasn’t there. If she’s not here she could be anywhere. She could be anywhere and not alone. I began to imagine the worst. At every imagining I thought I had imagined the worst, then I imagined something even worse. It got to the point where my imaginings no longer included her. I realized that the worst did not encompass her. As my imaginings continued, as worst superseded worst, making the preceding worst only worse, I began to forget her. As worst got worse, I forgot her more. Things were getting pretty bad, and I had almost forgotten her completely, when she reappeared.