poems

I believe this is from a children’s book but it feels appropriate anyway.

November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.

With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.

The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.

This is by Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre and is part of a longer prose poem called, “To Throw a Wrench in the Blood Machine.”  That last line–let it motivate you:

Voting As Fire Extinguisher

When the haunted house catches fire:
a moment of indecision.

The house was, after all, built on bones,
and blood, and bad intentions.

Everyone who enters the house feels
that overwhelming dread, the evil
that perhaps only fire can purge.

It’s tempting to just let it burn.
And then I remember that there are children inside.

After the full poem, the author adds “additional commentary,” which includes this realistic look at how things are (and why voting still matters):

We already know that status-quo loving liberals aren’t going to save us. But for organizers, having a status-quo loving liberal in office is materially different than having an open fascist–especially when it comes to trans rights, reproductive justice, climate, and other issues where there is real daylight between the two otherwise-aligned capitalist parties. Elections aren’t just about choosing your allies; they can also be about choosing your opponents.

I saw this on the Poetry Is Not A Luxury Instagram and it really hit me: I, too, was an indoor child, and “I never wondered. I read.” This is by Dorianne Laux.

Moon in the Window

I wish I could say I was the kind of child
who watched the moon from her window,
would turn toward it and wonder.
I never wondered. I read. Dark signs
that crawled toward the edge of the page.
It took me years to grow a heart
from paper and glue. All I had
was a flashlight, bright as the moon,
a white hole blazing beneath the sheets.

Let’s just jump right into LITERATURE for the week, because it finally got cold here and I put another quilt on the bed and it was cozy while we all slept together (Toby even joined us!). I’m always going to think of otters now.

Sleeping With You
by Ellen Bass

Is there anything more wonderful?
After we have floundered
through our separate pain

we come to this. I bind myself to you,
like otters wrapped in kelp, so the current
will not steal us as we sleep.

Through the night we turn together,
rocked in the shallow surf,
pebbles polished by the sea.

Toby is not sad–he’s the happiest he’s been in five months, a daily miracle–but he does just meow, like he’s telling us “I YEARN” and we don’t know what it is he yearns for. Maybe he’s wondering why he’s so small, like this poem says:

My Cat is Sad
by Spencer Madsen

my cat is sad.
no one else in his family is a cat
we are all human except for him
he is excluded from most things
and no one tells him why
he just wants to play
and be loved
he looks at us with wonder
and disappointment
he says hello i am a cat what is my existence
what is that / why it and not me / please can you look at me and love me too
can i have some of your food please im sorry i dont like my food so much
do you want to play with my toys? this one is my favourite
do you like me
are we brothers
why didnt i grow up
why am i so small
can you help me be happy
where are you going

I almost typed “Thursday”–it’s really hard to tell what day it is this week, anyone else?–but this is a good (recent) one from Jane Hirshfieled.

My Species

even
a small purple artichoke
boiled
in its own bittered
and darkening
waters
grows tender,
grows tender and sweet

patience, I think,
my species

keep testing the spiny leaves

the spiny heart

It rained in the night here–the first rain in quite a while–and it’s starting to feel like fall. Here’s some Grace Paley:

September

Then the flowers became very wild
because it was early September
and they had nothing to lose
they tossed their colors every
which way over the garden wall
splattering the lawn shoving their
wild orange red rain-disheveled faces
into my window without shame

“because it was early September/ and they had nothing to lose” –what a great line.

I saw this after we got back from our Sunday trip to Bear Lake, but it encapsulated what I love about that lake so much: the slanting summer light, the clarity of it, the waves going transparent and bright before they collapse.

Summer, Lake
by Andrea Cohen

You can’t fish
for light, or

you can, but
you have to

throw it back.

I caught my own imagination with my joke about an “Autumn of Ease and Abundance” on Tuesday and I’ve been letting what that looks like simmer in my mind for a bit. It might look like the things in this poem: bird watching, walks in the woods, cake.

Reasons to Live Through the Apocalypse
by Nikita Gill

Sunrises. People you have still to meet and laugh with. Songs
about love, peace, anger, and revolution. Walks in the woods.
The smile you exchange with a stranger when you experience
beauty accidentally together. Butterflies. Seeing your grandpar-
ents again. The moon in all her forms, whether half or full. Dogs.
Birthdays and half-birthdays. That feeling of floating in love.
Watching birds eat from bird feeders. The waves of happiness
that follow the end of sadness. Brown eyes. Watching a boat cross
an empty sea. Sunsets. Dipping your feet in the river. Balconies.
Cake. The wind in your face when you roll the car window down
on an open highway. Falling asleep to the sound of a steady
heartbeat. Warm cups of tea on cold days. Hugs. Night skies. Art
museums. Books filled with everything you do not yet know.
Long conversations. Long-lost friends. Poetry.

Ada Limon was just named Poet Laureate of the US. I’ve liked everything I’ve read from her, but I like this one the best.

How to Triumph Like a Girl
Ada Limón

I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
But mainly, let’s be honest, I like
that they’re ladies. As if this big
dangerous animal is also a part of me,
that somewhere inside the delicate
skin of my body, there pumps
an 8-pound female horse heart,
giant with power, heavy with blood.
Don’t you want to believe it?
Don’t you want to tug my shirt and see
the huge beating genius machine
that thinks, no, it knows,
it’s going to come in first.