This is from Maggie Smith, author of “Good Bones,” and it has a nice rhythm to it.
Category: poems
A Poem About A Toad
Matthew Ogle started up his Pome newsletter again and this showed up a few days ago. The description of that deliberate toad walk is excellent.
Toad
Norman MacCaig (1993)
Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse
squeeze under the rickety door and sit,
full of satisfaction, in a man’s house?
You clamber towards me on your four corners –
right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.
I love you for being a toad,
for crawling like a Japanese wrestler,
and for not being frightened.
I put you in my purse hand, not shutting it,
and set you down outside directly under
every star.
A jewel in your head? Toad,
you’ve put one in mine,
a tiny radiance in a dark place.
Wednesday Poem
I started reading this one for the title but I love how it veers off into a modern fairy tale, Coscto meatballs and all. (Also how is it only Wednesday, not Thursday?)
IT’S WEDNESDAY, NOT THURSDAY
by Kim Dower
Wake up thinking it’s trash day
so I move the cans out to the front
even though it’s pouring. Back in,
make extra strong coffee,
read the story in the paper
about the 400-pound bear they
captured in La Crescenta, he strolled down
the mountain, lured by the scent
of meatballs from Costco,
made several trips sensing the danger
but those of us who’ve had them can agree
those meatballs from Costco are worth
getting pierced by tranquilizer darts.
“Like moving a water bed without a frame,”
claimed the State Fish and Game officials
who loaded him into the truck.
I hope a princess kisses him, he wakes up
human, marries, lives happily ever after
in a home at the edge of a forest
where a bear will stray from the mountain,
raid his garbage, and the ex-bear, father of two,
will keep buckets of chilled meatballs in every room
of his sprawling ranch-style home.
Wednesday Poem
I saw this on the Poetry Is Not a Luxury account back in the spring and it is a delight. Poems with dogs in them always seem especially tender to me, and that last line is so hopeful.
Thursday Poem
This is a sad one, but I’ve been feeling…not just sad, but discouraged lately. Downhearted, if you will. (Saw this one on Twitter, and yeah. That last line.)
Downhearted
by Ada Limon
Six horses died in a tractor-trailer fire.
There. That’s the hard part. I wanted
to tell you straight away so we could
grieve together. So many sad things,
that’s just one on a long recent list
that loops and elongates in the chest,
in the diaphragm, in the alveoli. What
is it they say, heart-sick or downhearted?
I picture a heart lying down on the floor
of the torso, pulling up the blankets
over its head, thinking this pain will
go on forever (even though it won’t).
The heart is watching Lifetime movies
and wishing, and missing all the good
parts of her that she has forgotten.
The heart is so tired of beating
herself up, she wants to stop it still,
but also she wants the blood to return,
wants to bring in the thrill and wind of the ride,
the fast pull of life driving underneath her.
What the heart wants? The heart wants
her horses back.
Wednesday Poem
Originally written in 1970 as a spoken word piece, Gil Scott-Heron’s poem has gone viral this week. I love the thought of a poem going viral; I just wish it weren’t for a d*ck-measuring contest between billionaires who could take just a fraction of their money and actually help people, rather than pretending to be astronauts.
Whitey On The Moon
Gil Scott-Heron
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arms began to swell.
(and Whitey’s on the moon)
I can’t pay no doctor bill.
(but Whitey’s on the moon)
Ten years from now I’ll be paying still.
(while Whitey’s on the moon)
The man just upped my rent last night.
(’cause Whitey’s on the moon)
No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
(but Whitey’s on the moon)
I wonder why he’s upping me?
(’cause Whitey’s on the moon?)
I wuz already paying him fifty a week.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Taxes taking my whole damn check,
Junkies making me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is going up,
An’ as if all that shit was’t enough:
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arm began to swell.
(but Whitey’s on the moon)
Was all that money I made last year
(for Whitey on the moon?)
How come there ain’t no money here?
(Hmm! Whitey’s on the moon)
Y’know I just about had my fill
(of Whitey on the moon)
I think I’ll send these doctor bills,
Airmail special
(to Whitey on the moon)
Wednesday Poem
This showed up in the Poets.org newsletter a couple weeks ago and there’s a lot to love in it: I, too, own a drill I’m not great at using! I, too, want people to say, “damn that’s a nice house! But this part right in the middle is the best:
which tools repair/ the aging dog, the wilting snake plant, the crow’s feet/ under my eyes, the stiff knee or bad back./ & maybe this is how it is—how parts of our small universe/ dissolve like sugar cubes in water—a calling to ask us/ to slow our busy breathing so we can marvel/ at its magic.
Everything Needs Fixing
in your thirties everything needs fixing. i bought a toolbox
for this. filled it with equipment my father once owned
to keep our home from crumbling. i purchased tools with
names & functions unknown to me. how they sat there
on their shelf in plastic packaging with price tags screaming:
hey lady, you need this! like one day i could give my home
& everything living inside it the gift of immortality, to be
a historical monument the neighbor’s would line up
to visit even after i’m gone & shout: damn that’s a nice house!
i own a drill now, with hundreds & hundreds of metal pieces
i probably won’t use or use in the wrong ways but what
i’m certain of, is still, the uncertainty of which tools repair
the aging dog, the wilting snake plant, the crow’s feet
under my eyes, the stiff knee or bad back.
& maybe this is how it is—how parts of our small universe
dissolve like sugar cubes in water—a calling to ask us
to slow our busy breathing so we can marvel
at its magic. because even the best box of nails are capable
of rust. because when i was a child i dropped
a cookie jar in the shape of noah’s ark,
a family heirloom that shattered to pieces.
the animals broke free, zebras ran under
the kitchen table, the fractured lion roared by
the front door & out of the tool cabinet
i snagged duck tape & ceramic glue. pieced each beast
back to their intended journey. because that afternoon
when my father returned from work i confessed
& he sat the jar on the counter only to fill it with
pastries. how the cracks of imperfection mended by
my hands laid jagged. chipped paint sliced across a rhino’s neck.
every wild animal lined up against the boat—
& a flood of sweet confections waiting inside.
Thursday Poem
By Dorianne Laux, from poetry Instagram:
Wednesday Poem
This was in Laura Olin’s newsletter last week and it’s a doozy.
Earl
by Louise Jenkins
In Sitka, because they are fond of them,
People have named the seals. Every seal
is named Earl because they are killed one
after another by the orca, the killer
whale; seal bodies tossed left and right
into the air. “At least he didn’t get
Earl,” someone says. And sure enough,
after a time, that same friendly,
bewhiskered face bobs to the surface.
It’s Earl again. Well, how else are you
to live except by denial, by some
palatable fiction, some little song to
sing while the inevitable, the black and
white blindsiding fact, comes hurtling
toward you out of the deep?
Wednesday Poem
To be completely honest, educating myself about what’s going on in Israel/Palestine has felt like too much lately. My privilege whispers, “But you’re working on being anti-racist! You’re calling out misogyny! You’re getting your head around prison abolition and Asian-American fetishization and doing your own work in therapy and isn’t that all enough?” But the thing about intersectionality (and just being a good human) is–you gotta care about it all. And caring also means learning. So I will start.
This poem was in Laura Olin’s newsletter two weeks ago and it shook me. You don’t need to know the history of the West Bank or the origins of the conflict to feel the panic at the end: “It doesn’t matter/ that 58 seconds isn’t long enough/ to find your wedding album/ or your son’s favorite blanket”. You don’t need to know a lot to know that bombing civilians is wrong.
Running Orders
By Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
They call us now,
before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass-shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think, Do I know any Davids in Gaza?
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war-time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are.
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.