Category: poems

I just found this one (on Twitter, of all places, right when I was ready to log out forever) and I really like it. That last line is so satisfying/chilling.

Myth

Muriel Rukeyser

Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walked the
roads.      He smelled a familiar smell.        It was
the Sphinx.      Oedipus said, “I want to ask one question.
Why didn’t I recognize my mother?”      “You gave the
wrong answer,” said the Sphinx.     “But that was what
made everything possible,” said Oedipus.      “No,” she said.
“When I asked, What walks on four legs in the morning,
two at noon, and three in the evening, you answered,
Man.      You didn’t say anything about woman.”
“When you say Man,” said Oedipus, “you include women
too.      Everyone knows that.”       She said, “That’s what
you think.”

This one was written as a joke, from Jessica Salfia on Twitter, and it’s a great idea:

Austin Kleon turned me on to Ron Padgett’s poems. This is from a long one, “How To Be Perfect,” which you can read in full here. Some of it is silly, some of it is profound–“Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.”

Excerpts from “How to be Perfect” by Ron Padgett

Get some sleep.

Don’t give advice.

Take care of your teeth and gums.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room
before you save the world. Then save the world.

Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don’t stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don’t
forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm’s length
and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass
ball collection.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if
you have paid them, even if they do favors you don’t want.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

I’ve been avoiding the news as much as I can lately but it’s hard to avoid it all (RIP, John Prine). This was in the Pome newsletter last week and it feels appropriate.

In The Morning, Before Anything Bad Happens

The sky is open
all the way.

Workers upright on the line
like spokes.

I know there is a river somewhere,
lit, fragrant, golden mist, all that,

whose irrepressible birds
can’t believe their luck this morning
and every morning.

I let them riot
in my mind a few minutes more
before the news comes.

Molly Brodak (2017)

My friend shared this yesterday in our group chat; Neruda wrote it in the 1950s but it’s perfect for right now. That second-to-last stanza…

Keeping Quiet
Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with
death. Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

I don’t usually put a poem up at the beginning of the week, but this came in from Matthew Ogle yesterday and it’s just a delight. So maybe it can set the tone for the week.

I hadn’t thought of this one in a long time (as in, nine years ago when I was going to memorize six poems and didn’t know anything “of grief, and of getting past it”) but it’s so great. “I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing.” Well said, Mary.

Starlings in Winter
by Mary Oliver

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,

even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard, I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

I fee this one lately:

In Praise of My Bed
by Meredith Holmes

This is another from Matthew Ogle’s Pome newsletter. After talking about the hard work of living and growing this week, it seemed appropriate.