Leave It All Up to Me
by Major Jackson
All we want is to succumb to a single kiss
that will contain us like a marathon
with no finish line, and if so, that we land
like newspapers before sunrise, halcyon
mornings arrived like blue martinis. I am
learning the steps to a foreign song: her mind
was torpedo, and her body was storm,
a kind of Wow. All we want is a metropolis
of Sundays, an empire of hand-holding
and park benches? She says, “Leave it all up to me.”
by Charles Simic
Every morning I forget how it is.
I watch the smoke mount
In great strides above the city.
I belong to no one.
Then, I remember my shoes,
How I have to put them on,
How bending over to tie them up
I will look into the Earth.
Filed under Poems, Praxis
Remembering Summer (2016)
by W.S. Merwin
Being too warm the old lady said to me
is better than being too cold I think now
in between is the best because you never
give it a thought but it goes by too fast
I remember the winter how cold it got
I could never get warm wherever I was
but I don’t remember the summer heat like that
only the long days the breathing of the trees
the evenings with the hens still talking in the lane
and the light getting longer in the valley
the sound of a bell from down there somewhere
I can sit here now still listening to it
What Breaks First
by Jynne Dilling Martin
As the iceberg shears off the submarine periscope, the noise
is less groan, more wild animal shriek. “Trust me,” said the captain
piloting toward gunfire to see what the Russians are up to these days.
The sea ice resembles a cracked white lung steadily swelling
then sinking as high tide fades away. Already birds and
barnacles and butterflies are shifting their habitats poleward,
the eelgrass and jellyfish will be fine, but the basements
of coastal cities will begin to flood, an inch at a time.
The polar bear at the zoo makes the child start to cry:
why doesn’t he move? Animals who cannot acclimate
to shifting conditions engender scientific argument
over what breaks first: the heart or the brain. In the heart
of the Arctic, underwater microphones listen for enemy traffic.
The noise made by a million barnacle larvae swimming north
is less hiss or whisper, more betrayed stare. When rations ran low,
polar explorers ate one less biscuit. When biscuits ran out,
the horses were first to be shot. In another sixty thousand years
the mouth of the Beardmore Glacier will spit out their bones.
April 23, 2015, The New York Review of Books
This Be The Verse (2001)
by Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Filed under Poems, Sureness
He Reproves the Curlew (1896)
by William Butler Yeats
O curlew, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.
A Name (2017)
by Ada Limón
When Eve walked among
the animals and named them—
nightingale, redshouldered hawk,
fiddler crab, fallow deer—
I wonder if she ever wanted
them to speak back, looked into
their wide wonderful eyes and
whispered, Name me, name me.