“Rain” — Roberto Bolaño

“Maybe” — Langston Hughes

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Maya Angelou (Books Acquired, 3.18.2015)

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Random House is reissuing Maya Angelou’s seminal memoir I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings in both hardback and paperback with the original 1970 cover (love love love the cover). The Complete Poetry is also new (in hardback); love how the cover matches Caged Bird.

The paperback reissue of Caged Bird features a new foreword by Oprah Winfrey.

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From The Complete Poetry:

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“A Dream of Death” — W.B. Yeats

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Boring (John Berryman)

“Cynical” — Gilbert Sorrentino

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“A Walk in March” — Grace Paley

This hill
crossed with broken pines and maples
lumpy with the burial mounds of
uprooted hemlocks (hurricane
of ’38) out of their
rotting hearts generations rise
trying once more to become
the forest
just beyond them
tall enough to be called trees
in their youth like aspen a bouquet
of young beech is gathered
they still wear last summer’s leaves
the lightest brown almost translucent
how their stubbornness has decorated
the winter woods
on this narrow path ice tries
to keep the black undecaying oak leaves
in its crackling grip    it’s become
too hard to walk    at last a
sunny patch    oh!    i’m in water
to my ankles   APRIL

“The Harlem Dancer” — Claude McKay

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“Tired” — Fenton Johnson

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“The Debt” — Paul Laurence Dunbar

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“Daphne” — Edna St. Vincent Millay

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“Hinges” — Shel Silverstein

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Conversation (Tom Clark fragment)

Tom Clark

(From “Bugs Ate This Lake Clean,” collected in Light & Shade).

“Wake” — Langston Hughes

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“For the portrait of an African boy after the manner of Gauguin” — Langston Hughes

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“Welt” — Georgia Douglas Johnson

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“In the New Garden, In All the Parts” — Walt Whitman

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“Civilization” — Tom Clark

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“The Snow Man” — Wallace Stevens

“The Snow Man” by Wallace Stevens

 

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

 

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

 

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

 

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

 

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.