“No Good Too” — William Carlos Williams

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“The Silver Plough-Boy” — Wallace Stevens

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She sighed for so much melody (Wallace Stevens)

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From “Peter Quince at the Clavier” by Wallace Stevens

“The Unexplorer” — Edna St. Vincent Millay

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“Hey!” — William Carlos Williams

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“Tree Talk” — Tom Clark

tree talk

“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” — Edna St. Vincent Millay

time

“Of Mere Being” — Wallace Stevens

“A Poem About Baseballs” by Denis Johnson

“A Poem About Baseballs” by Denis Johnson–
 
for years the scenes bustled
through him as he dreamed he was
alive. then he felt real, and slammed
awake in the wet sheets screaming
too fast, everything moves
too fast, and the edges of things
are gone. four blocks away
a baseball was a dot against
the sky, and he thought, my
glove is too big, i will
drop the ball and it will be
a home run. the snow falls
too fast from the clouds,
and night is dropped and
snatched back like a huge
joke. is that the ball, or is
it just a bird, and the ball is
somewhere else, and i will
miss it? and the edges are gone, my
hands melt into the walls, my
hands do not end where the wall
begins. should i move
forward, or back, or will the ball
come right to me? i know i will
miss, because i always miss when it
takes so long. the wall has no
surface, no edge, the wall
fades into the air and the air is
my hand, and i am the wall. my
arm is the syringe and thus i
become the nurse, i am you,
nurse. if he gets
around the bases before the
ball comes down, is it a home
run, even if i catch it? if we could
slow down, and stop, we
would be one fused mass careening
at too great a speed through
the emptiness. if i catch
the ball, our side will
be up, and i will have to bat,
and i might strike out.

“The Ritualists” — William Carlos Williams

ritualists

With rage and contempt

Capture

John Berryman at the Brockport Writers Forum in October of 1970

“O Florida, Venereal Soil” — Wallace Stevens

“O Florida, Venereal Soil”

by

Wallace Stevens


 

A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.

The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The negro undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish…
Virgin of boorish births,

Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,

When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.

Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover —
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.

Or shroud of gnome / Himself, himself inform (Emily Dickinson)

eds

“Spring” — William Carlos Williams 

The older we get the more we write elegies | RIP Derek Walcott

RIP Derek Walcott, 1930-2017

Hear him read his poem “For Oliver Jackman” around the 6:00 mark.

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“Bluebeard” — Edna St. Vincent Millay

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