Poems that I love

by Stephen Levine for little Whitney of 5 weeks God does not answer prayer. It is a sacrilege to think so. An insult to the god-drenched hearts of all who pray through the night and in the morning are nonetheless handed a dead child. The churches in Salem used to burn heretics to increase attendance. Now those who feel their prayer didn't reach quite far enough, that they were not pure enough, are victims of a merciless atheism that says all good fortune comes from God though the brutal often prosper and it is not uncommon to torture the pure of heart. We pray for the best, forgetting the unpredictable unfolding that must occur for us to learn prayer for others works better than for ourselves. Jesus prays in the garden of Gethsemane and is refused. Ten thousand, ten million prayers rise in Latin, Arabic, Hindi, and Hebrew yet their husbands and wives, children and sisters, fathers and brothers do not survive well if at all though in their chest bea...

by Walt Whitman Come, said my Soul, Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,) That should I after death invisibly return, Or, long, long hence, in other spheres, There to some group of mates the chants resuming, (Tallying Earth's soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,) Ever with pleas'd smile I may keep on, Ever and ever yet the verses owning---as, first, I hear and now, Signing for Soul and Body, set to them my name, photo by Barbara Mensch Walt Whitman said that the Brooklyn Bridge was “the best, most effective medicine my soul has yet partaken”.

Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles by Billy Collins It seems these poets have nothing up their ample sleeves they turn over so many cards so early, telling us before the first line whether it is wet or dry, night or day, the season the man is standing in, even how much he has had to drink. Maybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow. Maybe if is snowing on a town with a beautiful name. “Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune on a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Bun Tung Po’s. “Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea” is another one, or just “On a Boat, Awake at Night.” And Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with “In a Boat on a Summer Evening I Hear the Cry of a Waterbird. It Was Very Sad and Seemed to be Saying My Woman is Cruel—Moved, I Wrote This Poem.” There is no iron turnstile to push against here as with the headings like ‘Vortex on a ...

by Christine Walker for Larry Robinson The poem flew at me Little darts, pricking my skin piercing my belly, my arms, my eyes Flew at me on swift, black wings trailing a smoky blur past my ears Flew all around me furious, then curiously quiet No words sounded like words read from a page They had been lifted the night before, years before Flipped up, one by one letter by letter let fall on the tongue and dissolved like melting snowflakes trickling down through the heart, into the belly to the toes, the fingertips Pulled back through the blood through the brain down into the back of the throat into the cheeks and spit out Little darts of words big wings of words charging the air all around me There were no words, only language Tongue moved by muscle and blood The poem entered me and exited leaving little points of pain and light soft feathery strokes on my skin and hair Leaving me empty of words

by Ken Ireland She might have even been as Spartan as Father Ignatius if her taste had not run to plastered walls, a few modest chintz prints and poignant photos of helpless children. You could have fed a child in Haiti for that price, Sister. Alok asked me about priest-craft— appeasing hungry ghosts with big bellies, tight mouths, and one might presume assholes, not to mention pussies. Forgive me, Sister. The antidote contains no eyes, no ears, no tongue, no body, no mind, no assholes no thought, no perception, no old age, no ending of old age and death —and no sex. You know that practice, Sister. I knew, or at least said, more than I ought. Phil told me that the rite was no more than sleight of hand: chocolate, cardamom tea, ripe kiwis, none of it really satisfying or nourishing. Hungry ghosts think it’s dinner. Anything looks like dinner when you’re starving. Big bellies and big ears arise simultaneously – evidence, your pictures of starving children in the Sudan. Trick the...

By Ramon Gutherie Perhaps for fear of saying to oneself, — it is not good to plan such things too long. No question others had more craft than I. I had waited for the Old One to give the sign to one of us, half hoping still his choice might fall on me. But lately he had turned to graving stags and reindeer on bits of antler, art that for all his pains my clumsy fingers could never seem to master. In any case, his choice for cavern walls ran to pregnant cows, bison and ponies. That, and more and more he favored places not too hard to get at. "What's the harm in having good work seen?" Meanwhile the first full moon of spring was near. I can't say why I chose the cave I did. Passing that way one day, I'd seen it and taken it for a badger's hole until I saw an owl rise from it and listening close, caught the voices of water. I set out before dawn and took along well-scorched moss and tallow, stone lamp, firestick in a dee...

by Robert Frost for my Dad In October of 1962 at Dartmouth College , I heard Frost read this poem from his first book, published in 1916. It was his last public appearance. O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call; Tomorrow they may form and go. O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day. At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away. Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst. Slow, slow! For the grapes' sake, if they were all, Whose leaves already are burnt with frost, Whose clustered fruit must else be lost - For the grape' sake along the wall. from "Complete Poems of Robert Frost," 1916 Please cli...