Furthermore

by Christina Davis

It was something to let him go.

          It was a having to believe, furthermore,

in the voyage
of the other, a Ulysses

without an Ithaca,

was to speak
of the sea
without speech
of the shore—

and to have for a body

the going away of the body, to have for eyes
the going away of the eyes. And for hearing,

a silence, where once
were people.

And for comfort, a dwelling
before each
steps into that weather
of which all
strangers speak.

Christina Davis, "Furthermore" from An Ethic. Copyright © 2013 by Christina Davis. 

The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
      When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
      The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
      Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
      The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
      The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
      Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
      The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
      Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
      In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
      Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
      Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
      His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
      And I was unaware.

Apology

by Joanna Klink

Lately, too much disturbed, you stay trailing in me
and I believe you. How could I not feel
you were misspent, there by books stacked clean on glass,
or outside the snow arriving as I am still arriving.
If the explanations amount to something, I will tell you.
It is enough, you say, that surfaces grow so distant.
Maybe you darken, already too much changed,
maybe in your house you would be content where
no incident emerges, but for smoke or glass or air,
such things held simply to be voiceless.
And if you mean me, I believe you.
Or if you should darken, this inwardness would be misspent,
and flinching I might pause, and add to these meager
incidents the words. Some books
should stay formal on the shelves.
So surely I heard you, in your complication aware,
snow holding where it might weightless rest,
and should you fold into me—trackless, misspent,
too much arranged—I might believe you
but swiftly shut, lines of smoke rising through snow,
here where it seems no good word emerges.
Though it is cold, I am aware such reluctance
could lose these blinking hours to simple safety.
Here is an inwardless purpose.
In these hours when snow shuts, it may be we empty,
amounting to something. How could I not
wait for those few words, which we might enter.

Joanna Klink, "Apology" from Circadian. Copyright © 2007 by Joanna Klink.

Ill-Advised Love Poem

by John Yau

Come live with me
And we will sit

Upon the rocks
By shallow rivers

Come live with me
And we will plant acorns

In each other's mouth
It would be our way

Of greeting the earth
Before it shoves us

Back into the snow
Our interior cavities

Brimming with
Disagreeable substances

Come live with me
Before winter stops

To use the only pillow
The sky ever sleeps on

Our interior cavities
Brimming with snow

Come live with me
Before spring

Swallows the air
And birds sing

John Yau, "Ill-Advised Love Poem" from Further Adventures in Monochrome. Copyright © 2012 by John Yau.

I Will Not Save The World

by Jerome Rothenberg

I like to cross
these borders. They take place
between the dead & dead.
I make my mind up
to be honest
only I fail to meet
their expectations.
I will not save the world.
The power in my blood
runs through my shoe.
I have never known fatigue
but know it now. I whistle
& the dog sits still
& ponders.
Nobody else is resting
or in love.
The taste of death is in my mouth.
I suck it like an arm
until it breaks me.
It is the fate of animals
& birds
the small lives left behind.
The children in the woods
run by like children.
I hide under a blanket
sick with counting.
Two & two are five
but two times two
is always four.
Call me tomorrow
—says the voice—
& I will call you back.
I am a net for all
voracious fish
& long for hell.

"I Will Not Save the World" By Jerome Rothenberg, from A Book of Witness: Spells and Gris-Gris, copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 by Jerome Rothenberg. 

I Dreamed That in a City Dark as Paris

by Louis Simpson

I dreamed that in a city dark as Paris
I stood alone in a deserted square.
The night was trembling with a violet
Expectancy. At the far edge it moved
And rumbled; on that flickering horizon
The guns were pumping color in the sky.

There was the Front. But I was lonely here,
Left behind, abandoned by the army.
The empty city and the empty square
Was my inhabitation, my unrest.
The helmet with its vestige of a crest,
The rifle in my hands, long out of date,
The belt I wore, the trailing overcoat
And hobnail boots, were those of a poilu.
I was the man, as awkward as a bear.

Over the rooftops where cathedrals loomed
In speaking majesty, two aeroplanes
Forlorn as birds, appeared. Then growing large,
The German Taube and the Nieuport Scout,
They chased each other tumbling through the sky,
Till one streamed down on fire to the earth.

These wars have been so great, they are forgotten
Like the Egyptian dynasts. My confrere
In whose thick boots I stood, were you amazed
To wander through my brain four decades later
As I have wandered in a dream through yours?

The violence of waking life disrupts
The order of our death. Strange dreams occur,
For dreams are licensed as they never were.

Louis Simpson, "I Dreamed that in a City Dark as Paris" from The Owner of the House: New Collected Poems 1940-2001. Copyright © 2003 by Louis Simpson.

Daffodils

by Alicia Ostriker

–for David Lehman

Ten thousand I saw at a glance

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

–William Wordsworth

Going to hell so many times tears it

Which explains poetry. 

–Jack Spicer

The day the war in against Iraq begins

I'm photographing the yellow daffodils

With their outstretched arms and ruffled cups

Blowing in the wind of Jesus Green

Edging the lush grassy moving river

Along with the swans and ducks

Under a soft March Cambridge sky

Embellishing the earth like a hand

Starting to illustrate a children's book

Where people in light clothes come out

To play, to frisk and run about

With their lovers, friends, animals, and children

As down every stony back road of history

They've always done in the peaceful springs

–Which in a sense is also hell because

The daffodils do look as if they dance

And make some of us in the park want to dance

And breathe deeply and I know that

Being able to eat and incorporate beauty like this

I am privileged and by that token can

Taste pain, roll it on my tongue, it's good

The cruel wars are good the stupidity is good, 

The primates hiding in their caves are very good,

They do their best, which explains poetry. 

What explains poetry is that life is hard

But better than the alternatives, 

The no and the nothing. Look at this light

And color, a splash of brilliant yellow

Punctuating an emerald text, white swans
And mottled brown ducks floating quietly along
Whole and alive, like an untorn language
That lacks nothing, that excludes

Nothing. Period. Don't you think
It is our business to defend it
Even the day our masters start a war?
To defend the day we see the daffodils?

"Daffodils" from No Heaven, by Alicia Suskin Ostriker, © 2005. 

I thought this poem would be perfect for my first post on our blog. The poem nearly perfectly captures how I feel about the importance of poetry, and I hope you dear readers enjoy!

Daffodils by Alicia Ostriker starts somewhat uniquely with two epigraphs. Most poems don’t even have one; the addition of two quotations in this poem highlights the complexity and theme of the poem as a whole. 

Ostriker abruptly introduces the poem with by mentioning the war in Iraq. The war isn’t referenced again until the last stanza, and while it’s essential to the poem, she uses the specific event to further her argument that poetry can apply at any time.

She continues by describing in beautiful detail the land around her as she photographed in a manner that is echoed throughout the poem, taking a small daffodil in England and expanding its beauty to show how it affects the world. The “yellow daffodils” with “outstretched arms” and “ruffled cups” can be seen as a metaphor for poetry itself. Throughout the poems Ostriker compels us to think more deeply about what poetry is, and what it does. She shows the complex nature of poetry as it allows for “people in light clothes” that play, while in the same breath “is also hell.” The speaker acknowledges the differing effects of poetry saying it makes “some of us in the park want to dance” while others experience poetry differently.

Ostriker moves seamlessly from the image of  dancing daffodils to speaking of poetry as a whole. The speaker praises her privilege to read and write poetry, pointing out that it allows her to “incorporate beauty…[and] taste pain.”  The speaker claims “cruel wars are good,” highlighting the nuanced nature of poetry in her juxtapositions.

She concludes the poem with a rhetorical question, a call to the “daffodils” even when “our masters” are starting a war. This final image beautifully illustrates the importance of small things amongst the craziness of life. The importance of capturing daffodils in poetry despite being surrounded in horror.
Well, I have a lot more to say and a lot more thoughts on this poem-but for now this will have to do. I hope you've all been having a lovely Wednesday! Until next week!

Sincerely,
Jane