Went the feast ever cheerfuller?
She keeps The Topic over intellectual deeps In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost. With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball: It is in truth a most contagious game: Hiding the Skeleton, shall be its name. Such play as this the devils might appal! But here's the greater wonder; in that we, Enamoured of an acting nought can tire, Each other, like true hypocrites, admire; Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe, Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.
Selected Poems in Translation
We waken envy of our happy lot. Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot. Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine. Yellow pears wild roses the lake your swans and kisses your head in water. But where, when winter, is sunshine and shadow?
The walls, silent and cold, clatter. I'd like to end this blog week with some fun--a few clips from readings. The Poetry Reading is a strange event, since most poets and writers aren't trained performers, and they don't always live up to the moment.
- Gotta Get Up.
- Il corpo non mente (Wellness Paperback) (Italian Edition).
- August 12222.
- Between Solitude and Loneliness;
- Mary Oliver.
But when poet and moment connect, it can be mesmerizing. I love the way that H. Hix incorporates the works of Gwendolyn Brooks and W. Merwin spoken by heart into his reading. One of the great poets of his generation, and a great performer and presence at the National Book Award ceremony.
The Sun And Geranium Poems by Elizabeth Clayton on Apple Books
A-Rod, your body rocks as does your bat but not so much, perhaps, your plucked eyebrows or TV teeth, and— is your hair frosted? It's OK because when you're at the plate, you look like a Cavalier—maybe more a Fop, a frivolously fastidious dandy. Something very Jeremiah of you, too. Your tendency to hit into double plays, the frequent and overzealous strikeouts, and your well-documented lack of clutch. I like to win, but it gives me comfort, lying on my velvet couch, to know that despite the stats one can still suck.
On you, more like stirrups. A relic from your world. Your world the world of men—spitting, then hitting into the sunset. Elizabeth Bishop, I have a bone to pick with you. Your Collected admonishes and the clock ticks loudly in the kitchen. It stamps the dirt, snorts, and A-Rod points his bat at the horizon. Elizabeth, I implore you—discover baseball wherever you are. The diamond is perfect geometry, tracks of diagonals mowed like lattice the low sun makes shine, then deepen.
The crowd, white noise, like the CD a friend uses to quiet her baby: children playing in a pool, a hairdryer, running water. A full house tonight, Elizabeth, a meditation, like Sudoku on a moving train or a jigsaw puzzle, pieces scattered on the coffee table. Unlike your book, consecrated by the required reading list.
Quasimodo, Salvatore (–) - Selected Poems
Poets love the mirror. Perhaps as much as A-Rod, who searches for a fastball, leaning back on his right leg swaying back and forth.
- Middle Management is Murder.
- Misadventures Of Fatwoman?
- Across the Line / Al otro lado.
- Contact Info.
I've learned, Elizabeth, that they do this to keep time. Something you know a lot about, I can tell from your poem "Poem" nice title , which I read during the Jeter's Ford Challenge commercial. I had it on mute. Here it comes—a curveball, off the plate. At the plate, a hitter has only one thought: right now. At the computer, I have only one thought: kill me. And it could, Elizabeth, but not as much as Yankee commentator Michael Kay, who sputters, "the Melkman cometh" about Melky Cabrera, a returning, demoted rookie who has lost his swing late nights, girls.
These things happen when you're Elizabeth, why were you reading about Baroque prose in college when you should have gone to keggers? There is art and there is an art to life. President" dress, so tight she had to be hoisted over the toilet to pee. Something A-Rod knows a thing or two about.
The Sun and Geranium Poems : With Selected Others
If I had to love someone else's rack as much as I love mine, we'd have a problem. A-Rod whiffs. The crowd cheers. A cudgel stick of a season. Radio I left it on when I left the house for the pleasure of coming back ten hours later to the greatness of Teddy Wilson "After You've Gone" on the piano in the corner of the bedroom as I enter in the dark from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman. Winch Ringfinger was nervous Pinky terrified when they learned that Hand might succumb to the rule of Thumb. A creative communications, branding, and resources consultancy founded by Victoria C.
Advertise on the Best American Poetry Blog. Like us on Facebook. The Best American Poetry. Home Archives Profile Subscribe. Please enter all required fields. Correct invalid entries. For it was the first day of Rosh Ha'shanah, New Year's Day, day of remembrance, of ancient sacrifices and averted calamities.
For I started the day by eating an apple dipped in honey, as ritual required. For I asked Our Father, Our King, to save us for his sake if not for ours, for the sake of his abundant mercies, for the sake of his right hand, for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of his name. For despite the use of a microphone and other gross violations of ceremony, I gave myself up gladly to the synagogue's sensual insatiable vast womb.
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