Poetry Friday: "Emily Dickinson at the Poetry Slam"

I was whining earlier today that I didn't know what to do for Poetry Friday this week. I'm currently a zombie because I'm suffering — as I always do — from Christmas Sugar Syndrome. I lumber around in a stupor for several days because we indulge in too much delicious, mind-numbing sweetness. 

So, Ramona quickly composed this haiku and suggested a postponement: 

I had too much fudge. 

Come back next week for a poem. 

I'm on Christmas break. 

That was tempting. (As tempting as the chocolate itself.) But then, she also said, "Why not some Emily Dickinson?" For Christmas, Ramona gave me the beautiful Emily Dickinson book I shared above. As I was paging through random poems this morning, I was reminded of this Dickinson quote: 

“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”

She's just so good. (How's that for a writerly description?) 

And so, this poem by Dan Vera, which pulls it all together, is a right and proper fit for this week. Enjoy! 

Emily Dickinson and the Poetry Slam 

by Dan Vera 

I will tell you why she rarely ventured from her house. 

It happened like this:

One day she took the train to Boston,

made her way to the darkened room,

put her name down in cursive script

and waited her turn. 

When they read her name aloud

she made her way to the stage

straightened the papers in her hands —

pages and envelopes, the backs of grocery bills,

she closed her eyes for a minute,

took a breath, 

and began. 

From her mouth perfect words exploded,

intact formulas of light and darkness.

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The final Poetry Friday round-up of 2024 is 

being hosted by the lovely Michelle Kogan. 

Find her (and the Poetry Sisters, whose December Challenge was to write a Haibun) 

at Michelle's blog, here. 

Poetry Friday: "December" by Gary Johnson

This is a lovely, short, just-right piece. I especially like the last lines: 

And my hopes and fears are met/In this small singer holding onto my hand./Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark...

December
by Gary Johnson


A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Join Jone for the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Happy December! (How is it almost over already?) 

Poetry Friday: "Looking at the Sky" by Anne Porter

I missed Poetry Friday last week. If you did too, check it out at Tanita Davis's {fiction, instead of lies}. The Poetry Pals used Jane Hirshfield's "Two Versions" as a mentor poem and crafted their own takes (inspired by Hirshfield's theme, structure, or lines). They created some stunners, so do hop over and read your way through those beauties. 

This week, Carol at The Apples in My Orchard is hosting. Carol has been caring for her aging father, spending 16½ hours on the road (in one day!) and dealing with a lot (I see you, Carol!) Send her some virtual hugs and love today and enjoy all the poetry she's rounded up for us here. 

~~~~~~~~~~

I missed PF last week because we spent Thursday and Friday out of town. My daughter and her husband hosted Thanksgiving. My middle daughter, whom I blog-named "Betsy Ray" (after our beloved Betsy in Maud Hart Lovelace's Betsy-Tacy books) was nine years old when I started this blog in late 2005. She was NINE. And now she and her husband are killing it as Thanksgiving hosts. We had a marvelous day and a marvelous meal. (I told her to marry a man who cooks, and she did. Yay!) The only parts of the meal we provided were the pumpkin pie (my mom's extra-spice recipe), gluten-free/dairy-free biscuits, and gf/df chocolate chip cookies. Anne-with-an-e (who was twelve when I started the blog — TWELVE!) and her fiance brought the dairy-free mashed potatoes, which Ramona (who was THREE when I started the blog) pronounced the best ever. When she was three, she didn't like "mashed-potatoes-with-the-skin-on, eww" but her culinary palate expanded over the years. Sadly for her, a few years back, just as she was perfecting the ultimate pepperjack grilled cheese sandwich with marinara dipping sauce, she needed to go gf/df, as Betsy had to a few years before. We're still working on perfecting the gf/df diet but overall we've made huge progress.

Aaaaaanyway...that's where I was last week. Enjoying the many pleasures of spending time with all my favorite people. Counting gifts and blessings. Giving thanks for beauty seen and unseen. "Looking at the Sky" and getting my thirst for a touch of heaven quenched. (Stealing the imagery of a thirst quenched from the last line of the poem. It's a short and perfect piece.) 

Looking at the Sky
by Anne Porter

I never will have time
I never will have time enough
To say
How beautiful it is
The way the moon
Floats in the air
As easily
And lightly as a bird
Although she is a world
Made all of stone.
....
(Read the second part here.) 

Photo courtesy of AdamNir, Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: Rudy Francisco, "A Series of Gentle Reminders"

My youngest daughter ("Ramona," the artist and poet) introduced me to Rudy Francisco, and if I haven't shared his stuff on Poetry Friday yet, I've been terribly remiss. He's marvelous, and this one is so good: 

Learn more about Francisco here, and on his Instagram. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Ruth has the Poetry Friday round-up at 

There is no such thing as a Godforsaken town. 

Poetry Friday: "Any Common Desolation" by Ellen Bass (and I'm hosting)

I've been quiet here lately but I'm popping in to host Poetry Friday this week, and to share this beauty by Ellen Bass. This poem spoke to me, especially after the results of the election, and I hope it might speak to you too. 

Hug each other, stand for what is right and good, and keep creating and embracing beauty. 

And one other note on hope: Go listen to Dolores Huerta on Julia Louis Dreyfus's podcast, "Wiser Than Me." 

Any Common Desolation
by Ellen Bass

can be enough to make you look up
at the yellowed leaves of the apple tree, the few
that survived the rains and frost, shot
with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep
orange-gold against a blue so sheer, a single bird
would rip it like silk. You may have to break
your heart, but it isn’t nothing
to know even one moment alive. The sound
of an oar in an oarlock or a ruminant
animal tearing grass. The smell of grated ginger.

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Leave your links with the ever-helpful Mr. Linky: 

Poetry Friday: "How to Build a Life in Ten Steps"

Last month, Tanita Davis shared the October challenge the Poetry Pals/Sisters/Princesses (and anyone else who'd like to join in) are tackling. Tanita says: 

Here’s the scoop: We’re building! Our prompt comes from p. 139 of The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises from Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell, and we’re writing a poem in which we literally build and/or take apart something – large or small. Our focus will be on constructing or deconstructing, taking into account technical terms, instructions, and perhaps even material sources. 

I didn't entirely stick to the prompt, as my building isn't literal, but, hey, no one's grading us, so here's what I came up with.  

How to Build a Life in Ten Steps
Karen Edmisten

Step 1
Be born. Cry, because that’s an appropriate response to encountering the world. (Other, more complicated, feelings will come later.)

Step 2
Grow a bit. Move forward. (You've no choice in this step, though know you will take some steps backward.)

Step 3
Look at the world around you. Marvel. Despair. Be wide-eyed. Stomp your feet. Wander down some roads not taken.

Step 4
Grow some more. Consult the manual. (Admit you’ve been ignoring it.) Be tempted to throw it in the trash because some of the hardware it mentions is missing.

Step 5
Fall in love. Laugh. Swear off falling in love. Sob. Fall in like, lust, loneliness, lackadaisy. Be a childless cat lady and shout it from the rooftops. Fall again, and now again. Write it all down in your diary.

Step 6
Learn cliches and use them recklessly:
“How time flies!”
“Where do the years go?”
“You’re all grown up!”

Nod at the truth and the lies of them.

Step 7
Consult the manual again. This isn’t going the way you planned. Things look wobbly, wonky. There aren’t enough dowels, or nails, or latches (see Figure B). Are you missing the shelf (Part C)? Where is Part D, the foundational backing that’s supposed to hold the whole structure in place?

Step 8
Persevere through the love/hate thing you have with this project. Improvise. Stick those wobbly bits together with duct tape.

Step 9
Call in a friend for a consultation. Have a beer. (“Does this look wonky to you? Be honest.”)

Step 10
Put the manual down. Drop the hammer (but not on your foot.) Stop trying to build this life. This life has been building you.

 
“It looks unique and beautiful!” your friend says.

 
Choose to believe her.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely Carol Varsalona at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

Photo courtesy of Pexels. 

Poetry Friday: Mary Oliver and that Gatsby quote, of course

There are just too many quintessential poems for autumn and yes, I find myself repeating my favorites, and yes, I assume you don't mind (do you?), and yes, I need to share, along with this quintessential Mary Oliver, the quintessential Gatsby quote about autumn that I share every, single fall: 

"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon?" cried Daisy, "and the day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Don't be morbid," Jordan said. "Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."

 

So here we are. I'm being predictable again, fall is ushering in the crispness, and Mary Oliver is being her Mary Oliver-est. 

Song for Autumn
by Mary Oliver

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

....

(Read the whole thing here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The never-predictable, always delightful Jama Rattigan 

is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Jama's Alphabet Soup. 

(Photo courtesy of Jill Wellington at Pixabay.)

Poetry Friday: "First Fall" by Maggie Smith

Last week I wrote about motherhood (with a little help from Wallace Stevens) and this week Maggie Smith (the other one, the poet) is doing the talking on the subject. This short piece is poignant and beautiful. Enjoy "First Fall." 

First Fall
by Maggie Smith

I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges.
I walk through Schiller Park with you
on my chest. Stars smolder well
into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the terrific

Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: Thirteen Ways of Looking...

I'm joining the Poetry Pals/Sisters/Princesses for their monthly challenge. Tanita shared this prompt for September: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of September! Here’s the scoop: We’re wandering through Wallace Stevens’ “13 Different Ways of Looking…” at something. Maybe it’s not 13 ways – maybe it’s only seven. Maybe it’s not a blackbird or anything alive, but something inanimate. Whatever happens, your way of looking will be different than mine, and I’m here for it. Are you in? Good! You have a month to craft your creation and share it on September 27th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

I'm cheating a little because I wrote this one a while ago, when my daughters were young. And saying I "wrote" it is a wee bit of a stretch since I borrowed lines from Stevens and interspersed them throughout my version. But I've always liked it and thought it would be fun to share it again, especially given this month's challenge. 

If you joined in the challenge, let us know! 

(Original lines from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird are in italics. All the good lines belong to Stevens, but hey, the children are mine.)

Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Interruption 
Karen Edmisten
(with apologies and thanks to Wallace Stevens)

I
In the stillness of night,
The only moving thing
is a child.

II
I was of three minds:
sleep, motherhood, sleep.

III
I pretended not to care that I was awakened.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
There is my "to do" list, and then there is God's.
These are not the same thing.

IV

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a child
Are one.
Add, mix and stir: my daughters' "to do" lists are mine.


V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The life with the child
or the thought of that life.

VI
Chatter filled the long day
The company of children
Transformed a mood. Sometimes
for better. Sometimes ... not.


VII
O, dear control-freak-self,
Why do you imagine a different life?
Do you not see how the life
you've been given is unspeakable gift?

VIII
I know of a tidy life,
of elegance, rhythm and control.
But I know, too, That a child is involved
In what I know.

IX
When my children have grown,
They will mark the edge
Of one of many circles.
I will be grateful for their imprint.

X
At the sight of children
I used to say, "Not for me, please.
An unwelcome interruption."
But something shifted. I gave myself
Over to motherhood, and held on tight.

XI
Once, a fear pierced me,
that I would never rise to this task,
would not die to self.


XII
3:20 a.m.: A nightmare. She needs me more
than I need this sleep. 
I rise. I go.
A child will not wait for morning.


XIII
It was nighttime all day.
I loved her and I was going to love her.
The child sat entwined in my limbs.
The interruption sweetly complete.

~~~~~~~~~~

Join the #PoetryPals and loads of other bloggers and poets for the Poetry Friday round-up. The incomparable Irene Latham is hosting this week at Live Your Poem. 

Poetry Friday: "To Autumn" by John Keats

Autumn sweeps in, her official debut on Sunday, so Keats makes his official reappearance here on the blog, courtesy of a suggestion from Atticus. An excellent choice from my better half. 

To Autumn
by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
   To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,

  For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

   Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;
  Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
   Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

  Among the river sallows, borne aloft
   Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The marvelous Linda Baie has the Poetry Friday round-up at TeacherDance. 

Photo Courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

I don't have much to add to this one, other than:

1. It's Wendell Berry. Win/win. 

2. It's lovely imagery. 

3. It's Wendell Berry. 

Before Dark
by Wendell Berry

From the porch at dusk I watched
a kingfisher wild in flight
he could only have made for joy.

He came down the river, splashing
against the water’s dimming face
like a skipped rock, passing

on down out of sight. And still

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has the Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Apparently, I often think of Wendell Berry in September, and Heidi often hosts in September, because three years ago, I shared another Berry poem on the day she hosted. Berry-endipity. 

What I've been reading: a handful of NetGalley ARCs

I love NetGalley 

If you're not familiar with it, check out this appreciated-by-all system for getting new books into readers' and reviewers' hands. Here are a few things I've read of late, thanks to NetGalley ARCs: 

I Promise It Won't Always Hurt Like This: 18 Assurances on Grief by Clare Mackintosh

A gorgeous, honest, heartfelt memoir that I could endlessly relate to. I would never say, "I know how you feel" to Clare Mackintosh, because I don't exactly how she feels. After my five miscarriages, I was in a different situation and had experienced a different kind of grief than Mackintosh and her husband endured, having lost their son Alex when he was five weeks old. What I share with her is simply this: we were both  grieving, we needed to heal, it would take a long time, and we needed the promises of others who had walked this path before us. Mackintosh pays it forward and offers that comfort and assurance. 

~~~~~

No Two Persons by Erica Bauermeister 

This one's from 2023, but I don't think I ever blogged about it. A marvelous book about the power of writing and the magic of connecting through storytelling. At first, I felt slightly disappointed by the varying points of view, but I was quickly won over, immersed in each new story-within-this-story. Bauermeister subtly pulled threads from here and there, weaving them into surprising new places.

The epigraph, a quote from The Writings of Madame Swetchine, is, "No two persons ever read the same book, or saw the same picture." This truth is elegantly illustrated as we dip in and out of the lives of disparate readers of a fictional author's book. One character doesn't even read the book but uses it in a brilliant way.

Some favorite quotes:

But he understood the feeling of living in a world where few questions had a single, solid answer. Understood, too, that in that world, creativity often dwelt next to confusion.

Science heard that fragment of a second and wondered how to make it fit into a whole. Fiction wondered what hearing it felt like.

...but that was the beauty of books, wasn't it? They took you places you didn't know you needed to go.

Ignoring the fact that grief is not a stalker but a stowaway, always there and up for any journey.

A gorgeous, moving, and fully satisfying read.

~~~~~

When Religion Hurts You: Healing from Religious Trauma and the Impact of High-Control Religion by Laura E. Anderson 

An excellent guide to understanding, dealing with, and healing from AREs (adverse religious experiences) and HCRs (high-control religions) and the trauma that can result. While Anderson doesn't go into extensive personal detail, she includes just enough of her own painful story to establish her credibility, authenticity, and empathy as a survivor of religious trauma. Her personal story/understanding of the issues and her professional credentials as a trauma-informed therapist come together for a compelling and helpful read. 

~~~~~

The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife by Anna Johnston

A sweet (sometimes bittersweet) tale that kept me wondering how Fred, a lonely widower with no one to turn to, would resolve a unique dilemma. Mistaken identity and good intentions lead to second chances for these warm, likable characters. Surprise reveals, and a satisfying, lovely ending add to the charm of this poignant story about family, aging, loss, and forgiveness. 

I'll be back soon with a couple of picture books that made their way to me through NetGalley too. 📚

Photo thanks to Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "To the Light of September" by W.S. Merwin

Mullein 

Here's a bit of perfection, a knowing nod to September, from the incomparable W.S. Merwin. 

To the Light of September
by W. S. Merwin

When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Buffy Silverman. 

(Photo thanks to Hans at Pixabay.)

Poetry Friday: "Tension" by Billy Collins (via George Bilgere)

Last week I shared a poem by one of my favorite poets, George Bilgere, and mentioned a place you should surely visit: Poetry Town. Poetry Town is Bilgere's daily newsletter in which he shares a poem he loves, but wouldn't it be lovely if Poetry Town were a real place? I would move there immediately. 

Would Bilgere be the mayor, or would he share mayoral duties with Billy Collins (whose poem he shared in the August 9 edition of his newsletter and which I'm sharing below)? What would the population of Poetry Town be, and could just anyone live there? Self-proclaimed poets or published poets only? Non-poets who love to read and hear poetry? Or would Poetry Town be a place in which every business sported a poetic name, every billboard bore a sonnet? Restaurants could revamp their menus, rhyming roasted with toasted, grilled with chilled, and tea with glee. We could all speak in rhyme all the time. 

We could — oops. Suddenly, I've realized that I've gotten distracted. Suddenly, I need to redirect you to today's poem because this is, after all, a Poetry Friday post, not a city planning meeting. Suddenly, I need to use the word suddenly excessively, because Billy Collins does and I'm a sucker for anything Billy Collins does. 

And so, suddenly, I give you the Bilgere-picked, Collins-written bit of pure delight, "Tension." 

May it bring you sudden enjoyment. 

Tension
by Billy Collins

“Never use the word suddenly just to
create tension.” ––Writing Fiction


Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,

and suddenly I was in the study

looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.

When suddenly, without warning,
you planted the last petunia in the flat,
and I suddenly closed the dictionary
now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.

A moment later, we found ourselves
standing suddenly in the kitchen

....

(Read the rest here, at Bilgere's Poetry Town Newsletter.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Susan Thomsen has the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Chicken Spaghetti. 

(Photo courtesy of Pixabay.) 

Poetry Friday: "August" by George Bilgere

This one by George Bilgere captures precisely what I feel every, single August. Just as I've hit my summer rhythm, just when I know summer is sailing along and the world can do no wrong, that fateful day arrives: the season shifts, I sigh heavily, and I go in search of just the right poem. 

I found it. 

August 

by George Bilgere 

Just when you’d begun to feel
You could rely on the summer,
That each morning would deliver
The same mourning dove singing
From his station on the phone pole,
The same smell of bacon frying
Somewhere in the neighborhood,

(Read the rest here.) 

Here are my past posts featuring George Bilgere. (Some of the old links there are broken, but you can find all the poems I've mentioned or linked to here, at the old Writer's Almanac site.) 

Here is his website, and here's a link to his Poetry Town newsletter (a daily poem delivered to your Inbox, with a few words from Bilgere.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Imagine the poetry possibilities this week with Rose Cappelli, 

who is hosting the round-up. 

Poetry Friday: "How to Love" by January Gill O'Neil

I've missed a few Poetry Fridays, but that's the nature of summer, right? 

As summers go, it's been a rather strange one in many ways, but that's the nature of life, right? 

And as lives go, they are ever-changing but often circular, and so here I am, back to Poetry Friday. Right? 

Right. 

Let's go. 

This beautiful short poem looks at moving forward, at taking a risk. At Poets.org, January Gill O'Neil said of it: 

“I should have called this poem, ‘How to Trust Again.’ How does one stay open and believe in love after a betrayal? It’s a meditation on hope, really. Also, any poem I can fit my name into is a good one.”

Here's to Trust, here's to Hope, and here's to sneaking our names into poems. (Though that's a challenge for me these days, "Karen" being what it is. 😃) 

How to Love
by January Gill O’Neil

After stepping into the world again,
there is that question of how to love,
how to bundle yourself against the frosted morning
—the crunch of icy grass underfoot, the scrape
of cold wipers along the windshield—
and convert time into distance.

What song to sing down an empty road
as you begin your morning commute?
And is there enough in you to see, really see,

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)   

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the incomparable Molly at Nix the Comfort Zone. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Photo courtesy of sofi5t at Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "You and I" by Jonathan Potter

This one is for Atticus because he's the best thing about me.

"You and I" by Jonathan Potter is a short poem, just ten lines, nearly perfect. 

It begins: 

You are a warm front
that moved in from the north,

and then it winds through other marvelous metaphors and ends:


And I am the discoverer of you.


Depart from me now, dear reader, quickly, quickly, and spend a moment with this little gem here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robyn Hood Black has the round-up this week at Life on the Deckle Edge. 

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur, "The Writer"

Although I've shared Richard Wilbur's "The Writer" numerous times (along with loads of other Wilbur treasures), I never tire of this gorgeous poem. It fits beautifully with the relationship theme I've been chasing — this week, we drop in on a father and his junior-high-school-aged daughter. (I love the final lines so much.) 

The Writer
by Richard Wilbur


In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org. And to hear Richard Wilbur read it, go here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The fabulous Tabatha Yeatts has the Poetry Friday round-up this week at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Poetry Friday: January Gill O'Neil

Simple, lovely, and simply lovely: to my dearest women friends, a relationship like no other. 

In the Company of Women
by January Gill O’Neil

Make me laugh over coffee,
make it a double, make it frothy
so it seethes in our delight.
Make my cup overflow
with your small happiness.
I want to hoot and snort and cackle and chuckle.
Let your laughter fill me like a bell.
Let me listen to your ringing and singing
as Billie Holiday croons above our heads.

....

(Read the rest of this short, wonderful poem here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Delightful Denise Krebs, at Dare to Care, has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Forty Years" by Mary Oliver

        Photo courtesy of Sponchia at Pixabay. 

The last two weeks I shared poems that were simple, lovely, and simply lovely as they touched on the intricacies of relationships. This week, another in that vein: this one's about the poet's relationship with language. 


Forty Years
by Mary Oliver

for forty years
the sheets of white paper have
passed under my hands and I have tried
    to improve their peaceful

emptiness putting down
little curls little shafts
of letters words
    little flames leaping

not one page
was less to me than fascinating

....

(Read the whole thing here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

This week's wonderful host, Tracey Kidd-Judson, is cooking up some Poetry Friday inspiration at Tangles and Tales. 

Photo courtesy of Sponchia at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "The Raincoat" by Ada Limón

Continuing with last week's theme of poetry that is simple, lovely, and simply lovely while touching on the intricacies of relationships, I give you Ada Limón's "The Raincoat." 

I'm sharing some of the most significant lines to tempt you to go read the whole thing. It's only twenty-five lines in total, but I know how Poetry Friday is. I know it's sometimes hard to read everything, click through to everything, and take in everything you want to take in. But you won't regret the time it takes to read these twenty-five lines. I promise. 

The Raincoat
by Ada Limón


When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me

 

-----

...I never

asked her what she gave up to drive me,

or how her day was before this chore. 

-----

(And the end of the poem:) 

...and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.

Fill in the blanks and read the whole thing here, at Poets.org. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The always-lovely Janice Scully has the round-up this week at Salt City Verse. 

Photo courtesy of Jupilu on Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "String Quartet" by Carl Dennis

This is a simple and simply lovely poem by Carl Dennis that masterfully touches on the complexity of music, art, and human interaction. 

String Quartet

by Carl Dennis

Art and life, I wouldn't want to confuse them.

But it's hard to hear this quartet

Without comparing it to a conversation

Of the quiet kind, where no one tries to outtalk

The other participants, where each is eager instead

To share in the task of moving the theme along

From the opening statement to the final bar.

....

(Read the whole poem here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Enjoy your time with this string quartet, and be sure to visit Michelle Kogan for this week's Poetry Friday round-up. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "How Do I Know When a Poem Is Finished?"

This applies to so many artistic endeavors. When is a poem finished? What about that essay? Your book? Does that painting need a little more attention? Should I have another go at this drawing? 

Is anything ever finished, really? There is always more time, more attention we could give. But sometimes we have to say, "This will do. This is good. This is what I had to give, in this moment, at this time in my life, at this stage of my ongoing evolution. This. This is enough." 

How Do I Know When a Poem Is Finished?

by Naomi Shihab Nye

When you quietly close
the door to a room

the room is not finished.

It is resting. Temporarily.
Glad to be without you
for a while.

Now it has time to gather
its balls of gray dust,

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

The lovely, warm, and welcoming Patricia Franz is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Reverie. 

Poetry Friday: "Water" (an ode to the recent sump pump failure)

Welcome to the "Drying Out the Basement" edition of Poetry Friday. 

Do you have a sump pump? Do you know what happens when your sump pump malfunctions during an extremely rainy April? I hope you don't know. I hope you never know. 

On the other hand, this recent incident could be considered child's play compared to some of my past dances with water. 

My first experience with flooding — later dubbed "The Great Flood" of Fairbanks, Alaska — was when I was seven years old. My father was stationed there and we were living temporarily in a basement apartment until base housing became available. After heavy summer rains, the Chena River overflowed. Our entire apartment filled with water. This is how we left the apartment complex: 

I don't remember the three nice men who whisked us away, but the other occupants of the boat were my mom (holding my little brother), me (pointing at something), and my sister (waving). 

Here are a couple of photos of the aftermath as the flood waters were starting to recede. (Don't worry about that hair! It's just my mother's wig!) 

Given that I have this joyous little occasion on my flood resume, I suppose our recent experience barely rates a mention. No boats were needed in our basement the night the water came in, though at times it felt like a raft might come in handy. (I exaggerate. A little. There was much bailing of water.) Still, I don't recommend losing a sump pump. It's been a long, messy, stressful time. 

Oh, water! The gift that sometimes feels like a curse. Ralph Waldo Emerson understood it so well. 

Water

by Ralph Waldo Emerson 

The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily,
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure

With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.

~~~~~~~~~~

The lovely and incomparable Linda Mitchell has the round-up at A Word Edgewise. 

Poetry Friday: And now for something completely different

Things have been, understandably, pretty somber around here lately. So I thought I'd change course a bit and share something to make you smile. 

If you've ever needed a blurb for your book, or have been asked to write a blurb (I've been on both sides of that equation), this will ring true. And while it's true that "the art of blurbing isn't hard to master" — Oh! For a world without blurbs! The bane of a writer's existence. 

Enjoy this nugget from Barbara Crooker and be sure to visit Ruth at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town for the Poetry Friday round-up. 

Artless
with apologies to Elizabeth Bishop

by Barbara Crooker


The art of blurbing isn't hard to master.
Pick three quick phrases, fill them in with quotes,
so full of compliments, they're thick as plaster.

So what if all of this just seems like bluster?
Don't try to separate the sheep from goats.
The art of blurbing isn't hard to master.

"No ideal reader lets this book go past her."
Use adjectives like luminous but note

....

(Read the rest here.)