A poem for today by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I was looking for a specific type of poem and this is not that poem, but I couldn't resist it.

I Love You

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

I love your lips when they’re wet with wine

    And red with a wild desire;

I love your eyes when the lovelight lies

    Lit with a passionate fire.

I love your arms when the warm white flesh

    Touches mine in a fond embrace;

I love your hair when the strands enmesh

    Your kisses against my face.

read the rest at:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180677

Take your poet to work day.

It's Take Your Poet to Work Day!

I brought my favorite poet, Marge Piercy.  Of course, one of her cats had to come along too.
 

To alert everyone to this most important day, I made a quick display in the window.  On the right is the announcement from tweetspeak about TYPTWD and a cutout of Emily Dickinson, one of the featured poets they suggested.  On the right is Marge Piercy and two of her poems. (They happen to be this one and this one, both of which I have committed to memory.)

I never saw anyone look at my display all day long.  Alas.

Poem for February 2012: In Praise of my Bed.

You can read this month's poem here.

I love this poem. Of late, I've not been working very hard at anything, but I can recall times in my life when nothing was better than climbing into bed at the end of a long day. "The labor of being fully human" indeed.

And with that, so my poetry project goes on hiatus. I've enjoyed memorizing poems over the past few years. However, I'm not reading a lot of poetry right now and so I don't come across poems I feel compelled to memorize. Perhaps when I make space in my life for poetry, I can begin this project again.

I hope to soon have a poetry post outside my house so I can display my favorite poems that are not quite right for memorizing. In the meantime, I will revisit my memorized poems now and then to keep them in my brain.

Poem for January 2012: Dawn Revisited

Here it is: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2003/08/28

I chose this poem because in some ways it is a sufficient "new year, new start" sort of poem. However, though the light is returning, we are still in the dark of winter. "How good to RISE IN SUNLIGHT!" I would project forcefully at the dark, rainy sky as I walked to the train in the morning. Aside from using this poem to chastise the earth for something that is perfectly natural, I also greatly enjoyed the phrase "prodigal smell of biscuits."

Poem for December 2011: A Song in the Front Yard

Go to here to read this poem.

You also have the option to listen to the poem although I have to say that the recitation doesn't do a lot to bring out the charm.

I chose this poem because it accurately captures the frustration I felt growing up and being "good" all the time. (Whether I was actually good or not is beside the point. I felt like I was good all the time and every treated me as if I was good all the time, thus, I was good all the time.) As an adult, it's easy to see that "coming in at a quarter to nine--or even earlier--is a good thing, and perhaps hanging out with someone who sold a back gate is not the best company to choose. But there comes a time in childhood when a split seems to happen and there are suddenly the "bad" kids and the "good" kids. The bad kids might not really be bad, just testing rules to be cool or suffer from a lack of supervision. But the good kids can see the split and for me the longing to break rules and ignore the consequences was a strong one, even if it wasn't often acted upon.

Poem for November 2011: Solitude

You can read Solitude by clicking on the link below. I can pretty much guarantee you know the first two lines.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175207

I was drawn to this poem because of two passing comments made in books I read this month. In Anne's House of Dreams, at one point Anne says to her friend something to the effect of, "you will have all the joys and sorrows a mother can expect." In Wendall Barry's A Place On Earth several of the characters experience great sorrow, but continue to go about their business, integrating the sorrow into their lives for the time being.

This was interesting to me because I feel as though today we do not accept sorrow as a normal part of life, but rather a misfortune which just happens to find us on occasion. This poem, especially the last lines, seem to refute this notion, saying instead that we all need to pass through sorrows to get to the "halls of pleasure."

I also spent the entire month debating the tone of this poem. Is it one of those nineteenth century instructional poem, basically saying, "unfortunate things happen, but you are better off looking on the bright side?" Or, instead, is it tinged with a bit of bitterness, with the ultimate meaning being, "people will be your friends when you are happy, but once you experience sadness, you are on your own." After a month of reciting, I'm inclined to the latter opinion and I think that the second conclusion is the correct one, and I offer the last six lines as proof:

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a large and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain.

The bit of reading I did about the poem (okay, I just read one Wikipedia entry, it's not like they pay me for this gig) said that Wheeler Wilcox encountered a woman dressed in black crying by herself on a train. She spent the ride comforting her and the poem sprang from that experience.

I take comfort in this poem. It says my sorrows are okay.

As for memorization, it went in pretty easily, but I think it will be hard to retain, simply because the order of the things are easily jumbled. Sometimes when I'm reciting, my mind wanders and I discover I have skipped entirely one pair, usually feast/fast, but sometimes glad/sad. For this reason I will put it on daily rotation for December and January, just to solidify it.

Poem for October: The Raven

UNCLE! I cry UNCLE. I give up on this most delightful poem. A few things went wrong here. First off, it was too long to memorize over two months. I think my original assignment had me committing two to three stanzas per week to memory. That just wasn't possible, for on the best weeks I could get maybe a stanza into my brain. The second problem was the darn "archaic language" problem. I will most likely never in my life say the sentence "Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore." It's a great sentence. I love "dirge," "melancholy," and the alliteration of "burden bore," but so much "old fashioned" in one sentence just doesn't stick in my head.

This was an incredibly fun poem to memorize, full of fabulous alliteration, great turns of phrase and much drama. Rather than recite it in the boring "poetry recitation voice" you can actually act it out. But I just can't get it all in. I had thought of extending my memorization period into November, but I seem to be falling behind again and again and my frustration has grown, mirroring like the main character's journey with the Raven. So I'm letting this one go and learning a good lesson about biting off and chewing. For the record, I made it through 12 stanzas.

My favorite lines? "And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain/Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before."

I also loved the stanza that begins "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing."

I'll look into a shorter Poe poem. His rhyme scheme is great and world choice is delightful. In the meantime, enjoy this as I did. Try reading it aloud.

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -

Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -

This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - nevermore!

(from http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html)

Poem for September: Coming soon.

The poem for September is actually the poem for September and October, so tune in for the October 31 post to find out what the poem is. In the meantime, let's chat about how I keep all these poems in my head.

Or at least that was what this post was supposed to be about as I was going to have the plan in place by the time I got to this post. Alas, here I am with no plan. So we shall create one.

When I started the project, the plan was that I would work on the current month's poem daily and Sunday would be my review day. I knew the key to remembering all the poems would be to keep them fresh in my mind so I would recite all the poems in order from beginning to end weekly. This worked pretty well until I got about a year and a half in. Then there were too many poems to whip through on a Sunday. And Sunday turned out to not be such a good day for review anyway, as it doesn't usually involve a lot of biking or walking.

I find that I can usually remember the previous year's poems, the poem I'm working on and the previous month's poem, but have trouble remembering the previous six months poems. There seems to be a gap where the poem has to sit forgotten in the brain for a bit before it emerges into consciousness again.

So here's the new plan. I've typed a list of all the poems I've memorized. At this point, it's 31 poems. I've also got them listed quarterly by year. For instance: January, (2010--Invictus, 2011 The Pool Players) February (2010--February, 2011--Oranges) March (2009--Incident, 2010--Otherwise, 2011--Wild Geese) These are both in Excel so I can add to them as I add more poems. The plan will be that the current review is the current quarter we are in. September is the last month in the July/August/September quarter. Beginning in October I will review the poems in the October/November/December Quarter. I will also go back over the previous six months of poems.

I won't have to do this for each poem every day. In fact, that would be a bit of overkill. Instead, I can review one poem per day while I am dressing in the morning. I've started a hard copy poem book that contains each poem I've memorized. I will also make an extra copy of this book for my bag. A lot of my poem reciting happens when I'm walking or riding the bike. Having a secondary poem book to refer to will be handy for when the exact words don't come immediately in my head. Right now I get to a point like that and think, "damn it. Something, da dah, da dah da dah something." Then I have to remember to look it up when I get home which never happens.

The other thing I'm going to do is let the poems I don't really like go. Such is the case for 'Praise Song for the Day." (October 2010) It was a complex poem that I really didn't like by the end of last October when it was all stuck in my head. Looking at it now, I remember almost nothing of it. I'm a bit overwhelmed by the current month's poem and don't have the energy to shove it back in. I may come back to it someday, but not right now.

The September/October selection may bleed over into November. We shall see what October's memorization brings.

Poem for July: Outwitted

Outwitted

Edwin Markham

He drew a circle that shut me out—

Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in!

The poetry project mistress almost missed a month of poetry memorization. June's selection took a very long time to learn and I hadn't chosen anything for July and here it was July fifth. Then July tenth. Then the fifteenth. Then the twentieth. Would I miss memorizing a poem for the first time since May 2009?

Enter the short poem that I had almost completely memorized anyway. I've mentioned this poem before on the blog, Edwin Markham was a former Poet Laureate of Oregon. And this poem was in some anthology I had for some Junior High or High School English class. So now it is officially learned and the Poetry project carries on.

Because I have three weeks off in August and because it is very difficult for me to memorize poems when I am not walking to the train or riding my bike to work every day, I will have another very short poem for August.

Also in August I hope to have a post about how I keep all these poems fresh in my memory.

Poem for June: Do not go gentle into that good night.

by Dylan Thomas

Read, and also listen, to the poem here.

So the thing about memorizing a poem is that you become very familiar with its nuances. In a good poem, this is fun, as wonderful turns of phrase are still wonderful near the end of the month after you've said them fifty-plus times. However, sometimes what seems to be a good poem, reveals its flaws in the memorizing process in a way they do not upon first reading. That word that isn't quite the right word suddenly becomes that much more of clinker and weighs down the poem a bit in an unsatisfying way.

So it was with this poem. My problem is with the fifth stanza where I find the repetition of the word "blind" as in "...see with blinded sight/blind eyes should..." a bit lazy. In my view, successful poets are supposed to express things using a vast thesaurus of words. Repetition of words can happen and is sometimes successful in a poem, but in this case, I think that he could have found another word.

Poem for May: Entrance

You can read this month's post by clicking here. It's not mentioned on the site but this version is translated by Dana Gioia. Interestingly, there is a version translated by Edward Snow, which is quite different and not as lyrical to my mind.

My poems of late seem to consist of a sort of "make your own reality" theme. It's where I am, I guess.

Poem for April: Love after Love

Go and read it here:
http://www.cjbecker.com/love_after_love.htm

(Ignore the centered spacing in the above layout, it really should be left justified)

I came across this poem while reading O, the Oprah Magazine. I immediately clipped it. Its brevity meant that I could stick it to a 3x5 card and add it to the stack of quotes that sit on my desk at work. It's still the only poem in that stack.

Like last month's selection, this poem is one that brings me back to myself. I can spend a lot of time being distracted by what isn't in my life, and I need reminders to be redirected back to the fact that what is in my life, is lovely.

Poem for March: Wild Geese

Read the poem by clicking somewhere on this sentence.

After somewhat dogging on the Mary Oliver book I read last month, I, of course, decided to memorize one of her poems this month. This poem is on the side of my friend Deborah's refrigerator. It is also Responsive Reading #490 in the Unitarian Hymnal Singing the Living Tradition. I really like the first five lines, as they are good reminder for modern life.

Poem for February: Oranges

This is still probably under copyright, so read it by clicking (http://matthewkaberline.blogspot.com/2008/04/gary-soto-oranges.html)

Though this is not the Gary Soto poem I was looking for, it does have a lot of nice imagery easily accessible to the middle school population. This is why, of course, it is assigned by so many middle school teachers.

Back in January, I lamented the lack of poems coming into my life. At the time, I was "reading" three poems a night from a poetry anthology. As the quotes around the word reading indicate, I wasn't actually doing that. I needed to find time for poetry every day, but where?

A few things happened at once, in the way that life goes. First off, I started eating breakfast at home again. I had been bringing my breakfast to work and eating at my desk. I realized I was eating 80% of my food at work, sitting in front of my computer and decided to cut back that practice. I had to cut out the morning meditation, but it is so pleasant to now eat two meals at a table that I think the trade off was worth it.

Next, the newspaper started to arrive very late. The paper is supposed to get here by six o'clock on weekdays and my paper guy was not meeting the cut most days. So I had nothing to read while eating my breakfast. A-ha! An opening for more poetry! I got two anthologies and a book by a single author. I rotate through them as I eat my breakfast, which is delightful. Although sometimes not if a poem is particularly graphic or disturbing. Though that is rare and mostly, it is wonderful.

Now I have more poems coming into my life, which means it is easier to find poems to memorize.

Poem for January: The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel

click over here (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433) to read this poem.

I've been having a problem lately finding poems. I have not been making time to read enough poems to discover ones I loved enough to memorize. So this month was passing and I still hadn't chosen a poem. I remembered a very short poem--four to eight lines--that I loved as a teenager that was written by Gary Soto and called, I thought, "Oranges". So that was going to be the short poem of the month. But when I finally got around to finding "Oranges," I found that it was not the poem I thought it was. It was a good poem, but too long to cram in my memory in the few remaining days of the month. By chance, I recalled Gwendolyn Brooks' poem. A-hah! That would be short enough to memorize for January and "Oranges" could be my February poem.

I have fond memories of this poem. For some reason, we spent a lot of time in my English classes during Junior High and High School reading about the Harlem Renaissance. I loved the poems we read so much that my junior year when I had to choose an author to study for the entire year, I chose Langston Hughes. I think the emphasis on the Harlem Renaissance was a way to gear our curriculum toward something beside the white guys. And I have to say, the disenfranchisement felt by this group of talented authors resonated with my adolescent self. While my white, middle-class upbringing wasn't anywhere near disenfranchised, I felt--as I think many adolescents do--a kinship with these authors. Life wasn't very fair for me, either, it seemed at the time.

This poem in particular sticks in my head because we watched a video which included Gwendolyn Brooks reading this poem. Until I watched that video I had been reading her poem thusly:

We real cool. Pause. Inhale. We left school. Pause. Inhale. We lurk late. Pause. Inhale. and so on.

When I heard Brooks read it, it changed from a good poem with a kicker of a last line to an awesome poem that sounded like a song. The transformation was such a surprise that I had one of those flash bulb memory moments and can picture perfectly the room where I was watching the video. I remember that I was not the only one surprised as there was a general gasp in the room and the teacher gave a satisfied, "Yep. Pretty cool, eh?" sort of comment.

You too can hear Gwendolyn Brooks read her poem, as well as deliver some commentary about how she would like people to know her for her other poems too, by going to the link above and clicking on the play button. I highly recommend it.

Next month, stay tuned for how I have found a way to read more poems on a daily basis.

Poem for December: For the young who want to.

For the young who want to
by Marge Piercy

This is under copyright. Please see this link: (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=176837)

Reading about Piercy's life, I feel as though she was born one decade early. She went to college in the 1950s, when it was all about getting your MRS, when she would have clearly fit in much better in the 1960s, when it was all about--well, thanks to innumerable books, movies, history channel specials and general fawning over the times--we all know what it was all about.

So there is a thread of bitterness that runs through her poems which I respect because she earned her bitterness the hard way. No one has ever told me I should have a baby and for that I thank the hard work of Piercy and her contemporaries, and all the feminists who come before them.

Poem for November: Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

I had a different poem in mind for November. It was a good one. I just kept forgetting to copy it onto paper so I could have it with me for memorizing. More and more time passed and I was suddenly left with only one good week's worth of memorizing. So I switched it up. I googled "short poems to memorize" and came up with this one. It works.

The secret club

One of the most delightful things about memorizing poems is when you encounter poems you have memorized in other contexts. There is a flash of quizzical recognition, "Hey, that sounds familiar! Why?" and a happy realization. "They know the same poem I do!" It's like being in a secret club. This editorial discusses the poem I memorized last December. She enjoys reciting it this time of year as much as I do.

Poem for October: Praise Song for the Day

Praise Song for the Day
Elizabeth Alexander

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

I chose this poem for October because it was the poem read at Barack Obama's inauguration. I wasn't enchanted when the poet read it that day, but when I read it on my own I really liked it. In a political season with words more declaimed than whispered and more spiny than smooth, I felt like this was a poem to commit to memory.

The past two political years haven't turned out as I would have chosen. I would like to see more compromise--and not just by Democrats sliding ever close to the Republicans' positions while the Republicans refuse to move. I would like to see elections that cannot be bought by a few and I would like to see a political process that finds commonalities in our population, instead of pitting us against one another. This election cycle I saw a lot of "you have something that I don't have (pension, decent health care, etc.) and because I don't have it, you shouldn't either." I would like us to work towards, "how can we get everyone to have something good?" I know there is a lot more figuring it out at the kitchen tables and it makes me tired. This poem, celebrating a "sharp sparkle" and the idea that "any thing can be made" is a bit of a buoy in this acrimonious, bought and paid for, rude and grabby time.

Poem for September: Permanently

Permanently
Kenneth Koch

One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.
An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.

Each Sentence says one thing—for example, "Although it was a dark
rainy day when the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure
and sweet _expression on her face until the day I perish from the
green, effective earth."
Or, "Will you please close the window, Andrew?"
Or, for example, "Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window
sill has changed color recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from
the boiler factory which exists nearby."

In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass.
A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, "And! But!"
But the Adjective did not emerge.

As the adjective is lost in the sentence,
So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat--
You have enchanted me with a single kiss
Which can never be undone
Until the destruction of language.

You might say that I am a fan of declarations of love which meander through the mundane before confessing their fondest feelings. "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen is perhaps my favorite song mostly because of the line "You ain't a beauty, but yeah, you're all right." It may be the type of people I'm attracted to, or it may just be the unrealistic expectations scripted drama creates, but I find most declarations of love in my past to be something along the lines of the following: "Did you get the peanut butter at the store? Shall we go to see that play? When was the last time we cleaned the house? Have I mentioned that I find you quite attractive and I love you? When do I get to have a new job?"

I also love the idea of the parts of speech having a whole lives we don't know about. Can't you picture the nouns, pimply and with poor posture, standing together near a streetlight? And the poor conjunctions, what of their fate?