Brook, Be still,—be still! Midnight’s arch is broken In thy ceaseless ripples. Dark and cold below them Runs the troubled water,— Only on its bosom, Shimmering and trembling, Doth the glinted star-shine Sparkle and cease. Life, Be still,—be still! Boundless truth is shattered On thy hurrying current. Rest, with face uplifted, Calm, serenely quiet; Drink the deathless beauty— Thrills of love and wonder Sinking, shining, star-like; Till the mirrored heaven Hollow down within thee Holy deeps unfathomed, Where far thoughts go floating, And low voices wander Whispering peace. — Edward Roland Sill, “Serenity” Read more →
EppsNet Archive: Poetry
Vintage
I will mix me a drink of stars,— Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, Cool, quiet, green stars. I will tear them out of the sky, And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. It will lap and scratch As I swallow it down; And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly. His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh, Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. — Amy Lowell, “Vintage” Read more →
Passers-by
Passers-by, Out of your many faces Flash memories to me Now at the day end Away from the sidewalks Where your shoe soles traveled And your voices rose and blent To form the city’s afternoon roar Hindering an old silence. Passers-by, I remember lean ones among you, Throats in the clutch of a hope, Lips written over with strivings, Mouths that kiss only for love, Records of great wishes slept with, Held long And prayed and toiled for: Yes, Written on Your mouths And your throats I read them When you passed by. — Carl Sandburg, “Passers-by” Read more →
Within the Circuit of this Plodding Life
Within the circuit of this plodding life, There enter moments of an azure hue, Untarnished fair as is the violet Or anemone, when the spring strews them By some meandering rivulet, which make The best philosophy untrue that aims But to console man for his grievances. I have remembered when the winter came, High in my chamber in the frosty nights, When in the still light of the cheerful moon, On every twig and rail and jutting spout, The icy spears were adding to their length Against the arrows of the coming sun, How in the shimmering noon of summer past Some unrecorded beam slanted across The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew; Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind, The bee’s long smothered hum, on the blue flag Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill, Which now through all its course stands still and dumb Its own memorial,—purling… Read more →
Old Wine
If I could lift My heart but high enough My heart could fill with love: But ah, my heart Too still and heavy stays Too brimming with old days. — Margaret Widdemer, “Old Wine” Read more →
Attention Deficit
Focus for us was a thing hard to come by. We would have to make due with whatever we had: these were pills and a pencil, blue earplugs to block out the voices inside of our heads, which would tell us time passed and these thoughts that would shine like soft lights on our brains would one day fade into invisible relief. We would write in our binders, pass classes, allow for a moment of grief. We were deeply aware we would have to make up for lost time, but when we took our pills, the world would seem fine, seem as if it had always been fine. Once we had adequate supplies we’d sell, but until then we decid- ed to re- fill. We had determined that we would not brood. Instead we charted out our moods and light- ened up our loads. Before the rest of time unfolds,… Read more →
Closed
The crimson dawn breaks through the clouded east, And waking breezes round the casement pipe; They blow the globes of dew from opening buds, And steal the odors of the sleeping flowers. The swallow calls its young ones from the eaves, To dart above their shadows on the lake, Till its long rollers redden in the sun, And bend the lances of the mirrored pines. Who knows the miracle that brings the morn? Still in my house I linger, though the night— The night that hides me from myself is gone. Light robes the world, but strips me bare again. I will not follow on the paths of day. I know the dregs within its crystal hours; The bearers of my cups have served me well; I drained them, and the bearers come no more. Rise, morning, rise, for those believing souls Who seek completion in day’s garish light. My… Read more →
This Magic Moment
Bravery is doing the same thing every day when you don’t want to. Not the marvelous but the familiar, over and over again. Do that, and the magic will come. — David Kirby, “This Magic Moment” Read more →
The Lowlight of My Weekend
I had lunch over the weekend with Robert Hass — Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, UC Berkeley professor and former Poet Laureate of the United States. When I say I had lunch with him, I mean he was one of five people seated at our table. I asked to take a photo with him, which he graciously consented to. I don’t have any photos of myself with Pulitzer Prize winners and still don’t because the photo didn’t come out at all. I completely botched it somehow. So that was probably the lowlight of my weekend, except for Cal getting blown out by Washington on the gridiron 31-7, while four Husky fans sat directly behind us screaming the whole game. Football at Cal unfortunately is like academics at Washington: not terribly distinguished. Read more →
Books, Writers, Bookstores, Libraries
World’s Coolest Bookstores – CNN Style 22 Most Spectacular Libraries in the World – Architecture and Design Writers at Work Erasing Infinite – Poet Jenni B. Baker creates erasure poetry from David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, one page at a time. Incredible. Must be seen to be believed. Read more →
If You Quote Poetry at My Death, I Will Haunt You
If you know me, and you outlive me, and you want to say something on the occasion of my demise, please do not quote a snippet of poetry or other literary material, e.g., “He did not go gently into that good night.” Or: “I think Wordsworth said it best . . .” Bullshit . . . Wordsworth did not say it best. Wordsworth didn’t know me. You knew me. Go ahead and say something from the heart if you have something. Keep it real. He was not a good person. He had the most appalling social skills, which is why he had no close friends. After his son moved out, he just unraveled like an old sock. I remember at Jackie O’s funeral, her kids — was it just one kid, or both? I think both — read a poem. A poem! That’s when you really know that your life… Read more →
Seamus Heaney, 1939-2013
The way we are living, timorous or bold, will have been our life. — Seamus Heaney, “Elegy” Related articles In Memoriam Seamus Heaney (text-patterns.thenewatlantis.com) Read more →
Aside
Aerogramme Writers’ Studio: Emily Dickinson Attends a Writing Workshop
As Gently as You Can
Our skills are finally in demand. If you mock us, Pan, In whom we also believe, do it As gently as you can. — Stephen Burt, “The People on the Bus” Read more →
There Was an Old Woman
here was an old woman tossed up in a basket, Nineteen times as high as the moon; Where she was going I couldn’t but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom. “Old woman, old woman, old woman,” quoth I, “Oh whither, oh whither, oh whither so high?” “To brush the cobwebs off the sky!” “Shall I go with thee?” “Aye, by-and-by.” Read more →
Goals for Today
Stop one heart from breaking. Ease one life the aching or cool one pain. Or help one fainting robin unto his nest again. What’s the billing code for that? Read more →
Watch Out for the Gospel of the Times
everything is permitted absolute freedom of movement that is, without leaving the cage 2+2 doesn’t make 4: once it made 4 but today nothing is known in this regard — Nicanor Parra, “Watch Out for the Gospel of the Times” Read more →
Poetry Madness
Powell’s Books has a Poetry Madness bracket online to determine the Best Poet of All Time. Unfortunately, along with some really obvious omissions, they don’t understand the concept of seeding, so while minor poets face off in a number of first round matchups, there are inexplicable heavyweight pairings like T.S. Eliot vs. Emily Dickinson . . . Read more →
Our Children Can Drink Water From Broken Bowls
We must make do with today’s Happenings, and stoop and somehow glue together The silly little shards of our lives, so that Our children can drink water from broken bowls, Not from cupped hands — Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, “Aubade” Read more →
Poems I’ve Read Recently and Liked
“Aubade” by Philip Larkin “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by William Butler Yeats Read more →