Tag Archives: poetry

I’m Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense | Danez Smith

O California, don’t you know the sun is only a god
if you learn to starve for him? I’m bored with the ocean

I stood at the lip of it, dressed in down, praying for snow
I know, I’m strange, too much light makes me nervous

at least in this land where the trees always bear green.
I know something that doesn’t die can’t be beautiful.

Have you ever stood on a frozen lake, California?
The sun above you, the snow & stalled sea—a field of mirror

all demanding to be the sun too, everything around you
is light & it’s gorgeous & if you stay too long it will kill you

& it’s so sad, you know? You’re the only warm thing for miles
& the only thing that can’t shine.

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Poems for the Aftermath #2

Good Bones – Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

Moby Dick – Dan Beachy-Quick

No reverie begs “light” in the blind eye.
Reverie says: dig this depth-of-blank

Deeper. Dig deeper
With the Whale below the white-capped waves –

A twitch of his tail, a twitch of his white tail
Birthed from ocean-bed the wave

That broke calm water into each cracked plank
Of the harpooner’s boat, made that man sway,

And cast him on the spear his arm meant to cast
At you. Beneath the sun’s evil weight

Men burn nightwards but never darken
Past night. There’s always the moon’s hook

On still water to deny them.
But Whale, you dive down

Until the ocean’s ground begs you solid, “Stop.”
Whale, you do not stop.

You beat your head against the jagged rocks.
Blind in depths so dark light itself is blind,

You knock your head against the rocks to see
And scratch the god-itch from your thoughts.

Flame is jealous of flame, once lit, it ever
Reaches higher. You wait, match-tip, White Whale.

I see how you wait in silence for silence
To say: write it in, tell me who I am now.

In Spite of Everything, the Stars – Edward Hirsch

Like a stunned piano, like a bucket
of fresh milk flung into the air
or a dozen fists of confetti
thrown hard at a bride
stepping down from the altar,
the stars surprise the sky.
Think of dazed stones
floating overhead, or an ocean
of starfish hung up to dry. Yes,
like a conductor’s expectant arm
about to lift toward the chorus,
or a juggler’s plates defying gravity,
or a hundred fastballs fired at once
and freezing in midair, the stars
startle the sky over the city.

And that’s why the drunks leaning up
against abandoned buildings, women
hurrying home on deserted side streets,
policemen turning blind corners, and
even thieves stepping from alleys
all stare up at once. Why else do
sleepwalkers move toward the windows,
or old men drag flimsy lawn chairs
onto fire escapes, or hardened criminals
press sad foreheads to steel bars?
Because the night is alive with lamps!
That’s why in dark houses all over the city
dreams stir in the pillows, a million
plumes of breath rise into the sky.

Green, Green is my Sister’s House – Mary Oliver

Don’t you dare climb that tree
or even try, they said, or you will be
sent away to the hospital of the
very foolish, if not the other one.
And I suppose, considering my age,
it was fair advice.

But the tree is a sister to me, she
lives alone in a green cottage
high in the air and I know what
would happen, she’d clap her green hands,
she’d shake her green hair, she’d
welcome me. Truly

I try to be good but sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to be. It’s impossible not
to remember wild and want it back. So

if someday you can’t find me you might
look into that tree or—of course
it’s possible—under it.