Poetry poems

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Planting the Sand Cherry by Ann Struthers: American Life in Poetry #171 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laurea

© Ted Kooser

Sometimes I think that people are at their happiest when they're engaged in activities close to the work of the earliest humans: telling stories around a fire, taking care of children, hunting, making clothes. Here an Iowan, Ann Struthers, speaks of one of those original tasks, digging in the dirt.

Planting the Sand Cherry

Heat-Lightning

© James Whitcomb Riley

"'_If the darkened heavens lower,
Wrap thy cloak around thy form;
Though the tempest rise in power,
God is mightier than the storm!_'"

Subway by Barry Goldensohn: American Life in Poetry #125 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

The American poet, Ezra Pound, once described the faces of people in a rail station as petals on a wet black bough. That was roughly seventy-five years ago. Here Barry Goldenson of New York offers a look at a contemporary subway station. Not petals, but people all the same.

My Hometown by Donal Heffernan : American Life in Poetry #276 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-20

© Ted Kooser

I live in Nebraska, where we have a town named Homer. Such a humble, homely name and, as it happens, the poet Donal Heffernan is from Homer, and heres his hymn to the town and its history. Long live Homer. And while were celebrating Nebraska towns, lets throw in Edgar, too.

The City's Oldest Known Survivor of the Great War by James Doyle: American Life in Poetry #9 Ted Koo

© Ted Kooser

In eighteen lines—one long sentence—James Doyle evokes two settings: an actual parade and a remembered one. By dissolving time and contrasting the scenes, the poet helps us recognize the power of memory and the subtle ways it can move us.

The City's Oldest Known Survivor of the Great War

Extracts From Leon. An Unfinished Poem

© Joseph Rodman Drake

It is an eve that drops a heavenly balm,
To lull the feelings to a sober calm,
To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart;
And smooth the troubled waters of the heart;
To give a tranquil fixedness to grief,
A cherished gloom, that wishes not relief.

Ode to Clothes

© Pablo Neruda

Every morning you wait,

clothes, over a chair,

Hot Afternoons Have Been in Montana

© Eli Siegel

Quiet and green was the grass of the field,

The sky was whole in brightness,

Yard Work by Don Thompson : American Life in Poetry #272 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

Whether we like it or not, we live with the awareness that death is always close at hand, and in this poem by Don Thompson, a Californian, a dead blackbird can’t be pushed out of the awareness of the speaker, nor can it escape the ants, who have their own yard work to do. Yard Work

My leaf blower lifted the blackbird-

New Mexican Mountain

© Robinson Jeffers

I watch the Indians dancing to help the young corn at Taos
pueblo. The old men squat in a ring
And make the song, the young women with fat bare arms, and a
few shame-faced young men, shuffle the dance.

Nymphs And Shepherds

© Thomas Shadwell

Nymphs and shepherds, come away.

In the groves let's sport and play,

On The Future Of Poetry

© Henry Austin Dobson

Bards of the Future! you that come

With striding march, and roll of drum,

Poetry

© Dame Edith Sitwell

Enobles the heart and the eyes,
and unveils the meaning of all things
upon which the heart and the eyes dwell.
It discovers the secret rays of the universe,
and restores to us forgotten paradises.

A Tale

© Robert Browning

What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Red Jacket

COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her files, her PIONEER of mind
A wanderer now in other climes, has proven
His love for the young land he left behind;

The Emulation

© Sarah Fyge

Say, Tyrant Custom, why must we obey

The impositions of thy haughty Sway;

Don Juan: Canto The Seventh

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly

Around us ever, rarely to alight?

Hudibras: Part 2 - Canto I

Quoth she, I grant it is in vain.
For one that's basted to feel pain,
Because the pangs his bones endure
Contribute nothing to the cure:
Yet honor hurt, is wont to rage
With pain no med'cine can asswage.