Friday, November 27, 2009

837. To The Required Unknown - William Wehrmeister

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. This world, with its flashing lights, and images, and blazing with speed 
gives us little time, and less to reflect, and worse does our l...
Saturday, November 21, 2009

836. Oatmeal - Galway Kinnell

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I eat oatmeal for breakfast. I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it. I eat it alone. I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal...
Friday, November 20, 2009

835. Theodotus - C. P. Cavafy

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Translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn If you are among the truly elect, watch how you achieve your predominance. However much you...
Saturday, November 14, 2009

834. I Am Too Close. - Wislawa Szymborska

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Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh. I am too close for him to dream of me. I don't flutter over him, d...
Wednesday, November 11, 2009

833. Pursery Rhyme - Gen. Isaac R. Sherwood

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(1835-1925) (From: An Anthology of Revolutionary Poetry, 1929) Sing a song of Europe, Highly civilized. Four and twenty nations Wholly...
Monday, November 09, 2009

832. A World To Do - Theodore Weiss

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“I busy too,” the little boy said, lost in his book about a little boy, lost in his book, with nothing but a purple crayon and his wits to g...
Thursday, November 05, 2009

831. The Sun - Mary Oliver

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. Have you ever seen anything in your life more wonderful than the way the sun, every evening, relaxed and easy, floats toward the horizon a...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009

830. Impressions - E. E. Cummings

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From: An Anthology of Revolutionary Poetry, 1929 the hours rise up putting off stars and it is dawn into the street of the sky light walks s...
Sunday, October 25, 2009

829. Some Like Poetry (Four translations) - Wislawa Szymborska

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Wislawa Szymborska - Some Like Poetry Translated from the Polish by Joanna Maria Trzeciak Some–– not all, that is. Not even the majority of ...
Friday, October 23, 2009

828. Brueghel's Snow (Six poems about the same picture)

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Rutger Kopland - Brueghel's Winter Translated from the Dutch by James Brockway    Winter by Brueghel, the hill with hunters and dogs,...
Thursday, October 22, 2009

827. Reisebilder - Edoardo Sanguineti

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. To the mini-skirted customs official who with sibyl-dove eyes honed in on me in the interminable line of travelers in transit, I told the ...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009

826. Invitation To Miss Marianne Moore - Elizabeth Bishop

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(Suggested by a poem of Pablo Neruda) From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning, please come flying. In a cloud of fier...
Sunday, October 18, 2009

825. First Day of the Future - Galway Kinnell

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They always seem to come up on the future, these cold, earthly dawns; the whiteness and the blackness make the flesh shiver as though it...
Saturday, October 17, 2009

824. Song of one of the girls - Dorothy Parker

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Here in my heart I am Helen; I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least. I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael; I'm Salome, moon of th...
Monday, October 12, 2009

823. Work Around Your Abyss - Henry Nouwen

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There is a deep hole in your being, like an abyss. You will never succeed in filling that hole, because your needs are inexhaustible. You ha...
Thursday, October 08, 2009

822. Descartes's Loneliness - Allen Grossman

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. Toward evening, the natural light becomes intelligent and answers, without demur: "Be assured! You are not alone. . . ." But in ...
Monday, October 05, 2009

821. Apologies - Gwendolyn Mac Ewen

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from The T.E. Lawrence Poems I did not choose Arabia; it chose me. The shabby money That the desert offered us bought lies, bought victory. ...
Friday, October 02, 2009

820. A Night At The Opera - Charles Tomlinson

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When the old servant reveals she is the mother Of the young count whose elder brother Has betrayed him, the heroine, disguised As the ...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009

819. Destruction - Joanne Kyger

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. First of all do you remember the way a bear goes through a cabin when nobody is home? He goes through the front door. I mean he really goe...
Monday, September 28, 2009

818. Things of the Past - Theodore Weiss

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“Your great-grandfather was . . .” And Mrs. C, our tart old Scots landlady, with her stomping legs, four bristles sprouted from her chin- wa...