I’ve kept my pledge for National Poetry Month – so far – I have written a poem-a-day, and I’ve purchased, borrowed, or swapped a book-a-day.
Among the books sitting at my desk and bedside include these. Of course, it will take more than an April to read all of them. I’ll post about another bunch next Sunday.
You Should Have Told Me That We Have Nothing Left. Jessie Tu (Vagabond Press). I met Jessie at a writers’ workshop near Atlantic City, NJ, this January. She is from Australia, but studying in the US. I haven’t made a friend so easily in a long while. We walked the boardwalk on a cold Winter morning, ate cheese fries, and talked our hearts out.
I forgot to bring in the ducks. They froze to death on a Sunday morning, right before the snow storm. I was grateful to God, for saving them the agony of my own grey loneliness.
Speaking of ducks, here are a few lines from “Duck Hunting” in PIER, Janine Oshiro (Alice James Books, 2011), winner of the 2010 Kundiman Poetry Prize).
The hunter he lives in the house beyond the trees. He lives in that corner. Believe me. It is dark, and darkly seen, the duck is falling.
I bought Lesley Wheeler‘s Book, Radioland, (Barrow Street, 2015) after following her blogs on the Poetry Blog Revival.
I am enjoying her leaps and musicality. This one, called Abortion Radio, struck a nerve.
I felt something pass, I caught it, my baby. Tiny hands, skin translucent. every stump resembles a deer that's poised to leap. My friend just hit a doe last night, driving home from a conference, having missed her son's bedtime for three nights running. Her first thought: I killed a baby.
Finally, for today, these words from Elegy Owed, Bob Hicok (Copper Canyon Press, 2013). I’ve not read Hicok before, but I’m very glad to be reading this book now. These lines are from “The days are getting longer” which speaks to me not only because the days are in fact getting longer and my melancholy has lifted, slightly.
She asked the other day how my day was, I told her, she asked again, as if I hadn't answered or slept in the rumpus-room of her womb. Do you ever look at a crust of bread and wonder if that's God, if the quiet that lives there is the same hush we become? I never do too, but is it, and why are we dragging