Sunday Morning Muse with (what else?) Poetry

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.

https://lesleywheeler.org/

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

 

 

 

 

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