Follow the summer sun over to 2River and sit in the shade with new poems by Fang Bu, Anna E. Childs, Lenny DellaRocca, Maria Elting, Marcia Hurlow, William Knudsen, George Moore, Taylor Rickett, Mary Ellen Shaughan, and Corey Smith.
The temp’s building fast to the release of the 19.4 (Summer 2015) issue of 2RV. To up the heat, here’s a poem from the mag by Maria Elting.
Stems (a revelation of suicide considered)
I should like to keep the flowers fresh by the windowside
I should like to dry and press them free from the brittle grief of wilting, you below,
So, do not, just yet, go.
A week, a month, next Fall, fifty Falls from now but
a plot and stone grow no green that is more becoming
than the pink Spring of your cheeks this morning, in bed,
fifty Falls will come, come rushing, come quick
they will come to you so—do not so quickly run from me, while the flowers are fresh
and your dear soft skin going rosen and gold,
announcing a summer so lustfully near.
Visit 2River late next week for the 19.4 (Summer 2015) issue of 2RV, with new poems by Fang Bu, Anna E. Childs, Lenny DellaRocca, Maria Elting, Marcia Hurlow, William Knudsen, George Moore, Taylor Ricket, and Mary Ellen Shaughan. Meanwhile, enjoy this poem from the upcoming issue.
You will survive me
You will hide my memory
In yours, scenery and family
Vacations. On a sad, lonesome,
Whiskey night, you will, in hushed
Tones, whisper my insecurities
To friends whose warm arms will
Calm you. This and your horizontal
Pillow ebb seclusion until the day,
My Baby Pie, when you join the collective
Cosmos and we meander eternity
I’ll receive you and once the last person we knew
Speaks our names for the last time, we’ll
Vaporize along with our era
As we coma together. They’ll never know
Of the winter walk we took tonight in the garden
As the snow fell among the silent trees
SEE ALSO Schrodinger’s Cat (1935), Parallel Universes (1956), Quantum Resurrection (100 Trillion)
April came, is nearly gone. School bells ring and out tumble May flowers and lazy summer days on bicycles. As such what better way to end National Poetry Month than with this poem by James Wright.
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
On this penultimate day of National Poetry Month here’s a poem about moving to the other side by Dean Young.
The Invention of Heaven
The mind becomes a field of snow
but then the snow melts and dandelions
blink on and you can walk through them,
your trousers plastered with dew.
They’re all waiting for you but first
here’s a booth where you can win
a peacock feather for bursting a balloon,
a man in huge stripes shouting about
a boy who is half swan, the biggest
pig in the world. Then you will pass
tractors pulling other tractors,
trees snagged with bright wrappers
and then you will come to a river
and then you will wash your face.
from First Course in Turbulence (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1999)
It's a throwback, thoroughly modern, animated day for National Poetry Month with this sobering poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said, “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear–
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Today for National Poetry a poem about the intrusion of the outer on the inner life Billy Collins.
If only I had not listened to the piece
on the morning radio about the former asylum
whose inmates were kept busy
at wooden benches in a workshop
making leather collars and wristbands
that would later be used to restrain them.
And if only that had not reminded me,
as I stood facing the bathroom mirror,
of the new state prison whose bricks had been set
by prisoners trucked in from the old prison,
how sweet and free of static my walk
would have been along the upland trail.
Nothing to spoil the purity of the ascent–
the early sun, wafer-white,
breaking over the jagged crest of that ridge,
a bird with a bright-orange chest
flitting from branch to branch with its mate,
and a solitary coyote that stopped in its tracks
to regard me, then moved on.
Plus the cottonwood fluff snowing sideways
and after I stood still for a while,
the coyote appearing again in the distance
before vanishing in the scrub for good.
That’s the kind of walk it might have been.
from The New Yorker (21 October 2013)