Poetry 365

Since the person asked about copyright, this is what I use on my poetry journal: Disclaimer: This journal is a non-commercial, personal journal to be used for educational or research purposes only. "Fair use" is claimed under U.S. copyright law, sections 107 and 108. No commercial use is permitted without the consent of the copyright holder.

Thu, 16 Feb 2012 19:52:15 -0500

Why aren't you posting more??? Please???

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:05:31 -0500

One day, I promise! School and work are super crazy right now and if questions were dated, you’d see the evidence of that. I love poetry, and sharing my personal tastes with it, which is why I want to be able to dedicate more time than I currently have to this, and also why I’m reluctant to bring someone else on.

I’ve also been debating what I should do with all the wonderful submissions I receive of poetry written by readers, as I feel they do deserve to be shared. If anyone has suggestions (I’ve considered a separate blog already), feel free to let me know!

I just started posting on Tumblr. I write a daily blog that I take from an email I send to family and friends. I usually include a poem, but on so public a venue as this I worry about copyright. Do you get permission to post the poems you do? Have you had anyone want you to take down poems or any trouble with publishers or poets over your use of their poems?

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:00:35 -0500

I don’t get permission in advance. Occasionally I’ve had people contact me about taking down a poem, or adding additional information about copyright or where it was originally published. I haven’t generally had any trouble, though, as the authors and publishers are at least polite. I’m sure it helps that I never have and likely never will make money off of this venture.

I miss reading poetry every day. I hope your busy schedule will relinquish soon so I can enjoy those beautiful words.

Sun, 08 May 2011 12:10:00 -0400

I hope so too. I’m sorry to all my followers about the apparently false promise of starting daily posting again.

I know for sure I’m going to have TONS of free time starting the 12th, so definitely expect (real! honest!) daily posts then!

Song, Cecilia Meireles

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 00:06:17 -0400

I placed my dream in a ship
and the ship on top of the sea;
—and then parted the sea with my hands
to sink my dream in the deep.

My hands still drip with water
from the blue of the waves thus parted
and the color that runs from my fingers
colors the sands, now deserted.

The wind is approaching from afar,
the night in the cold submits;
under the waves lies dying
my dream, in the hold of a ship…

I will weep as much as needed,
so that I might the sea increase
and that my ship might come to the bottom
and that my dream might cease.

And then, all will be perfect:
the beach smooth, the waters ordered,
my eyes, dry as stones
my two hands, shattered.

Pus o meu sonho num navio
e o navio em cima do mar;
—depois, abri o mar com a mãos,
para o meu sonho naufragar.

Minhas mãos ainda estão molhadas
do azul das ondas entreabertas,
e a cor que escorre dos meus dedos
colore as areias desertas.

O vento vem vindo de longe,
a noite se curva de frio;
debaixo da água vai morrendo
meu sonho, dentro de um navio…

Chorarei quanto for preciso,
para fazer com que o mar cresça,
e o meu navio chegue ao fundo
e o meu sonho desapareça.

Depois, tudo estará perfeito:
praia lisa, águas ordenadas,
meus olhos secos como pedras
e as minhas duas mãos quebradas.

Failing and Flying, Jack Gilbert

Thu, 28 Apr 2011 23:55:00 -0400

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights
that anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe that Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

"Inspired by Billy Collins' Poetry 180 project, I post one poem per day here, for at least [a] year." -- Accidentally caught a missed letter so I thought I'd let you know as I myself cannot stand when I make any type of grammatical error. Anyway, I find your blog to be absolutely spectacular!

Thu, 28 Apr 2011 23:53:44 -0400

Wow! It’s been over two years now (I think) and you’re the first one to point that out. Thanks for the tip! And the compliment!

I really hope to keep it up consistently this year. As for the tons of other questions and submission in my ask box, I’ll get to them in due time, I promise. I’ll have a month for reader-submitted poetry and may even try to find another solution to the sheer volume I’ve received over the past months. It there is any particular way you would like to see these, dear readers, please feel free to contact me and let me know!

How are you able to find a poem each day.

Thu, 28 Apr 2011 23:50:33 -0400

I have a lot of poetry books of all different types, by tons of different authors. I also worked at a poetry library for over a year and was a writing major in high school which provided me with more than enough handouts from teachers to supplement this blog. Also, I try to post reader-written poetry one month of every year.

As you can see, I take (often unplanned) time off, though, so I haven’t necessarily posted as many poems as you might think. But basically I just read, read, read!

What happened to the journal? I'm excited you finally posted something again.

Thu, 28 Apr 2011 23:47:53 -0400

I’m glad to be posting here again too! Posts will still be a little sporadic for the next few days while I get used to posting daily again and my classes finish up for the semester. Otherwise you should expect (mostly) regular posts!

After Your Death, Natasha Trethewey

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 02:21:00 -0400

First, I emptied the closets of your clothes,
threw out the bowl of fruit, bruised
rom your touch, left empty the jars

you bought for preserves. The next morning,
birds rustled the fruit trees, and later
when I twisted a ripe fig loose from its stem,

I found it half eaten, the other side
already rotting, or—like another I plucked
and split open—being taken rom the inside:

a swarm of insects hollowing it. I’m too late,
again, another space emptied by loss.
Tomorrow, the bowl I have yet to fill.

A Diminished Thing, Rachel Contreni Flynn

Tue, 30 Nov 2010 19:35:00 -0500

We could make a meal
of what’s left in this box:
potato, onion, rind of cheese,
elderly egg. We could make
another baby without much
fear, at our age. Name her
Rosa and set her in the yard
with us, pulling weeds,
listening to the birds dusting
their wings in the drive. We
could instead just hold each other
here in the cold house,
and say enough, enough.

I dont know if it's thanksgiving in your place but happy thanksgiving anyways. Have a good day!

Thu, 25 Nov 2010 12:15:36 -0500

It finally is here! Happy Thanksgiving to my American followers and happy Thursday/end of November to everyone else!

Thank you all for sticking around. I’m going to resume posting by the end of the month!

Are you coming back? I'm starting to panic.

Tue, 02 Nov 2010 17:58:18 -0400

Eventually. School and work are keeping me incredibly busy right now. But when I do it will be in full force

How do you rack your brains to come up with a different poem each day? And your stuff is good too. Are you just naturally gifted or is that some secret to crafting good poetry? Love your stuff btw. Cheers~

Sat, 09 Oct 2010 19:57:57 -0400

Oh, I definitely haven’t written all of these myself! In fact I think there’re only two or three poems I’ve written posted here. And obviously I’ve slacked a LOT lately. I am going to be correcting this starting tomorrow!!!

As for finding all the poems, I wouldn’t call it gifted so much as nerdy and bored. I also work at a poetry library and have a pretty extensive collection myself (both in book form and from handouts from classes and the like).

I think the secret to crafting good poetry is writing what you know about, writing with emotion and never expecting anything perfect the first go around. Work on it constantly (even though I haven’t written a poem in a year or so I still jot down lines all the time) and don’t be afraid to edit.

Is there any good poems about broken hearts?

Sat, 09 Oct 2010 19:54:33 -0400

MANY. I would check the subject tags for “loneliness,” “longing,” “betrayal,” “love,” “unrequited love” and many other such things.

Iron, Jane Cooper (for 9/25)

Sun, 26 Sep 2010 19:27:07 -0400

Every morning I wake
with blood on my pillow
and the taste of fresh blood
like iron against my tongue.

They say my gums are inflamed
and the bleeding will cease
at first frost—
Each morning the sun wakes me.

I think some nerve is exposed—
it is only August—
or a fine skin was peeled off
the night you were killed.

Conversations at breakfast
have the stripped truth of poems.
All day I wait
for a miraculous letter.

In fact my whole life
leans forward slightly, waiting.
Each day lurches downhill
to its red undoing.

This Hour and What Is Dead, Li-Toung Lee (for 9/24)

Sun, 26 Sep 2010 19:25:46 -0400

Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.

At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy’s pants.
His love for me is like his sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
the stitching uneven, But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.

And this hour, what is dead is worried
and what is living is fugitive.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.

Grief, Stephen Dobyns (for 9/23)

Sun, 26 Sep 2010 19:24:26 -0400

Trying to remember you
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand. Somewherev people are waiting.
They have drunk nothing for days.

Your name was the food I lived on;
now my mouth is full of dirt and ash.
To say your name was to be surrounded
by feathers and silk; now, reaching out,
I touch glass and barbed wire.
Your name was the thread connecting my life;
now I am fragments on a tailor’s floor.

I was dancing when I
learned of your death; may
my feet be severed from my body.

The Shout, Simon Armitage (for 9/22)

Sun, 26 Sep 2010 19:23:13 -0400

We went out
into the school yard together, me and the boy
whose name and face

I don’t remember. We were testing the range
of the human voice:
he had to shout for all he was worth,

I had to raise an arm
from across the divide to signal back
that the sound had carried.

He called from over the park—I lifted an arm.
Out of bounds,
he yelled from the end of the road,

from the foot of the hill,
from beyond the look-out post of Fretwell’s Farm—
I lifted an arm.

He left town, went on to be twenty years dead
with a gunshot hole
in the roof of his mouth, in Western Australia.

Boy with the name and face I don’t remember,
you can stop shouting now, I can still hear you.

White Crane, Dean Young

Sun, 26 Sep 2010 19:21:55 -0400

I don’t need to know any more about death
from the Japanese beetles
infesting the roses and plum
no matter what my neighbor sprays
in orange rubber gloves.
You can almost watch them writhe and wither,
pale and fall like party napkins
blown from a table just as light fades,
and the friends
as often happens when light fades,
talk of something painful, glacial, pericardial,
and the napkins blow into the long grass.
When Basho writes of the long grass,
I don’t need to know it has to do with death,
the characters reddish-brown and dim,
shadows of a rusted sword, an hour hand.
Imagine crossing mountains in summer snow
like Basho, all you own
on your back: brushes, robe,
the small gifts given in parting it’s bad luck to leave behind.
I don’t want to know what it’s like to die on a rose,
sunk in perfume and fumes,
clutching,
to die in summer with everything off its knees,
daisies scattered like eyesight by the fence,
gladiolas open and fallen in mud,
weighed down with opening and breeze.
I wonder what your thoughts were, Father,
after they took your glasses and teeth,
all of us bunched around you like clouds
knocked loose of their moorings,
the white bird lying over you,
its beak down your throat.
Rain, heartbeats of rain.