Poetry 365


Inspired by Billy Collins' Poetry 180 project, I post one poem per day here, for at least a year. | tags by author or subject | contact me here

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A Process on the Weather of the Heart, Dylan Thomas(for 7/1)

A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye forewarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.

A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wing.

A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.

A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives of its dead.

09:08 pm, by sleepanddream36 notes Comments

White Blossoms, Robert Mezey

Take me as I drive alone
through the dark countryside.
As the strong means clear a path,
picking out fences, weeds, late
flowering trees, everything
that streams back into the past
without sound, I smell the grass
and the rich chemical sleep
of the fields. An open moon
sails above, and a stalk
of red lights blinks, miles away.

It is at such moments I
am called, in a voice so pure
I have to close my eyes, and enter
the breathing darkness just beyond
my headlights. I have come back,
I think, to something I had
almost forgotten, a mouth
that waits patiently, sighs, speaks,
and falls silent. No one else
is alive. The blossoms are
white, and I am almost there.

11:23 pm, by sleepanddream44 notes Comments

December Moon, May Sarton

Before going to bed
After a fall of snow
I look out on the field
Shining there in the moonlight
So calm, untouched and white
Snow silence fills my head
After I leave the window.

Hours later near dawn
When I look down again
The whole landscape has changed
The perfect surface gone
Gross-crossed and written on
Where the wild creatures ranged
While the moon rose and shone.

Why did my dog not bark?
Why did I hear no sound
There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dar?

How much can come, how much can go
When the December moon is bright,
What worlds of play we’ll never know
Sleeping away the cold white night
After a fall of snow.

11:15 pm, by sleepanddream27 notes Comments

Inari, Katrina Roberts

Why do we love you? So easy:
You have many faces
And each one shines upon us.

You become the one we need
Though we cannot name this need,
And you require little in return.

Each day, we marry our fingers
To the air you displace moving
Toward us and away. Our

Smallest suck them, hoping your
Sweetness might remain. Tell us
What to carry and we’ll go.

Our tails glow white in the moon.

11:50 pm, by sleepanddream24 notes Comments

Always, Mark Strand

for Charles Simic

Always so late in the day
In their rumpled clothes, sitting
Around a table lit by a single bulb,
The great forgetters were hard at work.
They tilted their heads to one side, closing their eyes.
Then a house disappeared, and a man in his yard
With all his flowers in a row.
The great forgetters wrinkled their brows.
Then Florida went and San Francisco
Where tugs and barges leave
Small gleaming scars across the Bay.
One of the great forgetters struck a match.
Gone were the harps of beaded lights
That vault the rivers of New York.
Another filled his glass
And that was it for crowds at evening
Under sulfur-yellow streetlamps coming on.
And afterward Bulgaria was gone, and then Japan.
“Where will it stop?” one of them said.
“Such difficult work, pursuing the fate
Of everything known,” said another.
“Down to the last stone,” said a third,
“And only the zero of perfection
Left for the imagination.” And gone
Were North and South America,
And gone as well the moon.
Another yawned, another gazed at the window:
No grass, no trees…
The blaze of promise everywhere.

07:47 pm, by sleepanddream71 notes Comments

shapeshifter poems, Lucille Clifton

the legend is whispered
in the woman’s tent
how the moon when she rises
follows some men into themselves
and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful     shapeshifters
they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses
at night     their daughters
do not know them

who is there to protect her
from the hands of the father
not the windows which see and
say nothing     not the moon
that awful eye     not the woman
she will become with her
scarred tongue     who     who     who     the owl
laments into the evening     who
will protect her     this     prettylittlegirl

if the little girl lies
still enough
shut enough
      [cruelty. don’t talk to me about cruelty]
hard enough
shapeshifter may not
walk tonight
the full moon may not
find him here
the hair on him

the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow     the one
she cannot tell     the one
there is no one to hear     this poem
is a political poem     is a war poem     is a
universal poem but is not about
these things     this poem
is about one human heart     this poem
is the poem at the end of the world

10:38 pm, by sleepanddream14 notes Comments

New Directions, Rod McKuen

If I hold my hand
in front of me just so
it covers up the moon.

I can move
from block to block
clearheaded, unafraid.
If I haven’t charted out
the action in advance.

is the surest enemy I know.

I move my hand away
uncovering the moon. Slower still
Small thoughts widen
and stretch out in my head.

The moon draws nearer.

07:27 pm, by sleepanddream1 note Comments