Sunday, April 19, 2015

Jayne Mansfield and Amber Tamblyn — National Poetry Month

Amber Tamblyn wrote Dark Sparkler, an exquisite book of poems about the death of actresses. You simply must purchase this book and read the poems. You will weep. You will celebrate their lives cut short. You will search for more information about the women in this book, even the ones you think you know. You will be thankful this book is written. Below is the first poem I read from the book. When you read this book, and I know you will, let me know what you thought of it.

Jayne Mansfield

Your neck was a study of the asterisk,
the silken shape of Sanskrit,
the sucker punch of succulents.

Your neck an thinning glacier,
fine at the grind of a blade curbe

soft as a k in a known word
long as they say about slow burns.

Your neck the place pearls retired
below the face your girls admired.

Your neck was a fortune you did not spend.
Your neck is what they'll remember the most.
Your neck in the end.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Found Poetry from Time — National Poetry Month

Found Poetry From Time's '100 Most Influential People' List

Sometimes, poetry is discovered in the most interesting places. Time Magazine identified 100 influential individuals, then asked them to reflect on their fellow designees. Poetry? You decide.

Submit poetry to Hedgehog Lover during National Poetry Month and win a book of poetry. 

She’s just getting started with what she plans to mine from her
boundlessly talented
and beautiful

Her constant inspiration reminds us that nothing looks better on a woman than the clarity, courage and conviction of vision.
Courtesy The Atlantic

Friday, April 17, 2015

The Cows at Night — National Poetry Month

The Cows at Night

The moon was like a full cup tonight,
too heavy, and sank in the mist
soon after dark, leaving for light

faint stars and the silver leaves
of milkweed beside the road,
gleaming before my car.

Yet I like driving at night
in summer and in Vermont:
the brown road through the mist

of mountain-dark, among farms
so quiet, and the roadside willows
opening out where I saw

the cows. Always a shock
to remember them there, those
great breathings close in the dark.

I stopped, and took my flashlight
to the pasture fence. They turned
to me where they lay, sad

and beautiful faces in the dark,
and I counted them — forty
near and far in the pasture,

turning to me, sad and beautiful
like girls very long ago
who were innocent, and sad

because they were innocent,
and beautiful because they were
sad. I switched off my light.

But I did not want to go,
not yet, nor knew what to do
if I should stay, for how

in that great darkness could I explain
anything, anything at all.
I stood by the fence. And then

very gently it began to rain.

from Collected Shorter Poems. © Copper Canyon Press, 1991.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

One of my favorite poems, shared with you, during National Poetry Month

I include for your considerations one of my favorite poems. Every time I read it, I feel like it reveals one more wonderful image previously unnoticed. And yes, I include it every year. I shall continue to do so if I wish. It, simply, is that deserving.

XIII (Dedications)

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a gray day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

by Adrienne Rich
from Atlas of a Difficult World

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Oh Yes — National Poetry Month

Oh Yes

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
too late. 

by Charls Bukowski
courtesy poem hunter

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Funeral Blues — National Poetry Month

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

by W.H. Auden
courtesy all poetry

Monday, April 13, 2015

Unpacking a Globe — National Poetry Month

Unpacking a Globe

I gaze at the Pacific and don’t expect
to ever see the heads on Easter Island,
though I guess at sunlight rippling
the yellow grasses sloping to shore;
yesterday a doe ate grass in the orchard:
it lifted its ears and stopped eating
when it sensed us watching from
a glass hallway—in his sleep, a veteran
sweats, defusing a land mine.
On the globe, I mark the Battle of
the Coral Sea—no one frets at that now. A poem can never be too dark,
I nod and, staring at the Kenai, hear
ice breaking up along an inlet;
yesterday a coyote trotted across
my headlights and turned his head
but didn’t break stride; that’s how
I want to live on this planet:
alive to a rabbit at a glass door—
and flower where there is no flower.