Poetry Wednesday: Sink Your Fingers into the Darkness of My Fur

Sink Your Fingers into the Darkness of My Fur


Up until this sore minute, you could turn the key, pivot away.
But mine is the only medicine now
wherever you go or follow.
The past is so far away, but it flickers,
then cleaves the night. The bones
of the past splinter between our teeth.
This is our life, love. Why did I think
it would be anything less than too much
of everything? I know you remember that cheap motel
on the coast where we drank red wine,
the sea flashing its gold scales as sun
soaked our skin. You said, This must be
what people mean when they say
I could die now. Now
we’re so much closer
to death than we were then. Who isn’t crushed,
stubbed out beneath a clumsy heel?
Who hasn’t stood at the open window,
sleepless, for the solace of the damp air?
I had to get old to carry both buckets
yoked on my shoulders. Sweet
and bitter waters I drink from.
Let me know you, ox you.
I want your scent in my hair.
I want your jokes.
Hang your kisses on all my branches, please.
Sink your fingers into the darkness of my fur.



by Ellen Bass, courtesy of The Academy of American Poets

Rita Dove Wins Wallace Stevens Award

Congratulations to Rita Dove, who received the annual Wallace Stevens Award last week from the Academy of American Poets

In celebration, let's enjoy her poem praising something I hold near and dear to my heart. (With special thanks to Ron Charles at the Washington Post).  

Chocolate 

Velvet fruit, exquisite square
I hold up to sniff
between finger and thumb—

how you numb me
with your rich attentions!
If I don’t eat you quickly, 

you’ll melt in my palm.
Pleasure seeker, if I let you
you’d liquefy everywhere. 

Knotted smoke, dark punch
of earth and night and leaf,
for a taste of you 

any woman would gladly
crumble to ruin.
Enough chatter: I am ready 

to fall in love!

by Rita Dove

From American Smooth, 2004 (W.W. Norton)

A Little History — National Poetry Month

A Little History

Some people find out they are Jews.

They can’t believe it.

They had always hated Jews.

As children they had roamed in gangs on winter nights in the old

    neighborhood, looking for Jews.

They were not Jewish, they were Irish.

They brandished broken bottles, tough guys with blood on their

    lips, looking for Jews.

They intercepted Jewish boys walking alone and beat them up.

Sometimes they were content to chase a Jew and he could elude

    them by running away. They were happy just to see him run

    away. The coward! All Jews were yellow.

They spelled Jew with a small j jew.

And now they find out they are Jews themselves.

It happened at the time of the Spanish Inquisition.

To escape persecution, they pretended to convert to Christianity.

They came to this country and settled in the Southwest.

At some point oral tradition failed the family, and their

    secret faith died.

No one would ever have known if not for the bones that turned up

    on the dig.

A disaster. How could it have happened to them?

They are in a state of panic--at first.

Then they realize that it is the answer to their prayers.

They hasten to the synagogue or build new ones.

They are Jews at last!

They are free to marry other Jews, and divorce them, and intermarry

    with Gentiles, God forbid.

They are model citizens, clever and thrifty.

They debate the issues.

They fire off earnest letters to the editor.

They vote.

They are resented for being clever and thrifty.

They buy houses in the suburbs and agree not to talk so loud.

They look like everyone else, drive the same cars as everyone else,

    yet in their hearts they know they’re different.

In every minyan there are always two or three, hated by 

    the others, who give life to one ugly stereotype or another:

The grasping Jew with the hooked nose or the Ivy League Bolshevik

    who thinks he is the agent of world history.

But most of them are neither ostentatiously pious nor

    excessively avaricious.

How I envy them! They believe.

How I envy them their annual family reunion on Passover,

    anniversary of the Exodus, when all the uncles and aunts and

    cousins get together.

They wonder about the heritage of Judaism they are passing along

    to their children.

Have they done as much as they could to keep the old embers

    burning?

Others lead more dramatic lives.

A few go to Israel.

One of them calls Israel “the ultimate concentration camp.”

He tells Jewish jokes.

On the plane he gets tipsy, tries to seduce the stewardess.

People in the Midwest keep telling him reminds them of Woody

    Allen.

He wonders what that means. I’m funny? A sort of nervous

    intellectual type from New York? A Jew?

Around this time somebody accuses him of not being Jewish enough.

It is said by resentful colleagues that his parents changed their

    name from something that sounded more Jewish.

Everything he publishes is scrutinized with reference to “the

    Jewish question.”

It is no longer clear what is meant by that phrase.

He has already forgotten all the Yiddish he used to know, and

    the people of that era are dying out one after another.

The number of witnesses keeps diminishing.

Soon there will be no one left to remind the others and their

    children.

That is why he came to this dry place where the bones have come

    to life.

To live in a state of perpetual war puts a tremendous burden on the

    population. As a visitor he felt he had to share that burden.

With his gift for codes and ciphers, he joined the counter-

    terrorism unit of army intelligence.

Contrary to what the spook novels say, he found it possible to

    avoid betraying either his country or his lover.

This was the life: strange bedrooms, the perfume of other men’s

    wives.

As a spy he has a unique mission: to get his name on the front 

    page of the nation’s newspaper of record. Only by doing that 

    would he get the message through to his immediate superior.

If he goes to jail, he will do so proudly; if they’re going to

    hang him anyway, he’ll do something worth hanging for.

In time he may get used to being the center of attention, but

    this was incredible:

To talk his way into being the chief suspect in the most 

    flamboyant murder case in years!

And he was innocent!

He could prove it!

And what a book he would write when they free him from this prison:

A novel, obliquely autobiographical, set in Vienna in the twilight

    of the Hapsburg Empire, in the year that his mother was born.

by David Lehman

From Valentine Place

courtesy poets.org

Pesach Sameach!

Poetry for the Holidays: When Giving Is All We Have

When Giving Is All We Have

Alberto Ríos, 1952

                                              One river gives
                                              Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made

Something greater from the difference.

— by Alberto Ríos
Courtesy poets.org

Grief Puppet — Poetry Wednesday

Grief Puppet

 

In the nearby plaza, musicians would often gather.

The eternal flame was fueled by propane tank.

An old man sold chive dumplings from a rolling cart,

while another grilled skewers of paprika beef.

Male turtledoves would puff their breasts, woo-ing,

and for a few coins, we each bought an hour with

the grief puppet. It had two eyes, enough teeth,

a black tangle of something like hair or fur,

a flexible spine that ran the length of your arm.

Flick your wrist, and at the end of long rods

it raised its hands as if conducting the weather.

Tilt the other wrist, and it nodded. No effort

was ever lost on its waiting face. It never

needed a nap or was too hungry to think straight.

You could have your conversation over and over,

past dusk when old men doused their charcoal,

into rising day when they warmed their skillets.

The puppet only asked what we could answer.

Some towns had their wall, others their well;

we never gave the stupid thing a name, nor

asked the name of the woman who took our coins.

But later, we could all remember that dank felt,

and how the last of grief’s flock lifted from our chests.

by Sandra Beasley

courtesy poets.org

Brokeheart: Just like that — National Poetry Month

Brokeheart: Just like that

When the bass drops on Bill Withers’
Better Off Dead, it’s like 7 a.m.
and I confess I’m looking
over my shoulder once or twice
just to make sure no one in Brooklyn
is peeking into my third-floor window
to see me in pajamas I haven’t washed
for three weeks before I slide
from sink to stove in one long groove
left foot first then back to the window side
with my chin up and both fists clenched
like two small sacks of stolen nickels
and I can almost hear the silver
hit the floor by the dozens
when I let loose and sway a little back
and just like that I’m a lizard grown
two new good legs on a breeze
-bent limb. I’m a grown-ass man
with a three-day wish and two days to live.
And just like that everyone knows
my heart’s broke and no one is home.
Just like that, I’m water.
Just like that, I’m the boat.
Just like that, I’m both things in the whole world
rocking. Sometimes sadness is just
what comes between the dancing. And bam!,
my mother’s dead and, bam!, my brother’s
children are laughing. Just like—ok, it’s true
I can’t pop up from my knees so quick these days
and no one ever said I could sing but
tell me my body ain’t good enough
for this. I’ll count the aches another time,
one in each ankle, the sharp spike in my back,
this mud-muscle throbbing in my going bones,
I’m missing the six biggest screws
to hold this blessed mess together. I’m wind-
rattled. The wood’s splitting. The hinges are
falling off. When the first bridge ends,
just like that, I’m a flung open door.

by Patrick Rosal
courtesy poets.org

About This Poem

“I started dancing young, pulled off the sofa by my older cousin Emy so we could shake to Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall. She, among many people in my life, taught me to dance for the hell of it and dance to celebrate and dance to grieve. My whole life I’ve had to work it out through the body—by which I mean poetry too.”
—Patrick Rosa

Enjoy poetry every day: sign up for the Academy of American Poets' free Poem-a-Day e-mail service.

Parties: A Hymn of Hate — National Poetry Month

Parties: A Hymn of Hate

 

I hate Parties;

They bring out the worst in me.

There is the Novelty Affair,

Given by the woman

Who is awfully clever at that sort of thing.

Everybody must come in fancy dress;

They are always eleven Old-Fashioned Girls,

And fourteen Hawaiian gentlemen

Wearing the native costume

Of last season's tennis clothes, with a wreath around the 

neck.

The hostess introduces a series of clean, home games:

Each participant is given a fair chance

To guess the number of seeds in a cucumber,

Or thread a needle against time,

Or see how many names of wild flowers he knows.

Ice cream in trick formations,

And punch like Volstead used to make

Buoy up the players after the mental strain.

You have to tell the hostess that it's a riot,

And she says she'll just die if you don't come to her next 

party--

If only a guarantee went with that!

Then there is the Bridge Festival.

The winner is awarded an arts-and-crafts hearth-brush,

And all the rest get garlands of hothouse raspberries.

You cut for partners

And draw the man who wrote the game.

He won't let bygones be bygones;

After each hand

He starts getting personal about your motives in leading 

clubs,

And one word frequently leads to another.

At the next table

You have one of those partners

Who says it is nothing but a game, after all.

He trumps your ace

And tries to laugh it off.

And yet they shoot men like Elwell.

There is the Day in the Country;

It seems more like a week.

All the contestants are wedged into automobiles,

And you are allotted the space between two ladies

Who close in on you.

The party gets a nice early start,

Because everybody wants to make a long day of it--

The get their wish.

Everyone contributes a basket of lunch;

Each person has it all figured out

That no one else will think of bringing hard-boiled eggs.

There is intensive picking of dogwood,

And no one is quite sure what poison ivy is like;

They find out the next day.

Things start off with a rush.

Everybody joins in the old songs,

And points out cloud effects,

And puts in a good word for the colour of the grass.

But after the first fifty miles,

Nature doesn't go over so big,

And singing belongs to the lost arts.

There is a slight spurt on the homestretch,

And everyone exclaims over how beautiful the lights of the 

city look--

I'll say they do.

And there is the informal little Dinner Party;

The lowest form of taking nourishment.

The man on your left draws diagrams with a fork,

Illustrating the way he is going to have a new sun-parlour 

built on;

And the one on your right

Explains how soon business conditions will better, and why.

When the more material part of the evening is over,

You have your choice of listening to the Harry Lauder records,

Or having the hostess hem you in

And show you the snapshots of the baby they took last summer.

Just before you break away,

You mutter something to the host and hostess

About sometime soon you must have them over--

Over your dead body.

I hate Parties;

They bring out the worst in me.

— by Dorothy Parker

According to the Academy of American Poets,

"Parties: A Hymn of Hate" is one of Dorothy Parker's nineteen satirical, free-verse "Hymns of Hate." Parker's other topics include men, women, relatives, movies, books, summer resorts, and actors. 

Guess what I'm reading soon?

Poetry Wednesday: Long Island Sound

Poem in your Pocket Day is April 24 — are you ready? Here's a poem that will fit in your pocket — and start looking for others!

Long Island Sound

I see it as it looked one afternoon

In August,—by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.

The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,

A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.

The shining waters with pale currents strewn,

The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove,

The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.

The luminous grasses, and the merry sun

In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,

Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp

Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,

Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep

Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.

All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.

— Emma Lazarus

 Courtesy poets.org

Don't forget to submit your poem and win a poetry book!

Suggest a Poem for 2014 National Poetry Month, Win a Poetry Book

April is National Poetry Month. Are you ready?

Share a poem with your fellow enthusiasts and win a poetry book.

Yes, you read that right: send me your suggestion for a poem to be shared on Hedgehog Lover during National Poetry Month and I will send you a book of poetry.

One lucky book recipient also will receive a copy of the 2014 National Poetry Month (pictured, left). Oh, perhaps there are other ways to obtain a copy, but this way nets you both a book and a poster. Double win.

Where do you find your poetry? The Academy of American Poets, The Writer's Almanac, The Poetry Foundation all come to mind. Can you name others? Which is your favorite?

Have you tried any of the poetry apps available? The Poetry Foundation has one that is particularly fun.

If you write your own poetry, which is very cool, please feel free to share it as well, whether it is published or unpublished.

Ready, set — poem!

Poetry Wednesday: Let America Be America Again

Let America Be America Again

 

Let America be America again. 

Let it be the dream it used to be. 

Let it be the pioneer on the plain 

Seeking a home where he himself is free. 

 

(America never was America to me.) 

 

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-- 

Let it be that great strong land of love 

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme 

That any man be crushed by one above. 

 

(It never was America to me.) 

 

O, let my land be a land where Liberty 

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, 

But opportunity is real, and life is free, 

Equality is in the air we breathe. 

 

(There's never been equality for me, 

Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.") 

 

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? 

 

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, 

I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. 

I am the red man driven from the land, 

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-- 

And finding only the same old stupid plan 

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. 

 

I am the young man, full of strength and hope, 

Tangled in that ancient endless chain 

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! 

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! 

Of work the men! Of take the pay! 

Of owning everything for one's own greed! 

 

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. 

I am the worker sold to the machine. 

I am the Negro, servant to you all. 

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-- 

Hungry yet today despite the dream. 

Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers! 

I am the man who never got ahead, 

The poorest worker bartered through the years. 

 

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream 

In the Old World while still a serf of kings, 

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, 

That even yet its mighty daring sings 

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned 

That's made America the land it has become. 

O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas 

In search of what I meant to be my home-- 

For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, 

And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, 

And torn from Black Africa's strand I came 

To build a "homeland of the free." 

 

The free? 

 

Who said the free? Not me? 

Surely not me? The millions on relief today? 

The millions shot down when we strike? 

The millions who have nothing for our pay? 

For all the dreams we've dreamed 

And all the songs we've sung 

And all the hopes we've held 

And all the flags we've hung, 

The millions who have nothing for our pay-- 

Except the dream that's almost dead today. 

 

O, let America be America again-- 

The land that never has been yet--

And yet must be--the land where every man is free. 

The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--

Who made America, 

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, 

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, 

Must bring back our mighty dream again. 

 

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-- 

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, 

We must take back our land again, 

America! 

 

O, yes, 

I say it plain, 

America never was America to me, 

And yet I swear this oath-- 

America will be! 

 

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, 

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, 

We, the people, must redeem 

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. 

The mountains and the endless plain-- 

All, all the stretch of these great green states-- 

And make America again!

 

by Langston Hughes

Courtesy poets.org

Sign up for Poem-A-Day