POEM OF THE DAY BY LOUISE GLUCK

Vita Nova

You saved me, you should remember me.

The spring of the year; young men buying tickets for the ferryboats.
Laughter, because the air is full of apple blossoms.

When I woke up, I realized I was capable of the same feeling.

I remember sounds like that from my childhood,
laughter for no cause, simply because the world is beautiful,
something like that.

Lugano. Tables under the apple trees.
Deckhands raising and lowering the colored flags.
And by the lake’s edge, a young man throws his hat into the water;
perhaps his sweetheart has accepted him.

Crucial
sounds or gestures like
a track laid down before the larger themes

and then unused, buried.

Islands in the distance. My mother
holding out a plate of little cakes—

as far as I remember, changed
in no detail, the moment
vivid, intact, having never been
exposed to light, so that I woke elated, at my age
hungry for life, utterly confident—

By the tables, patches of new grass, the pale green
pieced into the dark existing ground.

Surely spring has been returned to me, this time
not as a lover but a messenger of death, yet
it is still spring, it is still meant tenderly.

- Louise Gluck

POEM OF THE DAY BY STANLEY MOSS

Bright Day

I sing this morning: Hello, hello.

I proclaim the bright day of the soul.

The sun is a good fellow,

the devil is a good guy, no deaths today I know.

I live because I live. I do not die because I cannot die.

In Tuscan sunlight Masaccio

painted his belief that St. Peter’s shadow

cured a cripple, gave him back his sight.

I’ve come through eighty-five summers. I walk in sunlight.

In my garden, death questions every root, flowers reply.

I know the dark night of the soul

does not need God’s eye,

as a beggar does not need a hand or a bowl.



-Stanley Moss

POEM OF THE DAY BY T.R. HUMMER

After

After the explosion, no one knew what to do
For the boy who'd stood closest
to the abandoned leather briefcase.
By some miracle, he was the only one injured. It erupted
In an incense of sulfur and nails as he made his way
To steal it. Holiness has an aura, everyone knows that,
But why would terrorists bother to murder a thief?
The ethics of this question paralyzed everyone in sight
While the boy, unable to breathe, watched God wandering
The station in a business suit, asking occasional strangers
Have you seen my briefcase?
There was something urgent in it.


-T.R. Hummer

POEM OF THE DAY BY ADRIENNE RICH

Tonight No Poetry Will Serve
Saw you walking barefoot taking a long look at the new moon's eyelid later spread sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair asleep but not oblivious of the unslept unsleeping elsewhere Tonight I think no poetry will serve Syntax of rendition: verb pilots the plane adverb modifies action verb force-feeds noun submerges the subject noun is choking verb disgraced goes on doing now diagram the sentence -Adrienne Rich

POEM OF THE DAY BY TONY HOAGLAND

A Color of the Sky

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,

driving over the hills from work.

There are the dark parts on the road

when you pass through clumps of wood

and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,

but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize

for being so boring at dinner last night,

but can I really promise not to be that way again?

And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing

in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;

the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves

are full of infant chlorophyll,

the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,

and on the highway overpass,

the only metaphysical vandal in America has written

MEMORY LOVES TIME

in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.

She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.

Years ago she penetrated me

but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,

I never got her out,

but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.

What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.

What I thought was an injustice

turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store

and the police station,

a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,

like a sudsy mug of beer;

like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.

It’s been doing that all week:

making beauty,

and throwing it away,

and making more.


-Tony Hoagland

POEM OF THE DAY BY BARBARA HAMBY

Mambo Cadillac

Drive me to the edge in your Mambo Cadillac,

turn left at the graveyard and gas that baby, the black

night ringing with its holy roller scream. I’ll clock

you on the highway at three a.m., amen, brother, smack

the road as hard as we can, because I’m gonna crack

the world in two, make a hoodoo soup with chicken necks,

a gumbo with a plutonium roux, a little snack

before the dirt and jalapeÒo stew that will shuck

the skin right off your slinky hips, Mr. I’m-not-stuck

in-a-middle-class-prison-with-someone-I-hate sack

of blues. Put on your highwire shoes, Mr. Right, and stick

with me, ‘cause I’m going nowhere fast, the burlesque

queen of this dim scene, I want to feel the wind, the Glock

in my mouth, going south, down-by-the-riverside shock

of the view. Take me to Shingles Fried Chicken Shack

in your Mambo Cadillac. I was gone, but I’m back

for good this time. I’ve taken a shine to daylight. Crank

up that radio, baby, put on some dance music

and shake your moneymaker, sweetheart, rev it up to mach

two. I’m talking to you, Mr. Magoo. Sit up, check

out that blonde with the leopard print tattoo. O she’ll lick

the sugar right off your doughnut and bill you, too, speak

French while she do the do. Parlez-vous francais? Okay, pick

me up tonight at ten in your Mambo Cadillac

‘cause we got a date with the devil, so fill the tank

with high-octane rhythm and blues, sugar cane, and shark

bait, too. We got some miles to cover, me and you, think

Chile, Argentina, Peru. Take some time off work,

‘cause we’re gonna be gone a lot longer than a week

or two. Is this D-day or Waterloo? White or black—

it’s up to you. We’ll be in Mexico tonight. Pack

a razor, pack some glue. Things fall apart off the track,

and that’s where we’ll be, baby, in your Mambo Cadillac,

‘cause you’re looking for love, but I’m looking for a wreck.


-BARBARA HAMBY

POEM OF THE DAY BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

Spring Storm
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls as if it would never end. Still the snow keeps its hold on the ground. But water, water from a thousand runnels! It collects swiftly, dappled with black cuts a way for itself through green ice in the gutters. Drop after drop it falls from the withered grass-stems of the overhanging embankment. -William Carlos Williams