Tag Archives: poem

“The Mountain” – Emily Dickinson

The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere.

The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children ’round a Sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.

“Night Text” – Sarah Maclay

NIGHT TEXT

Let’s imagine I’m translating something to you–
you, asleep, or sleepless and naming
that third place–between–

with the tips of your tapering fingers–

I don’t know the language.
It bends.

In the mind–in that strangely shared chamber–
that is, I mean, in your hands,

where you show me those scenes of confusion and flight
with such intimacy, and don’t know it–

even sans color, sans liquor, sans shape,
we are twins. Fraternal. Unknown.

The moon, invasive, huge,
lunging in through the windows,
makes no exceptions–

It’s true: it will never happen / you’d be surprised.

Insomnia – Linda Pastan

I remember when my body

was a friend,

when sleep like a good dog

came when summoned.

The door to the future

had not started to shut,

and lying on my back

between cold sheets

did not feel

like a rehearsal.

Now what light is left

comes up—a stain in the east,

and sleep, reluctant

as a busy doctor,

gives me a little

of its time.

from The Virginia Quarterly Review

“My Lavenderdom” – Sarah Maclay

—as in, pre-flutter, that kingdom of semi-purpleness— should I

say dome of— that area of anti-limp, lawless, drunk on your

fingering, unfingering— that omnivore, oh, eating now your—

even your branches, iceless, anti frozen, gazelle flying toward the

twin kingdoms of your cheekness (more at “flying buttress”),

nearly periwinkling now— that perpetrator of the semi-grunt,

grunt, instigator of the groanful demi-flood of— flutter, flutter,

post-flutter— gorge of neomauve, rich canal of sunsetish plush,

now unguardedly sub-fuschia; that private brandied eyelash

batting at you in its brashest postcool queenness, plump and

succulent as a plum—

—-The Best American Erotic Poems: From 1800 to the Present, 2008

In You The Earth – Pablo Neruda

Little,

rose,

roselet,

at times,

tiny and naked,

it seems

as though you would fit

in one of my hands,

as though I’ll clasp you to my mouth,

but

suddenly

my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:

you have grown,

your shoulders rise like two hills,

your breasts wander over my breast,

my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin

new-moon line of your waist:

in love you have loosened yourself like sea water:

I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes

and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.

Tell Me, Is the Rose Naked? – Pablo Neruda

Tell me, is the rose naked,

Or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal

The splendor of their roots?

Who hears the regrets

of the thieving automobile?

Is there anything in the world sadder

Than a train standing in the rain?

“Yard Work” – Sarah Maclay

Yard Work

I’ll clear the old, putrid fruit,

the carcasses of bees where oranges have fallen

and the drying turds the dogs have dropped.

I’ll sweep away the fallen avocado leaves

grown snowy with their infestations,

snip the stems of toppled flowers, toss them.

I’ll yank the hose across the grass,

turn the rusty faucet,

let the lawn moisten

to a loose, runny black.

I’ll water the rosemary

till I can smell it on my fingers.

Time to grab the trowel.

Time to dig,

to take off the gloves,

let the handle callous the palm,

fill the fingernails

with dirt.

Time to brush the trickle from the forehead.

Time to plant the bulb,

to fill the hole with loam and water,

covering the roots.

Time to join the soil to soil

until the night is jasmine

and a thickness like a scent of lilies

rises off the bed;

until the stalks of the naked ladies fall to the ground,

twisting on their roots;

until our broken fists lie blooming.