Tag: poetry

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anyone lived in a pretty how town

by e e cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

Video

“I want to write a poem for the women on Long Island”

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I’ve posted about the talented and unapologetic Olivia Gatwood before, and here she is again—this time with a poem from her “ode to” series, in which she writes odes to things that are supposed to be shameful (“Ode to My Bitch Face” and “Ode to My Period Underwear” are a few of the other titles).

Here, she portrays Long Island women not as the joke they’re often made out to be but as the fierce, take-no-shit survivors and protectors that they are. And she still manages to keep humor intact.

Excerpt from the poem in the video and her collection New American Best Friend:

Ode to the Women on Long Island

I want to write a poem
for the women on Long Island who
when I show them the knife I carry in my purse
tell me it’s not big enough
Who are waitresses and realtors and massage therapists and social workers and housewives
and tell me they wish they would have been artists
“but life comes fast ya know?
One minute you’re taking typing classes for your new secretary job in the World Trade Center and the next it’s almost over
Life, I mean
but I kicked and screamed my way through it and so will you
I can tell by the way you walk
One more thing—when they call you a bitch, say, ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’”

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Tell all the truth but tell it slant

by Emily Dickinson

Tell all the truth but tell it slant –
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind –

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The Laughing Heart

by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

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When the Pawn…

by Fiona Apple

When the pawn hits the conflicts
He thinks like a king
What he knows throws the blows
When he goes to the fight
And he’ll win the whole thing
‘Fore he enters the ring
There’s no body to batter
When your mind is your might

So when you go solo
You hold your own hand
And remember that depth
Is the greatest of heights
And if you know where you stand
Then you know where to land
And if you fall, it won’t matter
‘Cause you’ll know that you’re right

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Dinner Guest: Me

by Langston Hughes

I know I am
The Negro Problem
Being wined and dined,
Answering the usual questions
That come to white mind
Which seeks demurely
To probe in polite way
The why and wherewithal
Of darkness U.S.A.—
Wondering how things got this way
In current democratic night,
Murmuring gently
Over fraises du bois,
“I’m so ashamed of being white.”

The lobster is delicious,
The wine divine,
And center of attention
At the damask table, mine.
To be a Problem on
Park Avenue at eight
Is not so bad.
Solutions to the Problem,
Of course, wait.

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She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways

by William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove.
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love;

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!