Poems that I love

by Richard Wilbur A stable-lamp is lighted Whose glow shall wake the sky; The stars shall bend their voices, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, And straw like gold shall shine; A barn shall harbor heaven, A stall become a shrine. The child through David’s city Shall ride in triumph by: The palm shall strew its branches, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, Though heavy, dull, and dumb, And lie within the roadway To pave his kingdom come. Yet he shall be forsaken, And yielded up to die; The sky shall groan and darken, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry For stony hearts of men: God’s love upon the spearhead, God’s love refused again. But now, as at the ending, The low is lifted high; The stars shall bend their voices, And every stone shall cry. In praises of the child By whose decent among us The worlds are reconciled.

by Jack Gilbert How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of lon

By Ikkyu A master's handiwork cannot be measured But still priests wag their tongues explaining the "Way" and babbling about "Zen." This old monk has never cared for false piety And my nose wrinkles at the dark smell of incense before the Buddha.

At the Top of the Food Chain but the Bottom of the Line by Judith Pordon I am an American. I rush to be before the bullet, as I push air out of my way. I snap commands, advice without request, involuntarily. I wait only briefly for anything. I comb my hair without looking, as fast as possible, then can’t understand why my strands are haphazard. I brush past, my goal in sight, but you, who are you? I am an averter. My eyes have never touched anyone. I will rush to my grave and even in the tomb will be pissed, for everything I didn’t get to finish. I am an American. I pledge allegiance to the clock, to productivity, to the bottom line.

by Alice Oswald From time to time our love is like a sail and when the sail begins to alternate from tack to tack, it’s like a swallowtail and when the swallow flies it’s like a coat; and if the coat is yours, it has a tear like a wide mouth and when the mouth begins to draw the wind, it’s like a trumpeter and when the trumpet blows, it blows like millions.... and this, my love, when millions come and go beyond the need of us, is like a trick; and when the trick begins, it’s like a toe tip-toeing on a rope, which is like luck; and when the luck begins, it’s like a wedding, which is like love, which is like everything.

This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard Brautigan in a Laundromat in San Francisco. The author is un known. By accident, you put Your money in my Machine (#4) By accident, I put My money in another Machine (#6) On purpose, I put Your clothes in the Empty machine full Of water and no Clothes It was lonely.

by Lisel Mueller (my mother used to ask me if I, tucked away in San Francisco, ever missed a New England winter. Yes, sometimes, Mother, even out of season). Telephone poles relax their spines, sidewalks go under. The nightly groans of aging porches are put to sleep. Mercy sponges the lips of stairs. While we talk in the old concepts- time that was, and things that are- snow has leveled the stumps of the past and the earth has a new language. It's like the scene in which the girl moves toward the hero who has not yet said, "Come here." Come here, then. Every ditch has been exalted. We are covered with stars. Feel how light they are, our lives.