Poems that I love

is all wrong, ed what poets now live where they say they do where they started out where they want to half the midwesterners did time in new york the other half in california only new yorkers write as if they are from new york and mostly they are not the ones in california were wounded elsewhere when they feel better or can't afford the rent they'll go back where they came from this is america you get hurt where you are born you make poetry out of it as far from home as you can get you die somewhere in between the only geography of poets is greyhound general motors rules them all ubi patria ibi bene or ibi bene ubi patria bread out of nostalgia not a lot of it either some of us came from very far maps don't help much Andrei Codrescu

by Robert Frost The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued

Be fearful of exalted rank, o soul. And if you are unable to subdue your aspirations — doubtingly pursue them and with precautions. And the more you rise, the more examining, the warier be. And when you are arrived at the supreme height of your glory — a Caesar, as it were: when you are become a man so widely famed: then specially be wary — at such time as you come out into the thoroughfares, a noted ruler with great following: if peradventure, from the multitude, some friendly person, an Artemidorus, bringing a paper, should press near to you and rap out sharp “Read this without delay; herein are weighty matters touching you”, fail not to tarry; fail not to postpone all talk or business; fail not to turn off the different hangers-on who bow and scrape, (you will attend to them in time); let even the Senate wait; — leave all, and learn at once the grave things written by Artemidorus. CP Cavafy

By William Butler Yeats I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.   And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.   I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core. Marlene Lee

by Dean Young How could I not? Have seen a man walk up to a piano and both survive. Have turned the exterminator away. Seen lipstick on a wine glass not shatter the wine. Seen rainbows in puddles. Been recognized by stray dogs. I believe reality is approximately 65% if. All rivers are full of sky. Waterfalls are in the mind. We all come from slime. Even alpacas. I believe we’re surrounded by crystals. Not just Alexander Vvedensky. Maybe dysentery, maybe a guard’s bullet did him in. Nonetheless. Nevertheless I believe there are many kingdoms left. The Declaration of Independence was written with a feather. A single gem has throbbed in my chest my whole life even though even though this is my second heart. Because the first failed, such was its opportunity. Was cut out in pieces and incinerated. I asked. And so was denied the chance to regard my own heart in a jar. Strange tangled imp. Wee sleekit in red brambles. You know what it feels like to hold a burning piece of paper, maybe even t

By Juan Felipe Herrera As Basho has said — it is a narrow road to the Deep North — as Mandela has said the haphazard segregation later became a well-orchestrated segregation — as Basho has said the journey began with an attained awareness that at any moment you can become a weather-exposed skeleton — think of us in this manner these are notes for your nourishment — hold them as bowls of kindness from journeys of bravery the will to seek & find the sudden turning rivers & the dawn-eyed freedom https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/09/07/basho-and-mandela

- Billy Collins The neighbors' dog will not stop barking. He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark that he barks every time they leave the house. They must switch him on on their way out. The neighbors' dog will not stop barking. I close all the windows in the house and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast but I can still hear him muffled under the music, barking, barking, barking, and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra, his head raised confidently as if Beethoven had included a part for barking dog. When the record finally ends he is still barking, sitting there in the oboe section barking, his eyes fixed on the conductor who is entreating him with his baton while the other musicians listen in respectful silence to the famous barking dog solo, that endless coda that first established Beethoven as an innovative genius.