Robert Wrigley: "Kissing a Horse"

Of the two spoiled, barn-sour geldings
we owned that year, it was Red—
skittish and prone to explode
even at fourteen years—who'd let me
hold my face to his own: the massive labyrinthine
caverns of the nostrils, the broad plain
up the head to the eyes. He'd let me stroke
his coarse chin whiskers and take
his soft meaty underlip
in my hands, press my man's carnivorous
kiss to his grass-nipping under half of one, just
so that I could smell
the long way his breath had come from the rain
and the sun, the lungs and the heart,
from a world that meant no harm.



"Kissing a Horse" by Robert Wrigley, as published in Earthly Meditations: New and Selected Poems (Penguin Books, 2006). © Robert Wrigley. Reprinted by permission of the poet.

The poet has also been kind enough to share links to additional poems at Numéro Cinq and The New Yorker.

Art credit: "Subtle Smile," photograph by Jennifer MacNeill-Traylor.

Laura Grace Weldon: "Rutabaga"

You darken as my knife slices
blushing at what you become.
I save your thick leaves
and purple skin
to feed the cows.

A peasant guest at any meal
you agree to hide in fragrant stew
or gleam nakedly
in butter and chives.

Though your seeds are tiny
you grow with fierce will
grateful for poor soil and dry days,
heave up from the ground
under sheltering stalks
to sweeten with the frost.

Tonight we take you into our bodies
as if we do you a favor—
letting your molecules
become a higher being,
one that knows music and art.

But you share with us
what makes you a rutabaga.
Through you we eat sunlight,
taste the soil’s clamoring mysteries,
gain your seed’s perfect might.

"Rutabaga" by Laura Grace Weldon, from Tending (Aldrich Press, 2013). © Laura Grace Weldon. Presented here by poet submission.

Art credit: "Rutabaga," unknown medium, by Lara Call Gastinger. © Lara Call Gastinger, 2004.

 

Barbara Crooker: "In the Middle"

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail, a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.



 
"In the Middle" by Barbara Crooker. Text as published in Radiance: Poems (Word Press, 2005). © Barbara Crooker. Reprinted with permission of the poet.

Art credit: "Under the Starry Night," photograph by Ryan Turner Photography. Caption: "Relaxing hammock under the starry Montana big sky."

Czeslaw Milosz: "Gift"

A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

"Gift" by Czeslaw Milosz, from New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001 (Ecco, 2003 edition). Translated from the original Polish by Czeslaw Milosz.

Watch the poet read his poem, in both English and the original Polish.

Art credit: "Sailboat in a Great Blue Ocean," wallpaper by unknown photographer.

Todd Boss: "To a Wild Rose"

"with simple tenderness," for Beth


It’s true, what all our
heroes say. There is a way
in this world for beauty,
for good. It may
be a crooked path
in a tanglewood, but
stay the course and,
when the way grows rocky,
walk your horse,

and who knows, you may yet
come upon the wild rose,
as I have done, and,
paying close attention,
keep from crushing her into
the grime, and then,
with any luck, in time
remember how you found her
and how to find her again
when the way gets wilder.



"To a Wild Rose" by Todd Boss, from Yellowrocket: Poems (W. W. Norton & Company, 2010). Text as presented in various online sources.

Art credit: "Wild Rose," macro image by unknown photographer.


 

Ruth Stone: "Green Apples"

In August we carried the old horsehair mattress
To the back porch
And slept with our children in a row.
The wind came up the mountain into the orchard
Telling me something:
Saying something urgent.
I was happy.
The green apples fell on the sloping roof
And rattled down.
The wind was shaking me all night long;
Shaking me in my sleep
Like a definition of love,
Saying, this is the moment,
Here, now.

"Green Apples" by Ruth Stone. Text as published in Second-Hand Coat: Poems New and Selected (Yellow Moon Press, 1991).

Watch the poet read this poem.

Art credit: "Green apple lying in green grass," still shot from a video by motion.pl.

 

Amy Lowell: "Bath"

 
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
       The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
       Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

"Bath" by Amy Lowell. Text as published in Selected Poems of Amy Lowell, edited by Melissa Bradshaw and Adrienne Munich (Rutgers University Press, 2002).  

Art credit: "Iridescent Green Soap Bubbles Background," image by unknown photographer.

R. T. Smith: "Moth Aubade"

Downstairs early to mill

the morning coffee,

I find the kitchen wall

beside the lamp

is littered with moths

exhausted from a night

of circling the globe,

as if its light were

the source of joy.

As I approach in slippers

they hardly flutter

but hold their postures,

perhaps in their small

thoughts counting on me,

a frequent dreamer

still drowsy from reverie,

to show them mercy.

Pouring the beans, then

turning the worn handle

till the brass gears growl,

I study every wing

design—solid, striped

or mottled. To the Greeks

they were all psyche,

spirit drawn to flame,

but this August morning

I wish, before they perish,

to revive us all

with the scent of chicory

and conduct them out

the kitchen window

singing their luminous

individual names.

 
"Moth Aubade" by R. T. Smith. Text as posted on Silver Birch Press: New Voices in Fiction, Nonfiction, Plays & Poetry (12/17/12). 

Art credit: "Atlas moth wing," macro photograph by Dan Brown.

Elizabeth Ayres: "The Road of Unforgetting"

At dawn these still waters were filled with clamoring gulls.

Now, in morning’s languid light, just the

harsh contralto of a journeying crow, the

muted bass and treble

of waves from a passing boat’s wake. Tall pines

on the opposite shore cast long, green reflections

onto the motionless river, making (you think)

a long, green road boasting

many unmarked entrances and exits, many

signs in strange languages you almost

remember, many

vaguely familiar landmarks and

fleeting faces almost

recognizable as beloved.

Some say go out into the desert to find your god.

Some say go up into the mountains. No such voices here,

on the long, green road of unforgetting, just the

muted bass and treble of your own footsteps, just that

other that

other

that other almost

song.



"The Road of Unforgetting" by Elizabeth Ayres. © Elizabeth Ayres. Presented here by poet submission. Elizabeth Ayres is the author of four books and the founder of the Elizabeth Ayres Center for Creative Writing, which specializes in aspiring writers. "The Road of Unforgetting" is from a work-in-progress entitled Azimuth of God: poems of absence and presence.

Art credit: "Pine Flatwoods" at Jonathan Dickinson State Park (Florida, USA), image by unknown photographer.

Al Young: "For Poets"

Stay beautiful
but don’t stay down underground too long
Don’t turn into a mole
or a worm
or a root
or a stone

Come on out into the sunlight
Breathe in trees
Knock out mountains
Commune with snakes
& be the very hero of birds

Don’t forget to poke your head up
& blink
think
Walk all around
Swim upstream

Don’t forget to fly


 

"For Poets" by Al Young. Text as published in I Am the Darker Brother: An Anthology of Modern Poems by African Americans (Simon Pulse, 1997 edition).

Listen to the poet read this poem.

Art credit: Photograph of a skydiver, perhaps by #cookieg3.

Ginny Lowe Connors: "Hosanna"

I wonder if the children in the rowboat

will remember this particular morning,

the lake restlessly turning over

a thousand scintillating points of light

except for one calm, mirror-like swathe

through which the man rows calmly,

his boy and girl looking out

from the prow of the wooden boat,

while all around them little flames

move across the lake, never arriving

anywhere except into this moment

which seems to me closer to heaven

than any other thing that man or god

might possibly contrive.

 
"Hosanna" by Ginny Lowe Connors. Text as posted on Your Daily Poem (12/01/13). © Ginny Lowe Connors. Reprinted by permission of the poet. Also see the poet's two collections of poetry: Barbarians in the Kitchen and The Unparalleled Beauty of a Crooked Line, both published by Antrim House.

Art credit: "Sun Sparkling on Blue Waters," photographic print by BeneathNorthernSkies.

Jeanne Lohmann: "Questions Before Dark"

                                     Day ends, and before sleep
                                     when the sky dies down, consider
                                     your altered state: has this day
                                     changed you? Are the corners
                                     sharper or rounded off? Did you
                                     live with death? Make decisions
                                     that quieted? Find one clear word
                                     that fit? At the sun's midpoint
                                     did you notice a pitch of absence,
                                     bewilderment that invites
                                     the possible? What did you learn
                                     from things you dropped and picked up
                                     and dropped again? Did you set a straw
                                     parallel to the river, let the flow
                                     carry you downstream?

"Questions Before Dark" by Jeanne Lohmann. Text as published in The Light of Invisible Bodies (Daniel and Daniel Publishers, 2015).

Art credit: "Floating Downstream...," pinhole photograph by Scott Speck. From the caption: "This is a 90 second 4x5 pinhole camera exposure, looking down a flowing stream in the Spruce Knob Recreation Area, in the Monongahela National Forest in West Virginia [USA].... The pinhole camera was placed about an inch above a rock amid the flowing water. It was a breezy day, so the trees overhead, in addition to being stretched near the frame edges, were moving. Lichens can be seen on the rocks on the cliff wall to the right."

Zbigniew Herbert: "The Pebble"

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by a false warmth

—Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

"The Pebble" by Zbigniew Herbert. Text as published in Postwar Polish Poetry: New Expanded Edition, edited by Czeslaw Milosz (University of California Press, 1983). Translated from the original Polish by Peter Dale Scott and Czeslaw Milosz.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Barry Spacks: "Within Another Life"

Those whose days were grudging or confused
may come back trapped within another life

as a boulder, or a pane of glass,
or a door that suffers every time it's slammed.

If I return a boulder, love, some summer day
come sit by me and contemplate these horses and these hills.

And if a windowpane, gaze through to see
the meadow on our walks where the brown geese strut.

And if I am a door, come home through me,
be sure I'll keep you safe.

And if a knotted, twisted rope,
from long self-clenching and complexity,

oh love, unbind, unbraid me then
until I flow again like windswept hair.

"Within Another Life" by  Barry Spacks. Text as published in Poetry (December, 1999).

Art credit: "Wind in your hair," photograph by Alexandru Vita.

Anne Alexander Bingham: "It is Enough"

 
To know that the atoms
of my body
will remain

to think of them rising
through the roots of a great oak
to live in
leaves, branches, twigs

perhaps to feed the
crimson peony
the blue iris
the broccoli

or rest on water
freeze and thaw
with the seasons

some atoms might become a
bit of fluff on the wing
of a chickadee
to feel the breeze
know the support of air

and some might drift
up and up into space
star dust returning from

whence it came
it is enough to know that
as long as there is a universe
I am a part of it.




"It is Enough" by Anne Alexander Bingham. Text as published by The Writer's Almanac (01/22/14). Read the poet's obituary here.

Art credit: "Dandelion Seeds Fluff Macro," image by unknown photographer.

Larry Smith: "Walking a Field into Evening"

For learned books, I read the grasses.
For reputation, a bird calls my name.
I cross a stone bridge with the pace of dusk.
At the meadow gate, six cows meditate.

For decades I ran my mind up hill and down;
now idleness tells me what is near.
An arrow of wild geese crosses the sky,
my body still, my feet firm on the ground.

We age like trees now, watch our seedlings
take wind or grow around us.
I’m going to mark my books lightly
with a pencil. When someone wants
to take my picture, I’ll walk towards them
and embrace.

                         No more arguments,

just heart sense, or talk about nothing.
Take long walks in the woods at dawn and dusk,
breathe in the damp musty air,
learn to listen before I die.

"Walking a Field into Evening" by Larry Smith, from Lake Winds: Poems (Bottom Dog Press, 2014). © Larry Smith. Presented here by poet submission.

View a poem video in the poet's voice and with his musical accompaniment.

Art credit: "Cows in meadow," photograph by Bill Tam.

Jane Kenyon: "Philosophy in Warm Weather"

Now all the doors and windows
are open, and we move so easily
through the rooms. Cats roll
on the sunny rugs, and a clumsy wasp
climbs the pane, pausing
to rub a leg over her head.

All around physical life reconvenes.
The molecules of our bodies must love
to exist: they whirl in circles
and seem to begrudge us nothing.
Heat, Horatio, heat makes them
put this antic disposition on!

This year's brown spider
sways over the door as I come
and go. A single poppy shouts
from the far field, and the crow,
beyond alarm, goes right on
pulling up the corn.

"Philosophy in Warm Weather" by Jane Kenyon. Text as published in The Boat Of Quiet Hours: Poems (Graywolf Press, 1986).

Art credit: "Sun Bathing Cat," photograph by Jason Irish.

May Sarton: "Beyond the Question, 1"

The phoebe sits on her nest
Hour after hour,
Day after day,
Waiting for life to burst out
From under her warmth.

Can I weave a nest for silence,
Weave it out of listening,
Listening,
Layer upon layer?

But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish,
No tendril of a wish
Toward anything that might happen
Or be given,
Only the warm, faithful waiting,
Contained in one’s smallness.
Beyond the question, the silence.
Before the answer, the silence.

"Beyond the Question, 1" by May Sarton. Text as published in Collected Poems 1930-1993 (W. W. Norton, 1993).

Art credit: Nesting phoebe, photograph by Lindell Dillon.

Mario Benedetti: "Don't Give Up"

Don't give up, you still have time
to reach up and start anew,
Accept your shadows,
Bury your fears,
Free your burdens,
Fly again.

Don't give up, that's what life is
Continue the journey,
Follow your dreams,
Unstuck time,
Move the rubble,
And uncover the sky.

Don't give up, please don't give way,
Even if the cold burns,
Even if fear bites,
Even if the sun sets,
And the wind goes silent,
There is still fire in your soul
There is still life in your dreams.

Because life is yours and yours is the desire
Because you have loved it and because I love you
Because wine exists and love is true.
Because there are no wounds that time doesn't cure.

To open the doors,
Take away the locks,
Abandon the walls that have protected you,
To live life and accept the challenge
Get back laughter,
Practice a song,
Lower the guard and extend the hands
Open the wings
And try again,
Celebrate life and take back the skies.

Don't give up, please don't give way,
Even if the cold burns,
Even if fear bites,
Even if the sun sets,
And the wind goes silent,
There is still fire in your soul
There is still life in your dreams.

Because every day is a new beginning,
Because this is the hour and the best moment.
Because you are not alone, because I love you.

"Don't Give Up" by Mario Benedetti, from unknown source. Text as posted on Peripateia (07/06/12), translated by John Hemingway. English and original Spanish are found at this link. If anyone has further source information, please share.

Art credit: "There Is Always Hope," wallpaper (also by various other names) by unknown photographer.

Anonymous: "Song for Going to the Water" [Cherokee]

If your heart is not well,
If your spirit is not well,
These words may help you.

Wake in the hour
Just before dawn.
Wake in the hours
Before first light.
Wake when the animals of the night
Have ended their songs,
When the animals of the day
Have not yet begun their songs.

Walk without words.
Follow the path
That leads to the stream.

Then, as the first light
Touches the stream,
Bend to the water,
Speak these words:

"Long Person, I come to ask your help."

Then hold up
A cup of that water
And drink the dawn.



"Song for Going to the Water," purportedly from the Cherokee tradition. Text as published in ISTEP + English/Language Arts Test Preparation and Practice Workbook, Glencoe Language Arts Grade 7, Teacher's Annotated Edition (The McGraw-Hill Companies, undated).

Art credit: "River Stour [near Wimborne] at Dawn," photograph by Andrew Child.