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Poem of the Day: To Those of You Alive in the Future
Jul 17th, 2017 by

who somehow have found a sip of water,
on this day in the past four syndicated
series involving communication with the dead
were televised and in this way we resembled
our own ghosts in a world made brief with flowers.
To you, our agonies and tizzies
must appear quaint as the stiff shoulders
of someone carrying buckets from a well
or the stung beekeeper gathering honey.
Why did we bother hurrying from A to B
when we’d get no further than D, if that?
On Monday, it sleeted in Pennsylvania
while someone’s mother was scoured further
from her own mind. A son-in-law smoked
in the parking lot, exhaling white curses
torn apart by the large invisible indifference.
The general anesthetic wore off
and someone else opened her eyes to the results.
In this way our world was broken and glued.
But why did we bother shooing away the flies?
Did we think we could work our way
inside a diamond if we ground more pigment
into the paper’s tooth, tried to hold fire
on our tongues, sucked at the sugars of each other?
Many the engagement rings in the pawnshop.
Many the empties piled at the curbs.
A couple paused on a bridge to watch
chunks of ice tugged by bickering currents.
One who slept late reached out
for one who wasn’t there. Breads, heavy
and sweet, were pulled from wide infernos
of stone ovens. My name was Dean Young,
I wrote it on a leaf. Sometimes
I could still manage to get lost,
there was no guidance system wired inside me yet.
Laughter might have come from a window
lit far into the night, others were dark
and always silent.

Source: Poetry October 2009

Dean Young

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Poem of the Day
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R P Blackmur From Jordan's Delight 1937 Poetry 1st Edition HCDJ Vintage
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Poem of the Day: La Bestia / The Beast
Jul 11th, 2017 by

A large plastic bag will keep you dry
during the heavy rain storms.
In Tapachula, you have a safe place to rest; ** 
it might be your last chance to call home.
You know there are killers and thieves
who are setting their traps along the way,
and when you are riding on top of it,
watch for the wasps living in the trees.
Don’t fall asleep inside it—you might disappear.
If you are exhausted, jump off and rest.
Follow its tracks until you feel it returning.
The faster it advances, the stronger its pull is.
Don't be fooled—at first it will lure you in
with its steady prowess, but it can slit
a leg off or two, so don't be fooled by its hum.
 
If you jump off, don't just stand there.
And don't run beside its belly either—
No, run away from the pounding. Run like
a ceiling is falling, like people are falling on you.
As for routes, go through Matamoros
for getting into Texas, and for California,
get to Tijuana, but if you cross Nogales
into Arizona, be very careful. You will find
discarded shoes and gutted suitcases in fields.
There are graveyards without names.
No one carries an ID. For others and you,
we give offerings to our clandestino priest
who was killed during the Cristero War. ***                                 
  
Always watch out for the white vans—they
are full of policemen. They drive very slow.
It takes up to six days to cross the desert.
Always carry plenty of water. Ranchers carry guns.
Everything has thorns. At first sight, think twice
before trusting even a good omen.
Juan Delgado, "La Bestia / The Beast." Copyright © 2017 Juan Delgado. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow, a partnership between the Poetry Foundation and the WFMT Radio Network.

Source: PoetryNow(2017)

Juan Delgado

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Poem of the Day
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R P Blackmur From Jordan's Delight 1937 Poetry 1st Edition HCDJ Vintage
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Poem of the Day: Being Muslim
Jul 7th, 2017 by

O father bringing home crates
of apples, bushels of corn,
and skinned rabbits on ice.
 
O mother boiling lentils in a pot
while he watched fight after fight,
boxers pinned on the ropes
 
pummeling each other mercilessly.
And hung on the wall where we
ate breakfast an autographed photo
 
of Muhammad Ali. O father
who worshipped him and with
a clenched fist pretended to be:
 
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
O you loved being Muslim then.
Even when you drank whiskey.
 
Even when you knocked down
my mother again and again.
O prayer. O god of sun.
 
God of moon. Of cows
and of thunder. Of women.
Of bees. Of ants and spiders,
 
poets and calamity.
God of the pen, of the fig,
of the elephant.
 
Ta’ Ha’, Ya Sin, Sad, Qaf.
God of my father, listen:
He prayed, he prayed, five times a day,
 
and he was mean.
Hayan Charara, "Being Muslim" from Something Sinister.  Copyright © 2016 by Hayan Charara.  Reprinted by permission of Carnegie Mellon University Press.

Source: Something Sinister(Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2016)

Hayan Charara

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Poem of the Day
POETRY BLACK SHEER BLOUSE W/SCULLS & ROSES SPLIT BACK SIZE L WORN ONCE EUC

$7.50 (2 Bids)
End Date: Tuesday Jul-18-2017 17:35:45 PDT
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R P Blackmur From Jordan's Delight 1937 Poetry 1st Edition HCDJ Vintage
$8.99
End Date: Wednesday Aug-16-2017 14:40:04 PDT
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