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From Stephen Elliott
I Growed No Potatoes To Write About, Sir
nor bogs, nor fathers,
nor special water that was my place
alone to make me hard and wise—
I did not sow nor bury, nor even try to
fudge my nothings in such dirt with
much befangled, peaty spade.
Feather
Somehow, I thought you’d want to eat alone,
A state you’d grown to master—brandy glass,
A man behind your chair to fill your plate,
A girl to bring you chocolate mousse, then candy.
As another poet wrote: What do
I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The Tornado Collects the Animals
The tornado likes animals because
they pay attention. The tornado
sees the dogs howling up
from rippling yards, the cows huddled
mutely against one another,
a sparrow pulsing its wings hard
to stay stationary. The animals
stare and quake.
Transmittency
I stand by what I said. I stand by it
or next to it. I peer over the gazebo
at what I said, the way it flowers
in the darkness, mysteriously,
Well I got to keep it going keep it going full steam.
Two Lyrics from “Rondo”
The boys pawing the ground are horses.
They will drag you between them.
Come, give them your arms!
Was National Poetry Month over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!
The Lover’s Field Guide to Lesser Coinage
There are eight stycas in a penny, two pennies in a farthing, three farthings in a nearthing, and eight nearthings in a positutely.
...moreSo maybe you’re following our National Poetry Month project and you want to know who else is going to be featured. You’re following, right? I mean, sure you get the tweets from Rumpus Poetry and The Rumpus, and you regularly check the Rumpus and Rumpus Poetry Facebook pages, but what you really want, what you yearn for, is a link list of this month’s poems, updated daily.
...moreWe decide when National Poetry Month is over.
A Double Sestina on Happiness
Part 1:
I should never be happy, the Samsung Chairman’s eldest daughter Eunhee thought
as she picked up a capsleeved dress in Seoul’s only Marni boutique, and paid
Because thirty days just isn’t enough National Poetry Month for us.
Death is a Hysterical Dynasty
Tonight we shall read from my personal book of lamentations,
sit shiva in a room lit with those overly perfumed candles as thick
as the aluminum bat I used just last week to flip away the possum
carcass I’d found collapsed against the house.
No tyrannical calendar will define National Poetry Month for us!
Carpal Seeple
I want to get Augustan
pass the mustard
make it matter make it
We’re never satisfied with the thirty days that April allots us for National Poetry Month, so we’re extending it a bit. Enjoy!
Zoo
Unbridled, the sick pony
traverses listlessly a circle.
We’re never satisfied with just the 30 days that April offers for National Poetry Month, so we’re keeping it going for a little while longer.
Machine Song
I Xerox what I need to keep
(a sheaf of papers, taxes, real estate),
everything that once was ours.
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
From “Sungone Noon”
One raised
goats;
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
A Children’s Story
One snowflake was a lantern, the other
a shellfish. They were unnatural enemies.
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Nine Out of Ten Dentists Agree I Am Not an Octopus
I think I am an octopus.
...moreWelcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
14 Fragments/10 Muses [Re:Sonnet #38]
We’re with James Baldwin in a lofty basement room, with a narrow strip of windows close to the ceiling revealing a moving stream of star-sky.
...moreWelcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Letter To Be Wrapped Around a 12-Inch Disc
—To Major Jackson, from Gadsden, Alabama
Here it is, first disc I remember
pulling from the bin—jacket
white, label a dish of radio waves,
the way I wished
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
All Is Love
Sorry. I’m wrong. Everyone lives alone. All
is not love. All is whatever happens next,
and whatever happens next, of course, happens
in due course, its course, not yours.
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
While John Berryman Drives In His Orange Chevrolet Through A Minnesota Rainstorm
To Lecture On Don Quixote, Sylvia Plath Paints The Beehives of Court Green
While John Berryman drives in his orange Chevrolet through a Minnesota rainstorm
to lecture on Don Quixote, Sylvia Plath paints the beehives of Court Green,
stroking one stern white coat after another on the hive,
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Terra Incognita
Counting scars of gum on the stairs down
from the Dome I briefly felt joy
even though I’d just read, in the World or Times,
that some of my fellow citizens
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Mnemosyne to the Poet
For you, memory is but
an oil lamp to snuff, left to
smoke.
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
The Story Gets Away From Him
Billy Collins
is dining with friends.
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Mirror
All day I had been photographing boats.
A study in angles: light on water,
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Skin Like Brick Dust
In bed, your back curved
to answer the heat of my holding
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Big Legs on the Bus
How old could you be
And still popping your collar?
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
Alternate Ending: My Grandmother As Gretel
...more“Hansel and Gretel is the saddest story;
it’s the one where hunger comes first.
Welcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
between the wolf and the dog
a freight train splits the difference
between dark and not-yet-light:
inter lupum et canem: enter smoke
in shreds: the wolf sniffs out a glowing
hub of ash: finds the scent of the man
who built the fire: between flame
and smolder: pelage and fur: enter
a night in single digits: enter the outlaw
and a pack of shadows takes him: in:
between fang and tooth: ember and smudge:
exit the galaxy: its nest: oh: enter
that egg: the star that blinds him:
-Davis McCombs
...moreWelcome to The Rumpus’s National Poetry Month project. We’ll be running a new poem from a different poet each day for the month of April.
15 minutes
the beaming sun
sun
out there