poetry copy work

7/28/2019 Poetry Copy Work

1/12

POETRY COPY WORKKierstyn and Kaity

Week 3 Week of July 22nd

:The Song Of Empedocles by Matthew Arnold

And you, ye stars,

Who slowly begin to marshal,As of old, in the fields of heaven,

Your distant, melancholy lines!Have you, too, survived yourselves?

Are you, too, what I fear to become?You, too, once lived;

You too moved joyfullyAmong august companions,

In an older world, peopled by Gods,In a mightier order,

The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven.But now, ye kindle

Your lonely, cold-shining lights,

Unwilling lingerersIn the heavenly wilderness,

For a younger, ignoble world;And renew, by necessity,

Night after night your courses,In echoing, unneared silence,Above a race you know not

Uncaring and undelighted,Without friend and without home;

Weary like us, though notWeary with our weariness.

Week 4 Week of July 29th:

Growing Old by Matthew ArnoldWhat is it to grow old?

Is it to lose the glory of the form,

The lustre of the eye?Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?Yes, but not for this alone.

Is it to feel our strengthNot our bloom only, but our strengthdecay?

Is it to feel each limbGrow stiffer, every function less exact,

Each nerve more weakly strung?

Yes, this, and more! but not,Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be!

'Tis not to have our lifeMellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,

A golden day's decline!

'Tis not to see the worldAs from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,

And heart profoundly stirred;And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,

The years that are no more!

It is to spend long daysAnd not once feel that we were ever young.

It is to add, immuredIn the hot prison of the present, month

To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this,And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:

Deep in our hidden heartFesters the dull remembrance of a change,

But no emotionnone.

It islast stage of allWhen we are frozen up within, and quite

The phantom of ourselves,To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost

Which blamed the living man.

Week 5 Week of August 5th

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou


2/12

You may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I riseUp from a past that's rooted in pain

I riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I riseInto a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I riseBringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I riseI riseI rise.


Touched by An Angel by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courageexiles from delight

live coiled in shells of lonelinessuntil love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sightto liberate us into life.

Love arrivesand in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasureancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidityIn the flush of love's light

we dare be braveAnd suddenly we see

that love costs all we areand will ever be.Yet it is only love

which sets us free.


Woman Workby Maya AngelouI've got the children to tend

The clothes to mendThe floor to mopThe food to shop

Then the chicken to fryThe baby to dry

I got company to feedThe garden to weed

I've got shirts to pressThe tots to dressThe can to be cut

I gotta clean up this hutThen see about the sickAnd the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshineRain on me, rain

Fall softly, dewdropsAnd cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from hereWith your fiercest wind

Let me float across the sky'Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakesCover me with whiteCold icy kisses andLet me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving skyMountain, oceans, leaf and stone

Star shine, moon glowYou're all that I can call my own.


When You Come by Maya Angelou


3/12

When you come to me, unbidden,Beckoning me

To long-ago rooms,Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,Gatherings of days too few.

Baubles of stolen kisses.Trinkets of borrowed loves.

Trunks of secret words,

I CRY.


The Lesson by Maya AngelouI keep on dying again.

Veins collapse, opening like theSmall fists of sleeping

Children.Memory of old tombs,

Rotting flesh and worms doNot convince me against

The challenge. The yearsAnd cold defeat live deep in

Lines along my face.They dull my eyes, yet

I keep on dying,Because I love to live.


Weekend Glory by Maya Angelou

Some clichty folksdon't know the facts,posin' and preenin'and puttin' on acts,

stretchin' their backs.

They move into condosup over the ranks,pawn their souls

to the local banks.Buying big carsthey can't afford,ridin' around town

actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life rightthey ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plantain't the biggest bet,

but I pay my billsand stay out of debt.I get my hair done

for my own self's sake,so I don't have to pick

and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money outand head cross town

to my friend girl's housewhere we plan our round.

We meet our men and go to a jointwhere the music is blue

and to the point.

Folks write about me.

They just can't seehow I work all week

at the factory.Then get spruced upand laugh and dance

And turn away from worrywith sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'from day to day,

but who are they kiddin'?So are they.

My life ain't heavenbut it sure ain't hell.

I'm not on topbut I call it swell

if I'm able to workand get paid right

and have the luck to be Blackon a Saturday night.

Week 11 Week of September 2nd

Messy Room by Shel Silverstein


4/12

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!His underwear is hanging on the lamp.

His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.

His workbook is wedged in the window,His sweater's been thrown on the floor.

His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.

His books are all jammed in the closet,His vest has been left in the hall.

A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!Donald or Robert or Willie or--

Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,I knew it looked familiar!

Week 12 Week of September 9th

Whatifby Shel SilversteinLast night, while I lay thinking here,some Whatifs crawled inside my ear

and pranced and partied all night long

and sang their same old Whatif song:Whatif I'm dumb in school?

Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?Whatif I get beat up?

Whatif there's poison in my cup?Whatif I start to cry?

Whatif I get sick and die?Whatif I flunk that test?

Whatif green hair grows on my chest?Whatif nobody likes me?

Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?Whatif I don't grow talle?

Whatif my head starts getting smaller?

Whatif the fish won't bite?Whatif the wind tears up my kite?

Whatif they start a war?Whatif my parents get divorced?

Whatif the bus is late?Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?

Whatif I tear my pants?Whatif I never learn to dance?

Everything seems well, and thenthe nighttime Whatifs strike again!


Bear In There by Shel Silverstein

There's a Polar BearIn our Frigidaire--

He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.With his seat in the meatAnd his face in the fishAnd his big hairy paws

In the buttery dish,He's nibbling the noodles,He's munching the rice,He's slurping the soda,

He's licking the ice.And he lets out a roarIf you open the door.

And it gives me a scareTo know he's in there--

That Polary BearIn our Fridgitydaire.

Week 14 Week of September 23rd

Picture Puzzle Piece by Shel SilversteinOne picture puzzle piece

Lyin' on the sidewalk,

One picture puzzle pieceSoakin' in the rain.

It might be a button of blueOn the coat of the woman

Who lived in a shoe.It might be a magical bean,

Or a fold in the redVelvet robe of a queen.

It might be the one little biteOf the apple her stepmother

Gave to Snow White.It might be the veil of a bride

Or a bottle with some evil genie inside.

It might be a small tuft of hairOn the big bouncy belly

Of Bobo the Bear.It might be a bit of the cloak

Of the Witch of the WestAs she melted to smoke.

It might be a shadowy traceOf a tear that runs down an angel's face.

Nothing has more possibilitiesThan one old wet picture puzzle piece.


Cloony The Clown by Shel Silverstein


5/12

I'll tell you the story of Cloony the ClownWho worked in a circus that came through town.

His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,

He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,

But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.And every time he did a trick,

Everyone felt a little sick.And every time he told a joke,

Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.And every time he lost a shoe,Everyone looked awfully blue.

And every time he stood on his head,Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"

And every time he made a leap,Everybody fell asleep.

And every time he ate his tie,Everyone began to cry.

And Cloony could not make any moneySimply because he was not funny.One day he said, "I'll tell this town

How it feels to be an unfunny clown."And he told them all why he looked so sad,

And he told them all why he felt so bad.He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,

He told of Darkness in his soul,And after he finished his tale of woe,

Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,They laughed until they shook the trees

With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees."They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,

They laughed all day, they laughed all week,They laughed until they had a fit,

They laughed until their jackets split.

The laughter spread for miles aroundTo every city, every town,

Over mountains, 'cross the sea,From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.

And soon the whole world rang with laughter,Lasting till forever after,

While Cloony stood in the circus tent,With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.

And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT."

And while the world laughed outside.Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.

Week 16 Week of October 7th


6/12

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan PoeTake this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep!O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?


Romance by Edgar Allan PoeRomance, who loves to nod and sing

With drowsy head and folded wingAmong the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,To me a painted paroquet

Hath beenmost familiar bird

Taught me my alphabet to say,To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,A childwith a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal condor yearsSo shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky;And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings,That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while awayforbidden thingsMy heart would feel to be a crimeUnless it trembled with the strings.

Week 18 Week of October 21st

Song by Edgar Allan Poe

I SAW thee on thy bridal day -When a burning blush came o'er thee,

Though happiness around thee lay,The world all love before thee:

And in thine eye a kindling light(Whatever it might be)

Was all on Earth my aching sightOf Loveliness could see.

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame -As such it well may pass -

Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flameIn the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day,When that deep blush would come o'er thee,

Though happiness around thee lay,The world all love before thee.


Alone by Edgar Allan PoeFrom childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seenAs others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.Then- in my childhood, in the dawnOf a most stormy life- was drawnFrom every depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still:From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,From the lightning in the skyAs it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)Of a demon in my view.

Week 20 Week of November 4th

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by

Elizabeth Barrett Browning


7/12

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life!and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.


Sonnet 14 - If thou must love me, let it be for

nought by Elizabeth Barrett BrowningIf thou must love me, let it be for noughtExcept for love's sake only. Do not say

'I love her for her smileher lookher wayOf speaking gently,for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes broughtA sense of pleasant ease on such a day'

For these things in themselves, Beloved, mayBe changed, or change for thee,and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me forThine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,

A creature might forget to weep, who boreThy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.


Sonnet 10 - Yet, love, mere love, is beautifulindeed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeedAnd worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,

Let temple burn, or flax; an equal lightLeaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:

And love is fire. And when I say at needI love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee in thy sight

I stand transfigured, glorified aright,With conscience of the new rays that proceed

Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing lowIn love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures

Who love God, God accepts while loving so.

And what I feel, across the inferior featuresOf what I am, doth flash itself, and show

How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.

Week 23 Week of January 13th

Happy the Lab'rer by Jane Austen


8/12

Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,

Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws

A glance upon the ample cabbage roseThat, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,

He envies not the gayest London beaux.In church he takes his seat among the rows,

Pays to the place the reverence he owes,Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,

Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,And rouses joyous at the welcome close.


I've a Pain in my Head by Jane Austen'I've a pain in my head'

Said the suffering Beckford;To her Doctor so dread.

'Oh! what shall I take for't?'

Said this Doctor so dreadWhose name it was Newnham.

'For this pain in your headAh! What can you do Ma'am?'

Said Miss Beckford, 'SupposeIf you think there's no risk,

I take a good DoseOf calomel brisk.'--

'What a praise worthy Notion.'Replied Mr. Newnham.

'You shall have such a potionAnd so will I too Ma'am.'


Miss Lloyd has now went to Miss Green by Jane

AustenMiss Lloyd has now sent to Miss Green,As, on opening the box, may be seen,

Some years of a Black Ploughman's Gauze,To be made up directly, because

Miss Lloyd must in mourning appearFor the death of a Relative dear--Miss Lloyd must expect to receive

This license to mourn and to grieve,Complete, ere the end of the week--

It is better to write than to speak

Week 26 Week of February 3rd

Fairy Song by Louisa May Alcott


9/12

The moonlight fades from flower and roseAnd the stars dim one by one;

The tale is told, the song is sung,And the Fairy feast is done.

The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,And sings to them, soft and low.The early birds erelong will wake:

'T is time for the Elves to go.

O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,Unseen by mortal eye,

And send sweet dreams, as we lightly floatThrough the quiet moonlit sky;--

For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,And the flowers alone may know,

The feasts we hold, the tales we tell;So't is time for the Elves to go.

From bird, and blossom, and bee,We learn the lessons they teach;

And seek, by kindly deeds, to winA loving friend in each.

And though unseen on earth we dwell,

Sweet voices whisper low,And gentle hearts most joyously greet

The Elves where'er they go.

When next we meet in the Fairy dell,May the silver moon's soft light

Shine then on faces gay as now,And Elfin hearts as light.

Now spread each wing, for the eastern skyWith sunlight soon shall glow.

The morning star shall light us home:Farewell! for the Elves must go.

Week 27 Week of February 10th

From The Short Story A Christmas Dream, And

How It Came True by Louisa May AlcottFrom our happy home

Through the world we roamOne week in all the year,

Making winter springWith the joy we bring

For Christmas-tide is here.

Now the eastern starShines from afar

To light the poorest home;Hearts warmer grow,

Gifts freely flow,For Christmas-tide has come.

Now gay trees riseBefore young eyes,

Abloom with tempting cheer;Blithe voices sing,

And blithe bells ring,For Christmas-tide is here.

Oh, happy chime,Oh, blessed time,

That draws us all so near!"Welcome, dear day,"

All creatures say,For Christmas-tide is here.


From The Short Story What The Swallows Did

by Louisa May AlcottSwallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,

Starting on your autumn flight,Pause a moment at my window,Twitter softly your good-night;For the summer days are over,All your duties are well done,

And the happy homes you buildedHave grown empty, one by one.

Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,Are you ready for your flight?

Are all the feather cloaks completed?Are the little caps all right?

Are the young wings strong and steadyFor the journey through the sky?Come again in early spring-time;

And till then, good-by, good-by!



10/12

Lily-Bell and Thistledown Song I by Louisa May

AlcottAwake! Awake! for the earliest gleam

Of golden sunlight shinesOn the rippling waves, that brightly flow

Beneath the flowering vines.Awake! Awake! for the low, sweet chant

Of the wild-birds' morning hymnComes floating by on the fragrant air,

Through the forest cool and dim;Then spread each wing,

And work, and sing,Through the long, bright sunny hours;

O'er the pleasant earthWe journey forth,

For a day among the flowers.

Awake! Awake! for the summer windHath bidden the blossoms unclose,

Hath opened the violet's soft blue eye,And awakened the sleeping rose.

And lightly they wave on their slender stemsFragrant, and fresh, and fair,

Waiting for us, as we singing comeTo gather our honey-dew there.

Then spread each wing,And work, and sing,

Through the long, bright sunny hours;O'er the pleasant earth

We journey forth,For a day among the flowers.

Week 30 Week of March 3rd

Death in the Family by Julie Hill AlgerThey call it stroke.

Two we loved were stunnedby that same blow of cudgel

or axe to the brow.Lost on the earththey left our circle

broken.

One spent five monthsfalling from our graspmute, her grace, wit,

beauty erased.Her green eyes gazed at us

as if asking, as if aware,as if hers. One nightshe slipped away;

machinery of mercybrought her back

to die more slowly.At long lastshe escaped.

Our collie dogfared better.

A lesser creature, she

had to spend only one daydrifting and reeling,

her brown eyesbeseeching. Then she

was tenderly lifted,laid on a table,praised, pettedand set free.

Week 31

Week of March 10thLesson 1 by Julie Hill AlgerAt least I've learned this much:

Life doesn't have to beall poetry and roses. Life

can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,electric bills, dishwashing,

chapped lips, dull stubby pencilswith the erasers chewed off,

cheap radios played too loud,the rank smell of stale coffee

yet still glowwith the inner fire of an opal,

still taste like honey.

Week 32 Week of March 17th

Opening the Geode by Julie Hill Alger

When the molten earth seethedin its whirling cauldron

nobody watched the potfrom a tall wooden stoolset out in windy spacebeyond flame's reach;

and when the spattering mushsteamed, gurgled, boiled over,

mounded up in smoking hillsno giant mixing spoon

smoothed out the lumps and bubblesas the pottage cooled to rock.

No kitchen timer tickedprecisely the eons required

to fill the gritty pitsslowly, drop by drop

with layers of glassy salts,agate, opal, quartz;

no listening ear inclinedover the silicon mold

to hear the chink of crystalsrising geometrically

facet upon facetin the airless dark.

No hand lifted the stony lidto add light, the finishing touch,and no guest cried Ah! how well

the recipe turned out -until this millennium, today,

at my table.

Week 33 Week of March 24th


11/12

Pictures of Home by Julie Hill AlgerIn the red-roofed stucco house

of my childhood, the dining roomwas screened off by folding doors

with small glass panes. Our neighborsthe Bertins, who barely escaped Hitler,

often joined us at table. One nighttheir daughter said, In Vienna

our dining room had doors like these.

For a moment, we all sat quite still.

And when Nath Nong, who has to livein Massachusetts now, saw a pictureof green Cambodian fields she said,

My father have animal like this,name krebey English? I told her,

Water buffalo. She said, Very verygood animal. She put her finger

on the picture of the water buffaloand spoke its Khmer name once more.

So today, when someone (my ex-husband) sends me a shiny picture

of a church in Santa Cruz that lostits steeple in the recent earthquake

there's no reason at allfor my throat to ache at the sight

of a Pacific-blue sky and an old churchthree thousand miles away, because

if I can only save enough money

I can go back there any timeand stay as long as I want.

Week 34 Week of March 31st

He Sendeth Sun, He Sendeth Shower by SarahFlower Adams

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,Alike they're needful for the flower:And joys and tears alike are sentTo give the soul fit nourishment.

As comes to me or cloud or sun,Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Can loving children e'er reproveWith murmurs whom they trust and love?

Creator! I would ever beA trusting, loving child to thee:

As comes to me or cloud or sun,

Father! thy will, not mine, be done!Oh, ne'er will I at life repine:

Enough that thou hast made it mine.When falls the shadow cold of death

I yet will sing, with parting breath,As comes to me or shade or sun,Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Week 35 Week of April 14th

Hymn by Sarah Flower AdamsHe sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,Alike they're needful for the flower:And joys and tears alike are sentTo give the soul fit nourishment.

As comes to me or cloud or sun,Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Can loving children e'er reproveWith murmurs whom they trust and love?

Creator! I would ever beA trusting, loving child to thee:As comes to me or cloud or sun,Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Oh, ne'er will I at life repine:Enough that thou hast made it mine.When falls the shadow cold of death

I yet will sing, with parting breath,As comes to me or shade or sun,Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Week 36 Week of April 21st

Love by Sarah Flower Adams

O Love! thou makest all things evenIn earth or heaven;

Finding thy way through prison-barsUp to the stars;

Or, true to the Almighty plan,That out of dust created man,

Thou lookest in a grave,--to seeThine immortality!

Week 37 Week of April 28th

Nearer, my God, to Thee. by Sarah Flower Adams

Nearer, my God, to Thee,Nearer to Thee!

E'en though it be a crossThat raiseth me:

Still all my song shall beNearer, my God! to Thee,

Nearer to Thee.

Though, like the wanderer,The sun gone down,

Darkness be over me,My rest a stone;

Yet in my dreams I'd beNearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee.

Then let the way appearSteps unto heaven;

All that Thou sendest meIn mercy given:

Angels to beckon meNearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee.

Then with my waking thoughtsBright with Thy praise,Out of my stony griefs

Bethel I'll raise;So by my woes to be

Nearer, my God, to Thee,Nearer to Thee.

Or if on joyful wing,Cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon, and stars forgot,Upward I fly:

Still all my song shall be,Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee.

Week 38 Week of May 5th


12/12

In the 70s, I Confused Macram and Macabre byKelli Russell Agodon

I.I wanted the macabre plant holder

hanging in Janet and Chrissys apartment.

My friend said her cousin tried to kill himselfby putting his head through the patternsof in his mothers spiderplant hanger, butthe hook broke from the ceiling and he fell

knocking over their lava lamp, their 8-track player.His brother almost died a week later when

he became tangled in the milfoil at Echo Lake.I said it could have been a very

macram summer for that family.

II.When I looked outside for sticks to make a Gods Eye

to hang my bedroom wall, I found a mouseflattened, its white spine stretching past its tail.

And a few feet away from that,a dead bird with an open chest.

Its veins wrapped tightly together.This neighborhood with its macram details

crushed into the street. I wantedmy mother to console me, remind me

that sometimes we escape.But when I returned to my house

it was empty, except for the macabre owlmy mother had almost finished, its body left

on the kitchen table, while she ran out to buy morebeads.


Ofa Forgetful Sea by Kelli Russell AgodonSometimes, I forget the sun

sinking into ocean.

Desert is only a handful of sandheld by my daughter.

In her palm,she holds small creatures,

tracks an ant, a fleamoving over each grain.

She brings them to placesshe thinks are safe:

an island of driftwood,the knot of a blackberry bush,

a continent of grass.

Fire ants carried on sticks,potato bugs scooped

into the crease of a newspaper.

She tries to help thembefore the patterns of tides

reach their lives.

She knows about families

who fold together like hands,a horizon of tanks moving forward.

Here war is only newsprint.

How easy it is not to think about itas we sleep beneath our quiet sky,slip ourselves into foam, neglectful

waves appearing endless.


A Mermaid Questions God

by Kelli Russell AgodonAs a girl, she hated the grain of anything

on her fins. Now she is part fire ant, part centipede.Where dunes stretch into pathways, arteries appear.Her blood pressure is temperature plus wind speed.

Where religion is a thousand miles of coastline,she is familiar with moon size, with tide changes.She wears the cream of waves like a vestment,

knows undertow is imaginary, not something to pray to.

Now her questions involve fairytales, beginin a garden and lead to hands painted on a chapel's ceiling.She wants to hold the ribbon grass, the shadow of angels

across the shore. She steals a Bible from the Seashore Inn;

she will trust it only if it floats.

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