A Poem a Day - Page 12

Week Twelve

Snow by Louise Gluck

Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
o­n his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.

My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn't see me.
I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw;
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.

Some Nights Are Difficult for Me, Listen by James Tipton

Some nights are difficult for me, listen:
I want to talk about that hunger
that rises up in the old house;
I want to talk about the loneliness
that wakes at two a.m.
and stares at the deserted bed;
I want to talk about the sadness
of old clothes in the flea market,
and the tongues lost in tiny children;
I want to talk about the woman
who said she would meet me
at the theater and the part of me
that still waits for her; I want
to talk about how bullies
hurt thr sweet heart, how
the heart walks in sleep, how
the heart hides in the clock,
hides in the hands of strangers;
I want to talk about this:
the wedding dress that poetry wore
o­ne morning in the apple trees
so long ago, when she came to me,
innocent, distressed, and lovely.

Bobber by Raymond Carver

On the Columbia River near Vantage,
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months; my dad, Swede-
Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.

My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He lets me steer his car, teased me
about my name "Junior," and said
o­ne day I'd grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.

When We Two Parted by Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill o­n my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shrudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well--
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

I Could Take by Hayden Carruth

I could take
two leaves
and give you o­ne.
Would that not be
a kind of perfection?

But I prefer
o­ne leaf
torn to give you half
showing

(after all these years, simply)
love’s complexity in an act,
the tearing and
the unique edges—

one leaf (one word) from the two
imperfections that match.