Happy birthday, Emily Dickinson.

The greatest American poet. Period.

No, don't argue.

...

(no. 443)

I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl — 
Life's little duties do — precisely — 
As the very least  
Were infinite — to me — 
    
I put new Blossoms in the Glass — 
And throw the old — away — 
I push a petal from my gown  
That anchored there — I weigh  
The time 'twill be till six o'clock  
I have so much to do — 
And yet — Existence — some way back — 
Stopped — struck — my ticking — through — 
We cannot put Ourself away  
As a completed Man  
Or Woman — When the Errand's done  
We came to Flesh — upon — 
There may be — Miles on Miles of Nought — 
Of Action — sicker far — 
To simulate — is stinging work — 
To cover what we are  
From Science — and from Surgery — 
Too Telescopic Eyes  
To bear on us unshaded — 
For their — sake — not for Ours — 
Twould start them — 
We — could tremble — 
But since we got a Bomb — 
And held it in our Bosom — 
Nay — Hold it — it is calm — 
    
Therefore — we do life's labor — 
Though life's Reward — be done — 
With scrupulous exactness — 
To hold our Senses — on —

-- 

(no. 640)

...So We must meet apart – 
You there – I – here – 
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer – 
And that White Sustenance – 
Despair – 

Attributed to Henry VIII, that scamp

Anonymous (c. 16th century) might well have been that wild and capricious king himself. But we're not sure.*

Western wind, when will thou blow
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

____
*Royal 'we' also employed for scholarly purposes.

Poem #2

Time Does Not Bring Relief; You All Have Lied

 

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied   

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!   

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;   

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,   

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;   

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.   

There are a hundred places where I fear   

To go,—so with his memory they brim.   

And entering with relief some quiet place   

Where never fell his foot or shone his face   

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Time Does Not Bring Relief” from Collected Poems. 

 

Millay's sonnets are well worth reading. You could buy her Collected Poems at Better World Books if you wanted to. Just a thought. (No, I don't make any money from linking to them.)

 

Poem Post Numero Uno

For Thanksgiving:

Thanks
by W. S. Merwin
Listen with the night falling we are saying thank you we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings we are running out of the glass rooms with our mouths full of food to look at the sky and say thank you we are standing by the water thanking it smiling by the windows looking out in our directions back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging after funerals we are saying thank you after the news of the dead whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you over telephones we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators remembering wars and the police at the door and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you in the banks we are saying thank you in the faces of the officials and the rich and of all who will never change we go on saying thank you thank you with the animals dying around us our lost feelings we are saying thank you with the forests falling faster than the minutes of our lives we are saying thank you with the words going out like cells of a brain with the cities growing over us we are saying thank you faster and faster with nobody listening we are saying thank you we are saying thank you and waving dark though it is

From Migration: New & Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2005). Copyright © 1988 by W. S. Merwin.

If you'd like to read more by Merwin, Better World Books can provide you with good-quality used books. With free shipping! And you can support literacy at the same time. What's not to love?

what it is

Poems are like meat and bread to me, and I'm always saying a line or two in my head.

So why not post the ones I like the best? Maybe I'll comment on them, maybe I'll allude to the reason I love them. Or maybe I won't.

Anyway, that's what this is.

Happy Thanksgiving.