Friday, October 9, 2026

Berryman



BY W. S. Merwin


I will tell you what he told me

in the years just after the war

as we then called

the second world war

 

don't lose your arrogance yet he said

you can do that when you're older

lose it too soon and you may

merely replace it with vanity

 

just one time he suggested

changing the usual order

of the same words in a line of verse

why point out a thing twice

 

he suggested I pray to the Muse

get down on my knees and pray

right there in the corner and he

said he meant it literally

 

it was in the days before the beard

and the drink but he was deep

in tides of his own through which he sailed

chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop

 

he was far older than the dates allowed for

much older than I was he was in his thirties

he snapped down his nose with an accent

I think he had affected in England

 

as for publishing he advised me

to paper my wall with rejection slips

his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled

with the vehemence of his views about poetry

 

he said the great presence

that permitted everything and transmuted it

in poetry was passion

passion was genius and he praised movement and invention

 

I had hardly begun to read

I asked how can you ever be sure

that what you write is really

any good at all and he said you can't

 

you can't you can never be sure

you die without knowing

whether anything you wrote was any good

if you have to be sure don't write

Legacy



BY Amiri Baraka

(For Blues People)

In the south, sleeping against
the drugstore, growling under   
the trucks and stoves, stumbling   
through and over the cluttered eyes   
of early mysterious night. Frowning   
drunk waving moving a hand or lash.   
Dancing kneeling reaching out, letting   
a hand rest in shadows. Squatting   
to drink or pee. Stretching to climb   
pulling themselves onto horses near   
where there was sea (the old songs   
lead you to believe). Riding out   
from this town, to another, where   
it is also black. Down a road
where people are asleep. Towards   
the moon or the shadows of houses.   
Towards the songs’ pretended sea.

Thursday, October 8, 2026

History



Linda Hogan

This is the word that is always bleeding.
You didn't think this
until your country changes and when it thunders
you search your own body
for a missing hand or leg.
In one country, there are no bodies shown,
lies are told
and they keep hidden the weeping children on dusty streets.

But I do remember once
a woman and a child in beautiful blue clothing
walking over a dune, spreading a green cloth,
drinking nectar with mint and laughing
beneath a sky of clouds from the river
near the true garden of Eden.
Now another country is breaking
this holy vessel
where stone has old stories
and the fire creates clarity in the eyes of a child
who will turn it to hate one day.

We are so used to it now,
this country where we do not love enough,
that country where they do not love enough,
and that.

We do not need a god by any name
nor do we need to fall to our knees or cover ourselves,
enter a church or a river,
only do we need to remember what we do
to one another, it is so fierce
what any of our fathers may do to a child
what any of our brothers or sisters do to nonbelievers,
how we try to discover who is guilty
by becoming guilty,
because history has continued
to open the veins of the world
more and more
always in its search
for something gold.

An American Sunrise



Joy Harjo

1951 –

We were running out of breath, as we ran out to meet ourselves. We
Were surfacing the edge of our ancestors’ fights, and ready to Strike.
It was difficult to lose days in the Indian bar if you were Straight.
Easy if you played pool and drank to remember to forget. We
Made plans to be professional—and did. And some of us could Sing
When we drove to the edge of the mountains, with a drum. We
Made sense of our beautiful crazed lives under the starry stars. Sin
Was invented by the Christians, as was the Devil, we sang. We
Were the heathens, but needed to be saved from them: Thin
Chance. We knew we were all related in this story, a little Gin
Will clarify the dark, and make us all feel like dancing. We
Had something to do with the origins of blues and jazz
I argued with the music as I filled the jukebox with dimes in June,

Forty years later and we still want justice. We are still America. We.


RANDOM ACTS OF POETRY DAY



"Imagine turning a corner on your daily walk and finding a haiku chalked on the sidewalk, or discovering a short verse tucked into a library book."

https://nationaldaycalendar.com/celebrations/random-acts-of-poetry-day-first-wednesday-of-october

Sunday, October 4, 2026

You Go to My Head



BY Carole Boston Weatherford

I sang my songs so much
that they becamethe soundtrack for my dreams,
the melody of my moods,
a room I lived in,and a balm for my wounds. 
I sang my songs enoughto know them backwardand forward, enoughto wonder if they could lift mefrom hometown hauntsto center stage. 
I’d sung my songs enough
to think I could take on
Baltimore’s best talent
at the Harlem Theatre
Amateur Hourand maybe even win. 
If you sing a song enough,it can go to your head that way.

Thursday, October 1, 2026

The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm


Wallace Stevens

1879 –1955

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

“The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm,” copyright © 1954 by Wallace Stevens