July 28

Akwaeke Emezi

will i remember moments like this, standing on grass, the sky yawning over me

swahili beating out of speakers, dancing with a crowd of strangers

wondering how love has done nothing more to my body other than deform

the left side of my chest

will i remember brooklyn, the shocking beauty of a lighted train

running above ground and against the sky, before night wraps around fulton

an old woman kissing the bus driver’s cheek

green tennis balls poured over the courts on malcolm x

a little Black girl i do not know shouting adios amigo as she crosses the street

the smell of a roti shop, silk sliding on my arms

yellow kitchens, guavas and parathas

a white box fan whirring in our last summer

Answer July

Emily Dickinson

1830 –1886

Answer July—

Where is the Bee—

Where is the Blush—

Where is the Hay?

Ah, said July—

Where is the Seed—

Where is the Bud—

Where is the May—

Answer Thee—Me—

Nay—said the May—

Show me the Snow—

Show me the Bells—

Show me the Jay!

Quibbled the Jay—

Where be the Maize—

Where be the Haze—

Where be the Bur?

Here—said the Year—

A Boat, Beneath a Sunny Sky

Lewis Carroll

1832 –1898

A boat, beneath a sunny sky

Lingering onward dreamily

In an evening of July—

Children three that nestle near,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Pleased a simple tale to hear—

Long has paled that sunny sky:

Echoes fade and memories die:

Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream—

Lingering in the golden gleam—

Life, what is it but a dream?

Poem in July

Samuel Amadon

I felt perfected along the rectangle 

By its ragged side

Fences trees and mist dropping

Some space for the flowers

I set an image in my head where

Bushes in their out of focus

Made a green dearth about the door

I wanted to do a book on

Pages left in the heat or rain

But my desire seemingly disappeared

Picked up by a car in the middle of

A pack of cigarettes

This trip into the forest

The trees trading with memory to

Frame the various breaks

The pleasures of small laws cut

Behind the mower with my eyes

Running the grass blades

We don’t really get any older

I can see what that means

To Don Quixote

H. J. Massingham

You saw the world a golden age,

     A country wench a Queen,

What is dull, wonted, formal, stale

     Magnificent Has Been;

Against you, zany of world’s stage,

     The man of safety wins;

But heaven shall be your own tilt-yard,

     Its palaces your inns.

LETTER VII: Remember to Breathe

Margaret Rhee

To hear poetry and to read poetry are different acts.

Reading poetry makes me feel calm.

And you, dear reader, I wonder if

you also feel this way.

Consider this articulation.

Reading poetry: You must gaze upon, pay attention to words, and

consider pacing,

an attentiveness not usually asked

in our contemporary world.

I gaze into your eyes, we remember to breathe.

Turn the page.

Reading poetry is the opposite of eating with

your phone

Without thought to the

opening and closing of one’s mouth

The taste and texture of the food on the edges and tips of

one’s tongue

Warmth of the food, and how it envelops you.

A different kind of information than the Scroll.

Luddites

Lord George Gordon Byron

1.

As the Liberty lads o’er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,

          So we, boys, we

     Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings but King Ludd!

2.

When the web that we weave is complete,

And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,

         We will fling the winding sheet

    O’er the despot at our feet,

And dye it deep in the gore he has poured.

3.

Though black as his heart its hue,

Since his veins are corrupted to mud,

         Yet this is the dew

     Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

Lake Michigan II

S. Brook Corfman

For ten days I slept only four or six hours, subject
              to a small blonde bulldog. But deeply, her
a burr to me. I’d never had a pet; I did not expect
              to let her into the bed. But I soften and warm.
Like my old love I loved her despite, which made it
              no less true. It seemed the lake was leaving me
the longer I strayed east. My choice was not choice but a wish,
              only mine, the way his naps in late afternoon were his.
When we watched the flat world we weren’t
              flat anymore, especially me, my small breasts, but we couldn’t
parse it. The night is still there behind the day.
              A new feeling told me how beautiful I was
and how silly was it that I agreed. This was a true account
of how it will have happened, and then it was simply true.