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The Georgicks of Virgil, with an English Translation and Notes Virgil, John Martyn Ipsi in defossis specubus secura sub alta Otia agunt terra, congestaque robora, Pierius says it is confecto in the Roman manuscript. And Tacitus also says the Germans used to make caves to defend them from the severity of winter, .

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Best wishes as school winds up!! I like all the slithering snakes in this post Robyn—both images and poems, and I always like seeing them in and around my yard. Send some of that warm weather up north to Chicago our garter's are hiding and waiting for it to warm up. Hi, Michelle - Haha! All righty, I'm blowing some of our our warm winds your way!!

Thanks for brrr-aving this post, and I'm not surprised you are glad to see these amazing creatures each spring. To me the meanest flower that blows can give. Wordsworth — , Intimations Ode. The daisies my hubby planted are bright-faced and happy this week! I've always loved daisies, probably because my mother does, and I carried them in my wedding. They're not too fancy, but they hold their own.

Did you know Louisa May Alcott's first published book was not about the women in her family, but about flowers and fairies? These are little morality tales with fancy and poetry mixed in. Here's a link to the whole work on Project Gutenburg. IN a quiet, pleasant meadow, Beneath a summer sky, Where green old trees their branches waved, And winds went singing by; Where a little brook went rippling So musically low, And passing clouds cast shadows On the waving grass below; Where low, sweet notes of brooding birds Stole out on the fragrant air, And golden sunlight shone undimmed On all most fresh and fair;— There bloomed a lovely sisterhood Of happy little flowers, Together in this pleasant home, Through quiet summer hours.

No rude hand came to gather them, No chilling winds to blight; Warm sunbeams smiled on them by day, And soft dews fell at night.

Newford and Tamson House

So here, along the brook-side, Beneath the green old trees, The flowers dwelt among their friends, The sunbeams and the breeze. Yes, the bucolic tranquility gives way to conflict, as you'll see if you click here for the whole poem. You will likely guess the ending, but you might enjoy anyway! Delightful, Robyn! My daisies have put out their green leaves about 2 inches above the soil. Spring is just beginning here. My bridesmaids carried daisies. And I love finding old books on the Gutenberg project thanks for the link.

Those were such carefree days! Spring celebrating! Thanks for the treat of Louisa May in May! Fellow nerdy English major here! Thanks for sharing these flowery poems today! The older I get, the more I agree with what Wordsworth said about flowers in the lines you quoted. I like how happy the flowers are here in this stanza -- I don't know if I want hear about anything disrupting their bliss! English majors are the best kind of nerds. I was just thinking of Louisa May Alcott yesterday and how, as a child, I devoured anything by her that I could find--"Rose in Bloom", "Eight Cousins"--but, not her poetry.

Thanks for filling in some blanks today! I was just thinking of Louisa May Alcott yesterday. I tried posting a comment once already, but it failed--hope I'm not duplicating now! May seems to have ushered in quite a few poetry friday flower posts. My contribution is dedicated to sunflowers this week. Love your daisies and the poem you shared. Hello, Dear Friends! Friday got swallowed up in the studio getting ready for our First Friday downtown last night, so I'm rather behind.

As usual. Thanks for visiting! I went and read the entire poem.

Kahlil Gibran

I love the language and that the whole thing tells a story wight an important message for our times about acceptance. Robyn, such a tranquil poem you brought to our attention that I just had to read parts of Alcott's poem to bring me back to the quiet countryside in my mind. I loved daisies so much when I was young that I had a bouquet of daisies dyed to match my prom gown that my mother made me and I found daisy earrings, too. I hope your Friday night sale went well. Thank you, Ladies! Saturday is Independent Bookstore Day, which you can learn all about here.

Where would we be without our beloved indie bookstores? They started out just off Bay Street in a cozy basement nook of a historic building, shortly after we moved here. Now they have a bit more elbow room but still a cool, mysterious vibe on historic Craven Street. I was hoping to be there in person Saturday but we've had a change of plans for the day. I've been conjuring up some items to have available there, though, as it's been way too long since I've restocked artsyletters goodies in the shop.

My name ended up in the paper for the celebration Thanks, Lorrie! Do you have a special bookstore or five you'll be dropping in on Saturday? New or used, books are treasures. In browsing the theme of "Books," I found several quotes reminding me that books haven't always been with us humans, and there could be a time when they are not but I hope that's not true. Here's a quote by Martial A. As companions, say, on a trip to some distant land?

Buy this. It's packed tight into parchment pages, so,. Leave your rolls at home, for this takes just one hand! A bit closer to our own time, just a century and a half back, our beloved Emily Dickinson - penned one of my favorite poems about books, and I'm guessing it's one of yours, too. Here's the poem's page at poets.

For more wonderful poetry today, prancing and otherwise, visit the amazing Carol at Beyond Literacy Link. And keep checking in on the Progressive Poem - Just a few more days and it will be complete! Have a wonderful day wherever you are, Robyn. Yes, we're celebrating at my bookstore plus I will travel to Tattered Cover to see all the goodies they have for book lovers, too. It's a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles.

But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs.

Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic. Hellooo, Linda! We actually need to go visit a friend with a serious health issue this weekend. I thought of you and your store the whole time I was putting together this post; I hope you all have a wonderful, lively, busy day! How wonderful - much goodness to ponder there.

Hear, hear for our indie bookstores which help make all that magic possible! Robyn, both of the poems you share have the common theme: books are portable magic that take us to lands unknown. Indie stores are unique creations of book love. A dear friend, my graduate school professor who passed away recently, had a marvelous children's books store on a unique street in Albany, NY that reminded me of the Soho district of NYC.

People from miles around used to spend time browsing through his store and talking with him He was a well-respected fund of book love in NYS. Sadly, as he grew older, he had to close the store. There was too much competition. Indie book stores are treasures. Thanks for sharing the news of a day to celebrate their value. Thanks for that beautiful tribute to your friend, Carol.

He must be missed by many.

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What an inspiring place that bookstore must have been. Thank you, too, for hosting the Roundup this week! Thanks for these poems, especially There is no frigate like a book. Even though I am no longer working in a school library, I still visit to see what's new and pick up gifts for the youngsters in my life.

Of course I always end up with a book or two for myself. Hi Robyn! Emily's poem is one of my favorites too. Reading was not part of my childhood, but from the time my sons were born, I discovered a love for picture books and have been a reader ever since. Both of my sons are book lovers too! I love independent bookstores, we don't have any near except ones connected with the park service. There's nothing better than hanging out at a bookstore and discovering unexpected treasures! I feel sooooo lucky to live just down the street from my favorite indie bookstore--Politics and Prose! I will have to fight the crowds to get in there tomorrow.

Happy Poetry Friday! One of the things I lament most about Gainesville is our lack of indie bookstores. Heck, we don't even have a good chain bookstore—Books-a-Million is as good as it gets! How pathetic is that for a college town??? I've heard of one that is so far away from me, I haven't even been there. So sad. Yay for indie bookstores, their owners, the books, and the community they nurture. So happy to have Island Books in our community. I'll be stopping by tomorrow. I love the Emily Dickinson poem and totally agree with your sign and swoon! It was introduced to me by my 7th grade English teacher and is still a favorite, many decades later.

Yay for all the Indie Bookstore Love! Cheriee, thanks for chiming in from way up there. Your kind of bookstore shopping sounds like my kind of bookstore shopping Hi, Linda - I wouldn't have guessed books hadn't always been a part of your life. How wonderful that you've changed that course with your own family, and that you're an author yourself.

Sometimes those park bookstores have fun finds! Liz, what a fun name - Politics and Prose! Good luck with the jostling tomorrow, all in the service of supporting soul-enriching shops like that. Michelle - goodness! I would have assumed Gainesville had more than one great indie bookstore rather than none. I'm sure you seek them out when you travel! Thanks for popping over.

Hi, Ramona - yay for that 7th grade English teacher! I had an amazing one of those as well. I hope Island Books has a grand day tomorrow, and other days, too! We don't have any indie bookstores in our county, which seems pretty weird as populous as it is. There are Friends of the Library bookstores and other used bookstores. I have sometimes worried about losing our Barnes and Noble! Good Saturday Morning Oh, I hope your travels today are as wonderful as that Dickinson poem. It is a favorite. When I was five or six, my grandparents took me to "the city" for a trip to Scranton's Bookstore.

It was such an exciting day for me. And, I still have the book I chose that day. When I was twelve, my mother took me to a book store when on vacation in Mystic Connecticut. I still have that book too. For me, the magic of a book store has never gone away. I walk in and feel at home in all the possibility. Your book store prize pack is really beautiful. Someone is going to enjoy that so much.

I wish we could see that part. Long live our indie bookstores! I treasure books, old and new! Love your quotes Last month a man sitting next to me on a flight made a remark about the fact that I was reading a BOOK I laughed and told him I take much pleasure in holding my book and turning the pages as I read. Maybe I am a fossil because of all my clocks, I love the one with a face.

Hi, Tabatha. I'm surprised there aren't any indies near you Thanks for coming over. Thanks for sharing! And for the kind words about the book club gift pack. Full disclosure - it wasn't part of a giveaway, just good ol' straight commerce! Alice, LOVE your comments. Thank you. I'm a fellow fossil! Books, clocks, actual watches Hooray indeed, Mary Lee!

Thanks for the celebratory shout-out. Yes, yes and yes! Your post immediately brought to mind a lovely morning spend rocking in a chair in the storefront window of a bookstore--reading of course while a cat curled at my feet. And I do love Emily's poem about books--it so captures what books and reading can do. Hooray indeed, Ruth! Life on the Deckle Edge. July 4, Tags: Poetry Friday , artsyletters. Be the first to comment. June 27, Happy Fourth next week! XO - Robyn Hood Black. The poet at work! I love that your pose is echoed by someone behind you.

A line of lyricists. July 01, PM EDT Love the picture and the poem--it's as if the all writers on the beach are listening to the poetry coming from the ageless sea, each hearing the words that speak only to them! Post a comment. Is Jeff choking on his drink while you smile!! Cute picture! Enjoy every moment of celebration! June 26, AM EDT Love the wedding image of you and your husband, where does the time go… Congrats on your 35th— We are coming up to ours next year. June 13, After each wave, There's always one more. I love your poem! June 14, AM EDT Robyn, I forgot to tell you that I added a beautiful floral photo that you shared on your blog in my spring digital delights' post tonight.

We really appreciate it : - Kimberly M. I love your poem. Now I'm longing for a trip to the beach. How fun! Holmes , haiku poets , beach haiku. Thanks for sharing these! Poetry Friday - Go visit Dani for the Roundup! May 24, Stay safe. Poetry Friday - Narrow Fellows in the Grass May 9, May 10, PM EDT Oh my, in my mind I can appreciate all that snakes do for us eating those mice and rats and other things I don't appreciate , but my heart like Emily's beats a little faster when I actually encounter one.

May 10, PM EDT I am an admirer of snakes, but grew up in an area where rattlesnakes are common, so I'm very cautious around them. May 14, AM EDT I like all the slithering snakes in this post Robyn—both images and poems, and I always like seeing them in and around my yard. April showers bring May 06, AM EDT Robyn, such a tranquil poem you brought to our attention that I just had to read parts of Alcott's poem to bring me back to the quiet countryside in my mind.

April 25, It's packed tight into parchment pages, so, Leave your rolls at home, for this takes just one hand! Is this boy, Ludo, a genius? Sibylla, his mother, is of two minds about it. Mill, who did Greek at age 3. So a novel that appears on the surface to be elitist — concerned as it is with great works of art, scientific achievement, and excellence generally — is actually profoundly anti-elitist at its core. She knows it happened to her parents — a teenage-whiz father who was accepted to Harvard but made to go to seminary by his Christian father; and a musical prodigy mother who never went back to Juilliard for a second audition — and to herself.

Whatever the world had in store for Sibylla changed forever the night Ludo was conceived. Per our panel.

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The Corrections , by Jonathan Franzen September 1, 6 votes Arriving in bookstores ten days before the September 11 attacks, The Corrections recounts the tragicomic breakdown of a 20th-century American dream of middle-ness: midwestern and middle-class. The Lamberts, with their mentally disintegrating patriarch, Christmas-obsessed mother, and grown siblings tackling depression, professional failure, adultery, and celebrity chefdom, may not seem as universal as they once did, but the sensation of certainties evaporating as we pitch headlong into this still-young century has only gotten stronger.

DISSENT: Freedom August 31, I prefer this in large measure because it focuses on a feature of human life that has gotten less fictional coverage than family and love: male friendship. The ratio of taut plot to ghastly subject matter is disturbingly effective. Kathy H. The questions it raises are perfectly of-our-century. Never Let Me Go is a prime example of an author with impeccable taste in ideas and the control to execute them. Most authors are lucky if they have one of those things going for them. This novel is a rare symphony of both.

How Should a Person Be? Slipping imperceptibly from ironic to earnest, challenging to chatty, her voice is sui generis and ideally suited to capturing the experience of making art — and decisions — in the modern world. The concerns of her breakout work of autofiction include sex, self-documentation, aesthetics, and friendship, as well as the titular question.

The title is a perfect joke, a mission statement of deranged grandiosity, straight-faced and self-aware. Across four books and over the lifetimes of its two unforgettable main characters, the Neapolitan quartet explores female rage, agency, and friendship with a raw power. All that over a decade when women have begun to express their anger and agency in new ways. Lila and Elena grow up inured to the violence and corruption that defines their hometown of Naples in the s, even as they yearn for something better: beauty amidst the ugliness, and intellectual fulfillment, which can be as heady as romantic love.

Her 21st-century classic is structurally just that kind of awoke re-shuffling. The book is a world: teeming, immeasurable, unplumbable, materially solid but finally enigmatic. Yet Faye is less a protagonist than a character-shaped black hole, pulling stories and confessions out of everyone she encounters as if by inexorable gravitational force. Their disclosures allow Cusk to examine the ways we try and fail to make meaning out of life.

The result is fiction like ice water, cold and clear, a mirror of our time. At the same time, the novel opens out into a deeply moving portrait of England careerning from the quiescent s into the horrors of World War II. A bravura account of the Allied retreat from Dunkirk stands as one of the most indelible combat scenes in recent literature, slamming home the confusion, terror, and banality of war with visceral immediacy.

The 21st century is young, but this one will be on this list 50 years from now. The narrator, a self-loathing stoner American poet on a fellowship in Madrid, is a privileged jackass trying to appear deep. How can we live with our own fraudulence? Why should we make art, and what kind of art can we make now? To all these questions Atocha Station is an answer.

DISSENT: September 2, is the story of a poet and novelist the author of a book very much like Leaving the Atocha Station as he contemplates in vitro uncoupled parenthood, radical politics, fleeting love, and a looming, potentially lethal arterial condition. Lerner moves from touristic escapism and the question of artistic fraudulence to the deeper burdens of settling, reproducing, and creating something great. On top of that he gives the much bemoaned Brooklyn novel a good name.

Kushner sets her heroine, Reno, in the middle of all of it, usually astride her battered Moto Valera; passionate, vulnerable, relentlessly curious, and only a little bit compromised. The book is a feminist action-adventure, a love note to the last decade before neoliberalism choked the world, and a monument to sheer gumption. Books endorsed by two panelists. Erasure , by Percival Everett August 1, The University of Southern California English professor has published some 30 volumes, mostly fiction, and Erasure is among his best.

A comic romp through academic pieties and perversities, it centers on a literary hoax gone bad, in ways that predicted our current higher-educational climate. Everett is always, in a sense, writing about race, and always not. He also writes about himself — and not — with a Hitchcock-like cameo in the form of a derelict-in-his-duty, wastrel of a literature professor by the name of Percival Everett.

Downtown Manhattan is their center of gravity, but these characters have been scattered, before waking up to find themselves so much human debris in the wake of personal failures, betrayals, and AIDS. The Known World , by Edward P. Jones August 14, This intimate portrait of the great national nightmare of slavery comes disguised in the britches and mourning dresses of an antebellum historical novel.

It was widely praised upon publication for revealing an obscure chapter of American history — free people of color who owned slaves — but the history itself was largely invented. Having denied the consolations of historical distance, The Known World forces a reckoning with a moral horror that lives still. The novel begins in a buzz of fear and the pitch increases steadily, unbearably. The Line of Beauty follows a young gay man, Nick, who lives with the family of a Tory MP under Thatcher — who makes an unforgettable cameo appearance.

This is the story of two initiations. How we care for people in pain is at the heart of this moving, unsentimental look at our fragility, written with remarkable metaphorical and lyrical power. This is McCarthy at his most restrained, and consequently most resonant. There is no fiction subject more trendy and more urgent than the multifarious possible ends of the world; McCarthy led the way, and might be impossible to surpass.

Some poets are easy to love; Seidel is so good you revere him despite yourself.

He also captures the absurd melancholy of modern existence in dark, crystalline stanzas. It could be written for an audience in ascendancy, told in vernacular but expertly formed and composed. It could concern the intensely personal, but telescope out to the historic and the political. The astounding Oscar Wao did all of that, leaving us with a lasting understanding of the American experience as encompassing lives beyond our blinkered borders. Wolf Hall , by Hilary Mantel April 30, Any writer could have done the research that informs this remarkable historical novel.

But only genius, gimlet-eyed, wicked Hilary Mantel could have created the animating intelligence at the heart of it: Thomas Cromwell, adviser to Henry VIII, antagonist to Thomas More, brilliant and ambitious, heartbroken and ruthless. No book this learned should be so wildly entertaining. Fox , by Helen Oyeyemi June 1, Not since Angela Carter has a writer subverted classic fairy-tale tropes the way Helen Oyeyemi does, to transformative effect. Fox has the brains and the heart to win over both those who enjoy unraveling how fiction works and those who just seek pure enjoyment.

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My favorite by a nose is Lives Other Than My Own , a book that defies tidy summary, but which, though preoccupied with the very saddest human experiences — the deaths of a young child and a sibling — is also believably a book about happiness, one which earns its happy ending. But this book kept me pinned to its pages until the end. Whitehead has written terrific novels that more directly address the horrors of American history, but never one that more accurately portrays the horrors of the American present.

DISSENT: Sag Harbor April 28, This thoroughly uneventful but linguistically dazzling autobiographical account of an upper-middle-class black holiday enclave accomplishes what very few books attempt: to remove the contemporary black experience from the realm of extremes. Unlike the more zeitgeisty Underground Railroad , this is neither a lament about subjugation nor a tale of individual escape. It neither denies the persistence of racism nor revels in the lingering wound.

In this book as in real life, anti-blackness is but a single facet of the black experience. It is genuinely fresh. She unpacks layered cultural identities in the tradition of Dickens, Eliot, and Austen. If Smith was in E. Dalloway— esque journey through London. NW is not only about the intersecting lives of characters who grew up together in a Northwest London housing project, but also leveraging the complexity of the modernist project to ask difficult questions about race and social status. White Girls , by Hilton Als January 1, En route to the airport, I ask one of my boyfriends to tell me, in his own words, why White Girls belongs here.

As it happens, the boyfriend has, stored on his phone, favorite lines from the book. My Struggle: A Man in Love , by Karl Ove Knausgaard May 13, What was it about this thoroughly Gen-X Norwegian man that caused so many readers to plunge into his struggle — an epic stretching over nearly 4, pages — as if it were their own? Was it the agony of his relationship with his alcoholic father? Boy Remembers in the Field What if the sun comes out And the new furrows do not look smeared? This is April, and the sumach candles Have guttered long ago. The crows in the twisted apple limbs Are as moveless and dark.

Drops on the wires, cold cheeks, The mist, the long snorts, silence… The horses will steam when Raymond Knister I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries I have not lingered in European monasteries and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell; I have not parted the grasses or purposefully left them thatched Leonard Cohen Song for a Silent Treatment. I told her, in plain language, how I felt.

It doesn't matter. Allons, feignons David McGimpsey b. And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans Wayde Compton b. Page The Second Coming Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate From Summer Grass The willows are thinking again about thickness, slowness, lizard skin on hot rock, and day by day this imaging transforms them into what we see: dragons in leaf, draped scales alongside the river of harried, spring Roo Borson.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. Elizabeth Barrett Browning From World of Made and Unmade In my dream my mother comes with me. We are in the meadows we call The Flats, walking the dogs. Walk straight past the water trough, she says, do not engage the moss.

Go back to the top of the page, the dream says, and leave out the suicides. In my dream I walk and Jane Mead b. Poetry I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Marianne Moore The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould, Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon, In monotone the lizard shrills his tune. The wild goose, Pauline Johnson Two Words: A Wedding There are things you have words for, things you do not have words for. Claire Harris b. Flaxman We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought, And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought Eternal beauty from the sculptured stone, — A higher charm than modern culture won With all the wealth of metaphysic lore, Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore. A many-colored light flows from one sun Margaret Fuller What horror to awake at night What horror to awake at night and in the dimness see the light.

Lorine Niedecker Now, speak! Gregory Scofield b. I knew the language Dorothy Parker Ode on Solitude Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, Alexander Pope Riprap Lay down these words Before your mind like rocks.

Gary Snyder b. Changming Yuan b. Laurentian Shield Hidden in wonder and snow, or sudden with summer, This land stares at the sun in a huge silence Endlessly repeating something we cannot hear. Inarticulate, arctic, Not written on by history, empty as paper, Scott From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rudyard Kipling The Potato Harvest A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by Charles G.

Roberts What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Allen Ginsberg The Princess: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font. The firefly wakens; waken thou with me. Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

From me he Alice Oswald b. Kubla Khan Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And Samuel Taylor Coleridge There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, Bear up, bear out, bear onward This mortal soul alone, To selfhood or oblivion, Incredibly thine own, — As the foamheads are loosened And blown along the sea, Or sink and Joshua Whitehead b. Why, Because the Dazzling Sun Ah!

I was at peace, and drank your beams A Fixed Idea What torture lurks within a single thought When grown too constant, and however kind, However welcome still, the weary mind Aches with its presence. Dull remembrance taught Remembers on unceasingly; unsought The old delight is with us but to find That all recurring joy is pain refined, Become a habit, and we struggle, caught Amy Lowell Sonnets from the Portuguese How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways 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 sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they Leanne Betasamosake Simpson b. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have It would be quite impossible to have less sense of Michael Ondaatje b.

The Boxers We were combatants from the start. Michael Longley b. Sonnet LV: Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Not marble nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time. Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?

And now Gwendolyn MacEwen Tongo Eisen-Martin. Rosanna Deerchild. Rita Wong b. Robert Herrick So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin On his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing Edgar Albert Guest Let the Ponies Out oh papa, to have you drift up, some part of you drift up through water through fresh water into the teal plate of sky soaking foothills, papa, to have your breath leave, escape you, escape the weight of bone, muscle and organ, escape you, to rise up, to loft, till you are all breath filling the room, rising, escaping the white Marilyn Dumont b.

When I consider how my light is spent When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; Salmon Courage Here at Woodlands, Moriah, these thirty-five years later, still I could smell her fear.

Then, the huddled hills would not have calmed her, now as they do me. Then, the view did not snatch the panting breath, now, as it does these thirty-five years later, to the day, I relive the journey of my salmon mother. NourbeSe Philip b. The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? You are on the highway, there is a kind of laughter, the cars pound south. Over your shoulder the scrub-grass, the fences, the fields wait patiently as though someone believed in them. The light has laid it upon them.

Dennis Lee b. Leigh Hunt The Gods and Fortune take their part Who like young monarchs fight; And boldly dare invade that heart John Dryden Not Waving But Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking Stevie Smith Katherena Vermette b. Sunlight, me, I stand with the sunlight. So warm people stop in their tracks, so bright people hold their breath.

All the light in Wang Xiaoni b. On Shakespeare. Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument The Tyger Tyger! In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, England in An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King; Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow Through public scorn, — mud from a muddy spring; Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know, But leechlike to their fainting country cling Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.

Heat From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by me white and bare; Up the steep hill it seems to swim Beyond, and melt into the glare. Upward half-way, or it may be Nearer the summit, slowly steals A hay-cart, moving dustily With idly Archibald Lampman Shall earth no more inspire thee Shall earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now? Since passion may not fire thee Shall Nature cease to bow?

Thy mind is ever moving In regions dark to thee; Recall its useless roving — Come back and dwell with me. I know my mountain breezes Enchant and soothe thee Paul Muldoon b. Tractor More than a storey high and twice that long, it looks igneous, the Buhler Versatile , possessed of the ecology of some hellacious minor island on which options are now standard. Cresting the sections Karen Solie b. Rita Bouvier b. Susan Holbrook b. Joy Harjo b. Wioletta Greg b. One by one, Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom, At first no bigger than an acorn-cup.

Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves Till all our sins Charles Sangster We Wear the Mask We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, — This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while Richard Lovelace A Thunderstorm A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky. The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight, The hurrying centres of the storm unite And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge, Tower darkening The Passionate Shepherd to His Love Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals. And I Christopher Marlowe Matthew Rohrer b. Billy-Ray Belcourt. The New Experience I was ready for a new experience. All the old ones had burned out. They lay in little ashy heaps along the roadside And blew in drifts across the fairgrounds and fields.

Afua Cooper b. Application Form Please read all the instructions carefully before proceeding.

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Use only permanent blue or black ink. If you have special needs that require accommodation, please explain. The information you provide should not be limited by the space allowed. If you require more space, append another sheet of paper. In the blanks below please Phoebe Wang. Chimwemwe Undi When I was a little girl At Shubenacadie school.

Robyn Hood Black - children's author, poet, artist - Life on the Deckle Edge

You snatched it away: I speak like you I think like you I create like you The scrambled ballad, about my word. Two ways I talk Both ways I say, Your way is more powerful. Rita Joe — Anne Carson b. Old Ironsides Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Oliver Wendell Holmes Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public Pale Blue Cover In the middle of the night Matt would fly to Vancouver so he could take a walk on the sea wall the next day, then go home.

No one can imagine Matt teaching religion at George Bowering b. They Flee From Me They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it Thomas Wyatt Christian severity etched in the lines he draws from his mouth. Clearly a noble man who believes in work and mission. See how he rises from Armand Garnet Ruffo.

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And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings Spring When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: Oh word of fear, El Jones.

Sonoma He totaled his blue truck — slowly spun out on an icy bridge, rammed it into a guard rail. Climbed out unbruised. Coal Creek. Middle of nowhere. A passing couple brought him home. Then three years with letters from the Motor Vehicle Department before he relinquished his license. Jane Munro b. The Fish wade through black jade. These Poems, She Said These poems, these poems, these poems, she said, are poems with no love in them.

These are the poems Robert Bringhurst b. The Dead How great unto the living seem the dead! How sacred, solemn; how heroic grown; How vast and vague, as they obscurely tread The shadowy confines of the dim unknown! Charles Heavysege The liturgy begins to echo itself and why does it matter? If the ground-water is too scarce one can stretch nets into the air and harvest the fog. Kazim Ali b. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill; They are all gone away. Nor is there one today To speak them good or ill To be relationship advice for L. To be a more comfortable hospital bed for my mother.

To be, in my spare time, America for my uncle, who wants to be China Chen Chen b. Now here is your father inside your lungs. Ocean Vuong b. Interesting People of Newfoundland Newfoundland is, or was, full of interesting people. Like Larry, who would make a fool of himself on street corners for a nickel. There was the Russian who called himself the Grand Duke, and who was said to be a real duke from somewhere, John Ashbery - From Correspondences Sometimes we are led through the doorway by a child, sometimes by a stranger, always a matter of grace changing the past, for if there is anything we must change it is the past.

To look back and see another map. Anne Michaels. Full desertness, In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Kamau Brathwaite b. Raymond Souster - At thy return my blushing was not small, My Light Shining out of Darkness God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. William Cowper Fred Wah b. A Dream Within a Dream Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem Groping in the thicket, about to pinch the dangling berry, my fingerpads close on air. Word, please send over this black stretch of ocean your singular flare, Elise Partridge — Blackberrying Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat With blue-red juices.

These they squander on my Sylvia Plath — Connie Fife b. Wolf Lake It was down that road he brought me, still in the trunk of his car. The way you know your blood can spring like a hydrant. That September, the horseflies were Elizabeth Bachinsky b. How One Winter Came in the Lake Region For weeks and weeks the autumn world stood still, Clothed in the shadow of a smoky haze; The fields were dead, the wind had lost its will, And all the lands were hushed by wood and hill, In those grey, withered days.

Behind a mist the blear sun rose and set, At night the Wilfred Campbell Margaret Atwood b. There are secret passwords you Joy Kogawa b.

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Tide Would I have seen her? The tide tugging her gently past the Comfort Inn; houses, tall and gabled, the bridge and its passersby. This is not a hidden place. The graze and drag of her, clumsy, obstructive in the divided caress of eelgrass. No search. Eight days. Soraya Peerbaye b. And so their bland-blank faces turn Margaret Avison The Emperor of Ice-Cream Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.