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Poem-A-Day April 15: Money Money Money

Hello Friends,

Our April 15 poem-a-day honors those of you who got your taxes finished on time this year! Excellent work.

Money

Workers earn it,
Spendthrifts burn it,
Bankers lend it,
Women spend it,
Forgers fake it,
Taxes take it,
Dying leave it,
Heirs receive it,
Misers crave it,
Robbers seize it,
Rich increase it,
Gamblers lose it…
I could use it.

■

Richard Armour’s “Money” is an example of trochaic dimeter.

Trochaic dimeter sounds real fancy, but I’m gonna break it down for you:

Meter is just the word for how we talk about the rhythm of a poem, particularly when there is a pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables.

The unit of measurement for meter is the foot — which just means a group of two syllables.

A trochee is just a particular kind of foot, wherein the stressed syllable comes first followed by an unstressed syllable (AKA the opposite of an iamb).

The adjective form of trochee is trochaic.

Sooooo…. all trochaic dimeter means is that this poem follows a meter wherein each line consists of two feet that are both trochees — or four syllables total, following the pattern: stressed, unstressed, stressed, unstressed. Ta-da!

— Ellen

P.S. If you’ve been on this poem-a-day list a long time, this poem may be vaguely familiar because it was also featured for Poem-A-Day April 8, 2012.

Poem-A-Day April 14: I beat my wings upon the air

When I Rise Up

When I rise up above the earth,
And look down on the things that fetter me,
I beat my wings upon the air,
Or tranquil lie,
Surge after surge of potent strength
Like incense comes to me
When I rise up above the earth
And look down upon the things that fetter me.

■

Hello Friends,

You’ve probably heard of the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920s, but did you know that the most prominent figures of that era — including Duke Ellington, Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, Georgia Douglas Johnson, and Alain Locke — all had strong roots in Washington D.C. before Harlem? A big draw to the Capitol was the strong community promoting Black arts and culture in and around Howard University. Today’s featured poet, Georgia Douglas Johnson, lived at 1461 S Street NW (a few blocks from Howard), known as the S Street Salon or the Saturday Nighters, and an important meeting place for writers of the Harlem Renaissance in Washington, D.C.

Georgia Douglas Johnson was also featured for Poem-A-Day April 11, 2018.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 13: Stay Amazed

Hello Friends,

Mary Oliver is another one of the giants of poetry we lost in the past few months.

It was very difficult to pick just one Mary Oliver poem to send you today. In the days following her passing in January, it seemed like her poems, and what they meant to people, just poured out from every corner. Oliver has been described as “far and away” the best-selling poet of her time; she had a very large popular following by poetry standards.

But she was also famously snubbed by the literary establishment and poetry critics throughout her career; for instance, despite receiving the Pulitzer Prize in 1984 and the National Book Award in 1992, the New York Times never once published a full review of any of Mary Oliver’s books during her lifetime (and there were at least 28 opportunities for them to do so — Oliver was prolific). Luckily, Mary Oliver wasn’t writing for critics; she was writing for her readers — and her poems are simple and accessible by design.

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

■

“When Death Comes” was one of the poems most circulated at the time of Mary Oliver’s passing and is referenced in pieces like Rachel Syme’s remembrance “Mary Oliver Helped Us Stay Amazed.”

I don’t usually do this, but I’m going to cheat a little bit on the “one day, one poem” premise and link you to some other Mary Oliver poems I also strongly considered sending out: “The Summer Day”, “Wild Geese”, “Don’t Hesitate”, “Anne”, and “The Whistler.”

Mary Oliver is more well-known as a nature poet than a lesbian or queer poet, but she knew how to love and to love long. She lived in Provincetwon, Massachusetts, with her partner, photographer Molly Malone Cook, for over forty years — until her partner’s passing in 2005. Mary Oliver was at home when she died of lymphoma at age 83 on January 17, 2019.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 12: Don’t Go Into the Library

Hello Friends,

Do I agree with the poet Alberto Ríos that greyhounds are not cuddly, or that books smell like doughnuts and coffee? Absolutely not. But I love the idea of telling people “Don’t go into the library” in order to get them to go there —

Don’t Go Into the Library

The library is dangerous—
Don’t go in. If you do

You know what will happen.
It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

Every single time you’ll come out of there
Holding something in your arms.

Those novels with their big eyes.
And those no-nonsense, all muscle

Greyhounds and Dobermans,
All non-fiction and business,

Cuddly when they’re young,
But then the first page is turned.

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,
The aroma of coffee being made

In all those books, something for everyone,
The deli offerings of civilization itself.

The library is the book of books,
Its concrete and wood and glass covers

Keeping with them the very big,
Very long story of everything.

The library is dangerous, full
Of answers. If you go inside,

You may not come out
The same person who went in.

■

Alberto Ríos was also featured for Poem-A-Day April 3, 2016 and Poem-A-Day April 22, 2014.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 11: The tiger is out

The Tiger

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out

■

Hello Friends,

Today’s poem-a-day is a Meet Me in 811 first: We are featuring a poem by a 6-year-old.

Several of you may recognize today’s poem from Twitter or Instagram. It’s been enough years that a whole genre of short poems and poem snippets are now designed specifically for these social mediums. But that was not actually the case with today’s poem, which originated in the creative writing program at 826DC and appears in their first anthology You Will Be Able to Say a Thousand Words (2016).

Any of you who knew me in SF know I’m a huge 826 fan! If there’s any number that competes with 811, it might be 826. This non-profit started by Dave Eggers (McSweeney’s, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) focuses on free access to writing, tutoring, and publishing for youth 6-18 in under-resourced communities, and each chapter has a storefront theme (The Pirate Supply Store, The Wicker Park Secret Agent Supply Co., Tivoli’s Astounding Magic Supply Co., The New Orleans Haunting Supply Co., Liberty Street Robot Supply & Repair, the Greater Boston Bigfoot Research Institute, and so on). I admit, for me, the 826 magic store in DC isn’t quite as magical as the original 826 pirate store in SF — but it did produce this poem, so I think they’re doing good work.

Nael (who was 6 at the time he wrote this poem, but is now 8) manages to say quite a lot with twelve words. What can you say with twelve words? Give it a try!

How is Nael dealing with his viral fame, write-ups and podcasts from famous authors, comparisons to Blake, fan requests to tattoo his poem on their bodies? Read more here.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 10: Glorious Outlaws

Love in the Margins

Come on, shapeshifter—
I can’t dance either.
But I want to hold

your shadowy body,
hum crooked tunes
in your abalone ear.

Out here on the edge,
desperadas don’t always
make good lovers.

Sometimes our scars
match too well; touch
is barbed wire and border.

I’ll try not to hide behind
my bruises if you’ll
give me the hard gray line

of your shoulder.
Can’t you hear
the cricket’s ebbing

daysong? Let me
tuck that tidal melody
into the wine-colored

strands of your hair,
braid your name
with horizon’s indigo

kiss. Glorious outlaws,
we’ve got nothing to lose
but this edge.

■

Hello Friends,

Just yesterday, I learned (maybe re-learned?) a really cool word from my friend and former roommate Ori (Thanks, Ori!): palimpsest. In less traditional usage, I like to think palimpsest could apply not just to old parchment being erased and reused but to any situation where layers upon layers are interacting with each other — such as (one of my particular interests) places where graffiti and murals and graffiti layer on top of each other, weather away, and layer again, over time. One of the thoughts I had learning/re-learning this word was that it sounds like something there would be poems about; it’s got a poetic quality to it.

So today — as sometimes happens when you are running a poem-a-day list and need to finalize your pick for today’s poem — I accidentally went down this totally separate crazy rabbit hole, jumping from poet to poet, poem to poem, with no thought of yesterday’s palimpsest (I was chasing after something else). And what do I find? A poem called “Palimpsest.”

Obviously this was a sign to stop going down the rabbit hole; I had arrived. But, surprise twist, today’s poem is not actually “Palimpsest.” It’s the poem that was right next to it, “Love in the Margins,” by Deborah A. Miranda. Why? Because it’s the one I was looking for, and I promised you April 2019 would include some tercets! Praise Lit Hub for featuring a New Poetry by Queer Indigenous Women series curated by Natalie Diaz (where you can also go read the “Palimpsest” poem if you’re curious!)

Remember with couplets we talked about how line breaks and stanza breaks can affect how you read a poem? Did you feel how the “horizon’s indigo” hangs in that space between the last two stanzas, like the last light lingers above the horizon at sunset, and then transforms into a “kiss”? Pretty cool, right? That’s poetry!

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 9: Emily D.

[952]

A Man may make a Remark —
In itself — a quiet thing
That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark
In dormant nature — lain —

Let us divide — with skill —
Let us discourse —with care —
Powder exists in Charcoal —
Before it exists in Fire —

■

Hello Friends,

Do you recognize this poet? Interesting internal capitalization, lots of dashes, doesn’t use titles (so publishers substitute a number and/or first line)…

Early editions of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, all published after her lifetime, did not reflect her unique use of capitalization and punctuation — in particular the long dash. But we now consider these key characteristics of Dickinsonian (yes, she gets her own adjective… not to be confused with Dickensian) poetics.

Did any one read Power in Powder? What other spark, fire, or charcoal poems does this remind you of? Any favorites? I feel like a lot of writers have written their own version of this particular poem, across centuries, across cultures — humans seem to return again and again to an association between fire and the divine, the soul, and/or the gift of thinking and language.

Emily Dickinson has been featured many times before for poem-a-day, including Poem-A-Day April 13, 2014, Poem-A-Day April 25, 2010, Poem-A-Day April 25, 2009, and Poem-A-Day April 29, 2008. I am a little bit fascinated with her. Two of my favorite poetry books (of any kind — but these both happen to be about Emily Dickinson) are The Gorgeous Nothings and Open Me Carefully, if you want to learn more about this poet than what you may have been taught in grade school.

Love,
Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 8: For Keeps.

Hello Friends,

Do you ever feel like the birds are singing the sky into place? Today’s poem by Joy Harjo is for Amanda and Chase, who got engaged over the weekend; and for everyone else who has found their “for keeps” — whatever forms that might take.

Love,
Ellen

For Keeps

Sun makes the day new.
Tiny green plants emerge from the earth.
Birds are singing the sky into place.
There is nowhere else I want to be but here.
I lean into the rhythm of your heart to see where it will take us.
We gallop into a warm, southern wind.
I link my legs to yours and we ride together,
Toward the ancient encampment of our relatives.
Where have you been? they ask.
And what has taken you so long?
That night after eating, singing, and dancing
We lay together under the stars.
We know ourselves to be part of the mystery.
It is unspeakable.
It is everlasting.
It is for keeps.

■

Poem-A-Day April 7: other girls

A content warning: This poem describes violence against women and uses a slur. I think these are important issues for poetry to address, but if that sounds like too much for you today, skip it! And if you ever need support for any reason, one option is to text HOME to 741741 to reach a trained volunteer crisis counselor.

More than one man has reached up my skirt

I’ve stopped asking:
   ¿Why?
   I’ve let a man whistle
   from the table for more beer,
& brought it to him
   with a smile. I’ve slapped
a man & ran
   while he laughed—
   atrevida.
I’ve had a miscarriage. I’ve let a man
   kiss me
after an abortion
   & comforted his hot tears.
I’ve done these things,
   while other girls
work in maquilas
   piecing together
Dell computer boards,
   while other girls
work in brothels,
   & cake foundation across
their bruised arms,
   while other girls
   ride the bus home alone
   at night, every night,
while other girls are found
   wearing clothes
   that don’t belong to them, or no
clothes at all. I’ve done all of this
   while other girls are found
   with puta
   written in blood across
their broken bellies.
   My mother used to cover
my eyes
   when we’d walk by girls
working the corner,
   & say:
   See how lucky you are,
not to have to work
   like they do? I have been
   muy puta,
   have been called puta.
Yes, I’d say, very lucky.

■

Hello Friends,

Yesterday’s poem used indentation and italics to indicate two different speakers. Today’s poem by Natalie Scenters-Zapico uses these formal elements in a little less straightforward ways — what does the shape of this poem convey to you? What is the poet’s relationship to other girls?

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 6: Yes, Darling, the Patriarchy IS a dinosaur.

Hello Friends,

Yesterday’s poem was very old, in strict form, in translation, and came with lots of explanation. So today we’re going to do a very recent poem, in free verse, in English, with little explanation. Although, it is still about a princess of sorts.

If you have trouble viewing the formatting of this poem, particularly on a mobile device, try this version in Google Books.

HALLOWEEN SHOPPING WITH MY NIECE

Do you want to be a kitty cat?

                    No.

A princess?

                    I’m already a princess.

Of course you are.
Oh look, you could be a slice of pizza!

                    Nahh …

Do you want to be Doc McStuffins?!

                    I want to be something super scary!

But, Doc McStuffins is terrifying to the Patriarchy.

            What’s a patriarchy? Sounds like a kind of dinosaur?

Yes, Darling, the Patriarchy IS a dinosaur.

          Is it a very big dinosaur? Cause I could be a bigger one.
               I could be a dinosaur that eats a patriarchy. ■

“Halloween Shopping With My Niece” appears in Rachel Wiley’s 2018 collection Nothing Is Okay, published by Button Poetry. Buy a copy here!

In my memory this poem ends, “eats the patriarchy for breakfast.” But it turns out a patriarchy is for any meal!

Enjoy.
— Ellen