Category: Blogspot

Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
   of an emerald.

You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
   funeral parlors.

You have stolen death because you’re bored.
There’s nothing good playing at the movies
   in San Francisco.

You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
   to find.

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Disclaimer: The curator of this poem-a-day list shall not be held liable for any carjackings or other illicit actions arising from the reading of this or any other (untitled) poem from Richard Brautigan’s The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster (1968).

Brautigan dedicates this poem “For Emmett” — Brautigan’s close friend had recently entered into a rehab facility, and one interpretation of this poem is that it is about leaving an addiction behind. There is a particular street lined with trees out at Pt. Reyes (one of my favorite places on earth, and where Emmett’s rehab facility was located) that I always picture when I picture “the intestines of an emerald” — that facility is gone, but the trees are still there:

[Photo by David Ramage]

“Death is a beautiful car parked only” by Richard Brautigan was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 11, 2007.

Hello Friends —
Sometime between December 31, 2010 and January 1, 2011, more than 5,000 redwing blackbirds died in mid-air and fell to the ground in the small town of Beebe, Arkansas. Widespread speculation over the birds’ unknown cause of death, combined with their time of death, inspired such insightful news headlines as “Aflockalypse Now” — as well as today’s poem from Nickole Brown. Brown also invokes the sounds of names, the shapes of letters, and the nearly universal Southern experience of being stuck behind a logging truck.
Cheers,
Ellen

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Black bird, red wing

So this is where the last year
of the Mayan calendar begins—
5,000 birds falling on Beebe,
Arkansas, a state that could smooth
out with the sway of the plains
but instead sputters the silence
of the first syllable like a pothole
that hits before you’re off the
on ramp—say it—
ar-
    -can-saw—
ending with that blade
of rusted teeth to chew
through the last of what’s left
of those woods, a fast-driving
diesel flatbed of felled trees
and all of us in a tight spot
between that chugging machine
and the concrete barrier
as we hope the straight back
of our consonants will
hold, even if they are quiescent
monsters, reticent prayers,
because we can’t help it, we lean
towards letters that do not bend,
try our exhausted weight
on the middle of that state,
that silent K—the shape of a man
trying to hold up the ceiling,
trying not to think
of its falling
as the sky’s.

Hello Friends —

Kay Ryan was awarded the Pultizer Prize this week for her collected poems, spanning 45 years of published work. So we’re going to do one of her poems today.

Earlier this week, I was reminded of how so many people who are taught the Williams Carlos Williams poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” end up remembering “so much depends upon a red wheel barrow” but may forget about the “glazed with rain water” and “beside the white chickens.” Although I had not connected them before, reading Kay Ryan’s “Home to Roost” again this week after thinking about the forgotten chickens of “The Red Wheelbarrow,” I will probably always associate these two barnyard scene poems with each other in my mind from now on —

Cheers,
Ellen

---

Home to Roost

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way. Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again. These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small—
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost—all
the same kind
at the same speed.

---

P.S. When Kay Ryan became the United States poet laureate for the 2008-2010 term, the Bay Area photographer Lisa Wiseman (who, full disclosure, is also my oldest childhood friend) took a gorgeous, very poetic potrait series that added a whole nother dimension to the Newsweek profile article “The Reluctant Poet Laureate,” which you can view here.

Hello Friends —
I ate a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, and a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, and I didn’t eat lunch. So we’re doing a Shel Silverstein poem today.
Cheers,
Ellen

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Peanut-Butter Sandwich

I’ll sing you a poem of a silly young king
Who played with the world at the end of a string,
But he only loved one single thing—
And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.

His scepter and his royal gowns,
His regal throne and golden crowns
Were brown and sticky from the mounds
And drippings from each peanut-butter sandwich.

His subjects all were silly fools
For he had passed a royal rule
That all that they could learn in school
Was how to make a peanut-butter sandwich.

He would not eat his sovereign steak,
He scorned his soup and kingly cake,
And told his courtly cook to bake
An extra-sticky peanut-butter sandwich.

And then one day he took a bit
And started chewing with delight,
But found his mouth was stuck quite tight
From that last bite of peanut-butter sandwich.

His brother pulled, his sister pried,
The wizard pushed, his mother cried,
“My boy’s committed suicide
From eating his last peanut-butter sandwich!”

The dentist came, and the royal doc.
The royal plumber banged and knocked,
But still those jaws stayed tightly locked.
Oh darn that sticky peanut-butter sandwich!

The carpenter, he tried with pliers,
The telephone man tried with wires,
The firemen, they tried with fire,
But couldn’t melt that peanut-butter sandwich.

With ropes and pulleys, drills and coil,
With steam and lubricating oil—
For twenty years of tears and toil—
They fought that awful peanut-butter sandwich.

Then all his royal subjects came.
They hooked his jaws with grapplin’ chains
And pulled both ways with might and main
Against that stubborn peanut-butter sandwich.

Each man and woman, girl and boy
Put down their ploughs and pots and toys
And pulled until kerack! Oh, joy—
They broke right through that peanut-butter sandwich

A puff of dust, a screech, a squeak—
The king’s jaw opened with a creak.
And then in voice so faint and weak—
The first words that they heard him speak
Were, “How about a peanut-butter sandwich?”

---

Poems by Shel Silverstein were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 21, 2007 and Poem-a-Day April 30, 2009.

The Kiss

She pressed her lips to mind.
    ⎯a typo

How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.

---

Hello Friends —

Some people I like a lot got married today. They are similarly touched in mind, and I think they’ll be happy together for a long time — which makes me happy.

For the most part, I’d say writers despise typos. But there are also very few things that delight a poetically inclined mind as much as a real-life accidental metaphor or word play — and every once and awhile, a typo comes along that belongs in that category. For a couple of my other favorite typo poems, see “Letter” by Natasha Trethewey and the spoken word piece “The Impotence of Proofreading” by Taylor Mali. You can find “This Kiss” in Stephen Dunn‘s 2007 collection Everything Else in the World.

Cheers,
Ellen

Hello Friends —
More of you probably know Audre Lorde from her essays, activism, or autobiography, but she was also a poet. In one of those essays, she writes, “Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought.”*

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Echoes

There is a timbre of voice
that comes from not being heard
and knowing    you are not being
heard    noticed only
by others    not heard
for the same reason.

The flavor of midnight fruit    tongue
calling your body through dark light
piercing the allure of safety
ripping the glitter of silence
around you
       dazzle me with color
       and perhaps I won’t notice
till after you’re gone
your hot grain smell tattooed
into each new poem    resonant
beyond escape    I am listening
in that fine space
between desire and always
the grave stillness
before choice.

As my tongue unravels
in what pitch
will the scream hang unsung
or shiver like lace on the borders
of never    recording
which dreams heal    which
dreams can kill
stabbing a man and burning his body
for cover    being caught
making love to a woman
I do not know.

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* Bonus Reading: The essay quoted above is “Poetry Is Not A Luxury” from Sister Outsider (1984). In a very similar substantive vein to “Poetry Is Not A Luxury” from a very different writer, see also William Faulkner’s 1949 Nobel Prize acceptance speech.