For the month of April, National Poetry Month, I will be counting down my Top 30 31 Favorite Poems, one a day (and an extra one during the month), for the entire month. If you abhor poetry, mark your calendar to come back here in May, because 98% of the April posts will be poetic.
This list will be a hybrid list, of sorts. I will basically merge the list of my favorite poems and favorite poets, so that I will only be offering one poem per poet. You won’t be seeing ten Charles Simic poems, or five Bukowski works. Once a poet appears, that’ll be it for the remainder of the month.
I will choose a poem that I like the most from the poet in question, although I may plug books. In some cases, longer poems will be edited for size.
Well, here we are. The last day of April, National Poetry Month, 2008.
I have spent the last thirty days counting down my favorite thirty, then thirty-one, poems.
I have not claimed they were the thirty-one best, just the thirty-one, from different poets, that I liked the most.
Some you may have seen before, and some may be new. I hope that the vast readership out there enjoyed this exercise.
Then again, no one guessed who my favorite poem was by, so I can almost hear the echoes of my own grandiosity deflating in the blogosphere.
So, without further ado, I will praise the greatness of Wallace Stevens, whose The Palm at the End of the Mind, I studied in a Contemporary American Poetry class my junior year in college.
I don’t have any signed Stevens books, but I do have a hardcover first edition of The Plam at the End of the Mind, published seventeen years after Stevens’ death in 1955. I cherish it because the appreciation of a great poet that it represents.
I can think of a dozen poems that really rock my brain, many of which are here.
But, my all-time favorite Stevens poem is “Bantams in Pine-Woods”. It reads almost like nonsense, but it paints such a vivid, anthropomorphic scene that I often quote segments in my ongoing inner dialogue with the world. The small, proud bantam challenging the rooster in the wild. But the poem, as so deftly explained in its wikipedia entry, is a metaphor for American poetry.
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
Damned universal cock, as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.
Fat!Fat!Fat!Fat!I am the personal. Your world is you.I am my world.
You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,
Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
Stevens is best read aloud. Do it. Go back and read it out loud in front of the computer screen. And try not to smile. And see if you can feel your feathers ruffling in indignation.
So there we have it - my top 31. I think BillyBlog has had enough of poetry for a while. Thanks for coming a long for the ride!
Previous Favorite Poems for National Poetry Month:
The Victorian poet Matthew Arnold may be best known for his classic poem "Dover Beach," but in the Fall of 1984, a girl I liked gave me one of his lesser-known poems that, to a high school senior struggling with his identity, floored me.
Arnold critics have labeled him derivative and trite, but sometimes that's just what a teenage boy needs.
This poem changed my life and I am fiercely loyal to it, thus it's surprisingly high ranking in my list.
Self -Dependence
Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.
And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send:
"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!
"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"
From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.
"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.
"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."
O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery!"
Previous Favorite Poems for National Poetry Month:
Whoa. Bukowski #4? And now Charles Simic #3? What gives? You'll have to wait and see. Anyone want to guess who wrote my two favorite poems? Send me a comment....
Anyway, Simic has written better poems, but this one is my favorite. I still remember reading it in the Mary Norton Clapp Library at Occidental College in 1987, standing up, and saying, "Wow!" This is from his awesomely-titled Return to a Place Lit By a Glass of Milk:
The Garden of Earthly Delights
Buck has a headache. Tony ate a real hot pepper. Sylvia weighs herself naked on the bathroom scale. Gary owes $800 to the Internal Revenue. Roger says poetry is the manifacture of lightning rods. Jose wants to punch his wife in the mouth. Ted's afraid of his own shadow. Ray talks to his tomato plants. Paul wants a job in the post office selling stamps. Mary keeps smiling at herself in the mirror.
And I, I piss in the sink with a feeling of eternity.
I just love this poem.
And it was short and sweet to offset the Bukowski.
Previous Favorite Poems for National Poetry Month:
On April 24, in the mid-afternoon, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, on Bay Ridge Parkway, between 3rd and 4th Avenues, I found this one:
with a cool and relatively unusual design: Then, later in the day, on 93rd Street, between 3rd and 4th Avenues... Not so exciting, but still....two cards from two decks in one day!
It is difficult to pinpoint one Charles Bukowski poem for this project. Not only because he wrote so many great poems, but because I have featured Bukowski poems on BillyBlog before, like “The Mockingbird,” which I would say is my favorite and “Dinosauria, We," which runs a close second.
So I settled on a poem whose title I evoke when a) it’s raining and/or b) money is tight. It’s one of the longer Bukowski poems (the audio at the end runs to eight minutes), but it’s one I recall often. So, pull up a chair and take a look and/or listen. This poem does what good poems do: it transports you to another time, and another place. Anyone who has lived through a long rain in Los Angeles can probably relate. There's an audio link at the end, as well:
we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it
used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn't any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn't rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't built to carry off taht much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn't
STOP
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again.
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling,
and all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things
out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.
the pets refused to go out
and left their waste in
strange places.
the jobless men went mad
confined with
their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments
as notices of foreclosure
fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans,
bread without butter; fried
eggs, boiled eggs, poached
eggs; peanut butter
sandwiches, and an invisible
chicken
in every pot.
my father, never a good man
at best, beat my mother
when it rained
as I threw myself
between them,
the legs, the knees, the
screams
until they
separated.
"I'll kill you," I screamed
at him. "You hit her again
and I'll kill you!"
"Get that son-of-a-bitching
kid out of here!"
"no, Henry, you stay with
your mother!"
all the households were under
siege but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
Ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would
stop.
and it always seemed to
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
drip
drip
and there was no smog then
and by 8 a.m.
there was a
blazing yellow sunlight,
Van Gogh yellow-
crazy, blinding!
and then
the roof drains
relieved of the rush of
water
began to expand in the warmth:
PANG!PANG!PANG!
and everybody got up and looked outside
and there were all the lawns
still soaked
greener than green will ever
be
and there were birds
on the lawn
CHIRPING like mad,
they hadn't eaten decently
for 7 days and 7 nights
and they were weary of
berries
and
they waited as the worms
rose to the top,
half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them
up
and gobbled them
down;there were
blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to
drive the sparrows off
but the sparrows,
maddened with hunger,
smaller and quicker,
got their
due.
the men stood on their porches
smoking cigarettes,
now knowing
they'd have to go out
there
to look for that job
that probably wasn't
there, to start that car
that probably wouldn't
start.
and the once beautiful
wives
stood in their bathrooms
combing their hair,
applying makeup,
trying to put their world back
together again,
trying to forget that
awful sadness that
gripped them,
wondering what they could
fix for
breakfast.
and on the radio
we were told that
school was now
open.
and
soon
there I was
on the way to school,
massive puddles in the
street,
the sun like a new
world,
my parents back in that
house,
I arrived at my classroom
on time.
Mrs. Sorenson greeted us
with, "we won't have our
usual recess, the grounds
are too wet."
"AW!" most of the boys
went.
"but we are going to do
something special at
recess," she went on,
"and it will be
fun!"
well, we all wondered
what that would
be
and the two hour wait
seemed a long time
as Mrs. Sorenson
went about
teaching her
lessons.
I looked at the little
girls, they looked so
pretty and clean and
alert,
they sat still and
straight
and their hair was
beautiful
in the California
sunshine.
then the recess bells rang
and we all waited for the
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told
us:
"now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did
during the rainstorm!
we'll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you're
first!. . ."
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, not
exactly lying but mostly
lying and some of the boys
began to snicker and some
of the girls began to give
them dirty looks and
Mrs. Sorenson said,
"all right! I demand a
modicum of silence
here!
I am interested in what
you did
during the rainstorm
even if you
aren't!"
so we had to tell our
stories and they were
stories.
one girl said that
when the rainbow first
came
she saw God's face
at the end of it.
only she didn't say
which end.
one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarrassing to
tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was
over.
"thank you," said Mrs.
Sorenson, "that was very
nice.
and tomorrow the grounds
will be dry
and we will put them
to use
again."
most of the boys
cheered
and the little girls
sat very straight and
still,
looking so pretty and
clean and
alert,
their hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the world might never see
again.
If you made it this far, you may want to hear Buk reading it, too:
On Saturday, April 26, 2008, I attended a tribute reading at St. Mark’s Poetry Project for the poet Barbara Guest, who died in February 2006. Scheduled readers were Charles North, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, Erica Kaufman, Peter Gizzi, Rena Rosenwasser, John Ashbery(!), Kathleen Fraser, Richard Tuttle, Susan Bee, Africa Wayne, Charles Bernstein, Ann Lauterbach, Marjorie Welish and Hadley Guest. In case you didn’t know, I thrive on readings with multiple readers. The more, the merrier, so this event appealed to me immensely.
In addition, when I told my friend Brian that I was considering going, he was extremely jealous (always a good sign), and requested to send me a few books for Richard Tuttle, an artist he admires a great deal.
His sending me the books sealed the deal, as it turned out, for my youngest daughter had a baseball game from which I had to leave early, and my brother was in town visiting. But Saturday readings are always more convenient, so my going turned out to be less inconvenient than it could have been.
I arrived about fifteen minutes early, after a detour to my office, where I picked up a dozen books (give or take a few) to get signed by the various folks in attendance. There were very few people waiting, a couple of whom were the aforementioned readers. I was pleased by the signs posted announcing the event was free. That’s always an extra bonus.
The doors opened and I grabbed my customary seat, second row, outside aisle on the right side of the church, behind the row marked RESERVED.
I scanned the program (below) for posterity.
People wandered in slowly. Rena Rosenwasser and Marjorie Welish sat in the front row ahead of me. Tuttle and Berssenbrugge joined them shortly after 1:00. At 1:06, I noted “barely 50% capacity” as I looked around. John Ashbery was tardy by 10-15 minutes and he sat on the left side of the room, in the inner aisle seat, the whole front row of his section for himself. I bided my time, lost in thought. Rosenwasser was talking about a recent trip to Hawai’i and her experiencing the current volcanic activity there. A literary critic named Terry Diggory sat next to me chatting with Welish. Lit Crit was my worst class in college, so I could only understand about half of what they said. I’m sure it was interesting, but I wasn’t motivated to eavesdrop and blog about their private conversation.
Also to note, the painter Jane Freilicher sat in my row. And at some point, the poet Jeanne Heuving came up and chatted with Welish and gave her a copy of her book. All other participants were sitting behind me. The reading commenced at about 1:20 PM.
As I summarize the reading, I will hyperlink poems and book titles, when possible. An (mp3) hyperlink following the title should link to Guest reading the poem in question, thanks to the awesome archive at Penn Sound.
I also have a few video clips from a trio of readers at the tribute.
Charles North had the honor of beginning the reading which he said was a “non-labor of love for everybody, I’m sure”. He started with “Another July” and “Roses” from Guest’s book Moscow Mansions. He concluded with “The Location of Things,” (mp3) the title poem for one section of her Poems.
Of all of the poets, Ms. Berssenbrugge gave the most evocative reading. She read clearly and crisply in a voice colored by passion for the work of Ms. Guest.
Next up was John Ashbery who, I wondered, was going to likely have difficulty mounting the stairs to the podium in the sanctuary from which everyone had been reading. Ashbery still appears to be in good health, but does walk with the assistance of a cane. My concerns were quickly dashed when a Poetry Project volunteer went up and carried the podium down the stairs, so Mr. Ashbery could read from the main part of the floor.
Ashbery read four poems, not in the order printed on the program. He prefaced the poems with a biographical anecdote that brought smiles to the faces of the audience. I recorded that here:
The first half of the reading concluded with a recording made by Kathleen Fraser, who could not be in attendance.
Ms. Fraser indicated that she was in Italy, and that a very nice proprietor of a music store in Rome was assisting her in recording her segment. She cited a quote by Ms. Guest from an interview the two of them had participated in, which is available in its entirety here.
She then read an excerpt from The Turler Losses.
There’s an excerpt of Guest, in 1984, reading from the same poem here (mp3).
The poem appeared originally as a monograph in a Canadian publication, but was later republished as the endpiece of her 1989 collection Fair Realism.
Normally, when providing these recaps, I wait until the end to discuss the autographs I get from participants. However, there was some activity during intermission, so I will throw it in here. It’s actually pertinent, as well, to something that occurred in the second half of the reading.
Several things happened when the intermission began. Richard Tuttle, who was the most-desired autograph-giver, as my friend Brian had gone to the trouble and expense of sending me a couple of his books from Canada, departed for what I presume was the restroom. At the same time, someone approached John Ashbery with a stack of books, with nice mylar coverings. A huge fan or a book dealer, I guessed.
Ashbery was about to engage in conversation with a gentleman who approached him to talk when he noticed the book-laden gentleman to his left, looked apologetically at the other guy, and shrugged with a “ah-the-price-of-fame” resignation. I quickly replaced the Tuttle books in my bag and grabbed the Ashbery items I had. I left behind three Best American Poetry (BAP) anthologies and approached with four books, two of mine and two of Brian’s (sent years ago as part of our normal transcontinental book exchange program).
Ashbery was cordial enough, inscribing my paperback copy ofA Wave: Poems, 2 books of Brian’s, and under his photograph in Christopher Felver’s Angels, Anarchists & Gods.
Almost catastrophically, I opened the book up to the page after Ashbery’s photo, which featured Robert Bly. There was a brief second of awkwardness before I realized the mistake, turning the page back to Mr. Ashbery’s photo. Coincidentally, his picture was opposite Ms. Guest’s, which I mentioned to him and which he seemed to appreciate.
After sitting back down, I noticed Mr. Tuttle had not returned so I pulled out my BAP ‘88 and asked Marjorie Welish, sitting in the row in front of me, if she wouldn’t mind signing her poem “Respected, Feared, and Somehow Loved” in the anthology. She looked at me and asked, “And who are you?” I introduced myself and she kindly signed her name on the page.
Still no sign of Tuttle, so I regrouped and went up to his wife, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, who had read so wonderfully earlier. I also had her sign BAP ’88, but BAP ’90 as well, in addition to a fascinating poem in The Iowa Review (Vol. 26, Issue 2). Ms. B. was very nice and happy to warmly inscribe all three copies.
In the BAP ’88, she inscribed her poem “Chinese Space”: “For Bill/in celebration of Barbara Guest/Mei-mei/Spring 2008”. In the BAP ’90, she inscribed her poem “Jealousy” the same way, replacing “in celebration of Barbara Guest” with “with Barbara Guest’s poetry”. And in The Iowa Review, she inscribed it without any further embellishment, on the poem “The Doll,” which is, to accommodate line lengths, printed vertically on the pages.
I thanked her profusely for her kindness and told her how much I enjoyed her recitation of Guest’s poems. I also mentioned that I was looking forward to meeting her husband, as a friend of mine had sent down some books for him to sign as well.
I returned to my seat and it appeared as if the reading was going to resume shortly. Tuttle came back into the room. People were returning to their chairs. I saw Tuttle go over to his seat and pick up two bags and move them to the side of the sanctuary. I didn’t give it much thought, but I guessed he was giving himself more legroom.
When he finished, he walked down from the altar, I guess (this is a church), gave a short wave to his wife, picked up his bags, and walked toward the door.
This, dear reader, provided me with a conundrum. There was a poetry reading in progress, but I had come, in great part, out of a sense of obligation to a friend north of the border who was expecting great things from me, in terms of having his books inscribed. In fact, had his books not arrived so expeditiously from the Great White North, I most likely would have skipped the event to spend time with my family.
But he was going, going, gone. What could I have possibly done?
“Mr. Tuttle!” I called to the man who had just stepped into East 10th Street outside of the church. Inside, Susan Bee was reading at a Barbara Guest Tribute.
The artist in front of me turned uncomfortably toward my voice. I was holding a padded mailer in one hand and a pen in the other. I was slightly out of breath, having fast-walked out of the sanctuary, then dashed through the courtyard, out of the gates and onto the sidewalk. I could feel passers-by watching the scene unfold in front of them. I explained my dilemma. I was removing the books from the mailer and talking as I looked at him, imploringly. He looked extremely nervous. I don’t like making people uncomfortable.
He was clearly trying to get somewhere fast and said he couldn’t help me, he was in a hurry. I must have looked disappointed. He quickly said, “You can leave them with my wife,” gave me an apologetic glance, turned, and walked quickly away toward Stuyvesant Street.
I walked dejectedly back into the church. I sat down in the back waiting for the current reader to finish. I believe I missed Susan Bee entirely and was watching Africa Wayne. I can’t quite remember, I was still rattled and disappointed.
For the record, Susan Bee read from Guest’s novel Seeking Air.
Of course, I remember none of Africa Wayne, sitting in the back of the sanctuary, completely bummed about Tuttle. Wayne finishes. Applause. I return to my seat.
Guest’s insistence on detachment, as she calls it, or let’s just say her restrained elegance, is exemplified in her attraction to lapidary surfaces that set her apart from many of the most innovative “New American” poets of the ’60s, with their various projections of spontaneity, insouciant informality, the visceral, camp irony, or pop inflection. These same “distances” made her even more unavailable to Official Verse Culture, exemplified, as Linda Kinnehan has noted, in James Dickey’s Kenyon Review response to Guest’s first trade book, which was published by Doubleday in 1962: “Miss Guest,” Dickey assures us, “abolishes relationship, and consequently abolishes value.” If we take Dickey’s comment as a declaration of Guest’s—and by extension American poetry’s—independence….
In his prescient review, Dickey admonished the new poets: “They expect the reader to work devotedly for them to solve conundrums, to supply transitions, to make, out of a haphazard assortment of building materials, a habitable dwelling.
Guest never fit in to our pre-made categories, our expectations, our explanations. She wrote her work as the world inscribes itself, processually, without undue obligation to expectation. These poems unravel before us so that we may revel in them, find for ourselves, if we go unprepared, the dwelling that they beckon us to inhabit.”
After Bernstein came Ann Lauterbach, who read three poems. First was “An Emphasis Falls on Reality,” then “The Nude”from Fair Realism and last was “The Glass Mountain” from Defensive Rapture. I taped “The Nude” below:
The penultimate reader was Marjorie Welish whose coolness to me during intermission (sorry, I’m hypersensitive) was forgotten by her wonderful reading from Rocks on a Platter: Notes on Literature. Her pacing and tone were exemplary and thoughtful.
Lastly was Ms. Guest’s daughter, Hadley Guest, reading from Quilts.
The reading ended and people milled about. I made a beeline for Ms. Bersenbrugge and explained what happened with her husband. She looked at me understandingly and seemed to feel bad for me, giving me what I described in an email to Brian shortly thereafter as “that remorseful, well, he is a tortured artist” look. I asked her if he had an agent, or gallery that represented him. “No,” she shook her head, “he doesn't even have an assistant”.
“I wouldn't want to burden you with these books,” I say.
“What are they?” she asks.
I unsheathe them from their envelope. “Catalogues”, I think, “my friend Brian in Toronto is a HUGE fan and these are the two he dared mail me. He wants them inscribed to him, he's not a book dealer, he just loves to collect signed books from artists he loves.”
Ms. Bersenbrugge was too kind, going out of her way to give me their address, should I want to endeavor on the risky proposition of mailing them the books, with return postage. That was the best that I could do.
The remainder of the post-reading festivities involved tracking down the other poets and gathering their autographs in my plethora of anthologies.
Gizzi was very nice and friendly. When signing the BAP ’02, we talked briefly about how great Bob Creeley was (he edited that edition), and how Gizzi truly missed him. He was very genuine in his discussion with me and not at all dismissive.
Bernstein signed three things for me: he signed over his name in the table of contents on the premiere issue of New American Writing. He also signed his entries in BAP ’92 (“How I Painted Certain of My Pictures”) and ’02 (“12²”).
And Charles North signed 2 things: BAP ’95 (“Shooting for Line”) and ’02 (“Sonnet”).
I also spoke with Ann Lauterbach about her reading, briefly. She felt a little bad that she couldn’t do it the justice she wanted. She praised Bersenbrugge and Osherow for reading more in the style of Guest than she was able to. Nonetheless, she seemed thrilled that I had taped her reading and gave me her blessing to post it on YouTube.
And finally, on a very side note, prior to leaving I talked to a guy named Matt, who had an Aubrey Beardsley-inspired tattoo of Salome. Check it out here, on Tattoosday.
It was a wonderful event and I thank all the writers and artists (if any of you are reading this), for a memorable tribute.
Like Robinson Jeffers, A.R. "Archie" Ammons was likewise under appreciated, in my opinion. I had the pleasure of hearing him read once in the late 1990s. His work was quirky and complicated. I wrote several pale poems after A.R. Ammons. I am not a big fan of long poems, but his I will read. In fact, his Tape for the Turn of the Year (written on an space-constricting adding machine tape) and Garbage are works of sheer brilliance. The latter won the National Book Award (his second time grabbing that honor) in 1993.
Bookslut recommends this book and I have lifted this brief excerpt of Garbage here. The whole damn book is worthy of cracking the top 5 favorite poems on my list...
from "Garbage"
gather up the scraps for pig-swill: anything thrown out to the chickens will be ground fine
in gizzards or taken underground by beetles and ants: this will be transmuted into the filigree
of ant feelers' energy vaporizations: chunk and smear, grease and glob will boil refined in
time's and guts' alembics, the air carbonized rich, potash in lacy leavings' milding terrain:
a breadcrumb borne away by hundreds like a stone waist-high many legs to the pyramid: but nothing
much can become of the clear-through plastic lid: it finds security in the legit
museums of our desecrations--the mounds, the heights of discard . . .
Click on the Bookslut link here to read a much worthier analysis of the poem.
Previous Favorite Poems for National Poetry Month: