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I am in here.

Posts tagged anthology

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

Richard Blanco

Well, not me, yet. But I like to keep tabs on what’s popular here, at least as far as poetry goes. This past week, it’s been the usual: Jacques Prévert’s Le Cheval Rouge (with handy translation by yours truly) and coming in at a distant second, we have Siegfried Sassoon’s The Death Bed. The latter has declined ever so slightly with time, but remains popular due to its last stanza having been recited by Judd Hirsch’s character on the show NUMB3RS.

All such items can be found under the anthology category in the dropdown box over there on the sidebar. Will try to remember to put up a better link to it.

So that’s the exciting world of poetry today.

Have me in the blue and the sun.
Have me on the open sea and the mountains.

When I go into the grass of the sea floor, I will go alone.
This is where I came from—the chlorine and the salt are
     blood and bones.
It is here the nostrils rush the air to the lungs. It is
     here oxygen clamors to be let in.
And here in the root grass of the sea floor I will go alone.

Love goes far. Here love ends.
Have me in the blue and the sun.

Carl Sandburg

Home was waiting for me when I got back here. I missed this place, but now I miss Boulder just as much.

Peter forgot to tell us that the refrigerator broke down, “oh, some time last week.” At least I have a task for tomorrow. I just wish the refrigerator’s inside didn’t smell like a dead squirrel. No, there was no dead squirrel in there; I looked.

Back now to deciding which to read first, Bloom’s anthology or my huge paperback copy of War and Peace.

I’m starting to think that maybe I should have a separate “Moonbat” category. Here’s some starters for it…

Cindyisms:

If you have been falling behind on your Cindyisms, those gaffes and bon mots coming from the facial orifice of Cindy “I am More Important than the Hurricane” Sheehan, fear not: A whole collection is now available here, collected by our friends over at Free Rupublic. You really need to read the whole anthology, but here are a few choice morsels:
“The biggest terrorist is George W. Bush.”

“If George Bush truly listened to God and read the words of the Christ, Iraq and the devastation in New Orleans would have never happened.”

“[Bush] violates the Constitution every time he opens his mouth.”

“So anyway that filth-spewer and warmonger, George Bush was speaking…”

“They’re a bunch of f**king hypocrites! And we need to, we just need to rise up. We need a revolution!”

“Another thing that I’m doing is – – my son was killed in 2004, so I’m not paying my taxes for 2004. If I get a letter from the IRS, I’m gonna say, you know what, this war is illegal; this is why this war is illegal. This war is immoral; this is why this war is immoral. You killed my son for this. I don’t owe you anything. And if I live to be a million, I won’t owe you a penny.”

Be sure to take the list to your next cocktail party.

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