The Gift
(Sara Teasdale)
What can I give you, my lord, my lover,
You who have given the world to me,
Showed me the light and the joy that cover
The wild sweet earth and restless sea?
All that I have are gifts of your giving—
If I gave them again, you would find them old,
And your soul would weary of always living
Before the mirror my life would hold.
What shall I give you, my lord, my lover?
The gift that breaks the heart in me:
I bid you awake at dawn and discover
I have gone my way and left you free.
“Come, come thou bleak December wind" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Come, come thou bleak December wind (fragment)
(Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death
And take a Life that wearies me.
“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
About Edna St. Vincent Millay One of the finest poets of the twentieth century, and almost certainly the best writer of sonnets, Edna St. Vincent Millay won the Pulitzer Price for Poetry for her 1922 collection, The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver. In addition to the title poem (one of Millay's best regarded), this anthology featured Sonnet 42, "What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why," first published in 1920 in Vanity Fair. Using the most traditional of poetical forms, the sonnet, Millay crafts an evocative verse of longing and liberation.
Although many of her poems seem aggressively modern to us, Millay grew up in the age of great Victorian poets and writers. Her sentiments and verse were radical for their time, but she received praise from the lights of her day. The great novelist Thomas Hardy said that America had two great attractions: the skyscraper and the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay.
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
About Edna St. Vincent Millay One of the finest poets of the twentieth century, and almost certainly the best writer of sonnets, Edna St. Vincent Millay won the Pulitzer Price for Poetry for her 1922 collection, The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver. In addition to the title poem (one of Millay's best regarded), this anthology featured Sonnet 42, "What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why," first published in 1920 in Vanity Fair. Using the most traditional of poetical forms, the sonnet, Millay crafts an evocative verse of longing and liberation.
Although many of her poems seem aggressively modern to us, Millay grew up in the age of great Victorian poets and writers. Her sentiments and verse were radical for their time, but she received praise from the lights of her day. The great novelist Thomas Hardy said that America had two great attractions: the skyscraper and the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay.
“Chaos is the New Calm" by Wyn Cooper
Chaos is the New Calm
(Wyn Cooper)
Chaos is the new calm
violence the new balm
to be spread on lips
unused to a kiss.
Left is the new right
as I brace for a fight
with a man who stands
on his remaining hand.
Fetid harbor harbor me
until someone is free
to drive me away
from what happened today.
Don't strand me standing here.
If you leave, leave beer.
About "Chaos is the New Calm" by Wyn Cooper
A practitioner of the horizontal lyric—a lyric poem that does not rise, but rather spreads over surfaces, coloring them with its particular tincture of consciousness—Wyn Cooper explores an overlooked territory that lies between the crafty irony of Frank O’Hara and the more unalloyed sentiments of contemporary popular culture, discovering unexpected equivalencies and startling imbalances.
"Chaos is the New Calm" is the title poem of a collection by Cooper. His poem “Fun” was adapted by Sheryl Crow for her hit song “All I Wanna Do.”
(Wyn Cooper)
Chaos is the new calm
violence the new balm
to be spread on lips
unused to a kiss.
Left is the new right
as I brace for a fight
with a man who stands
on his remaining hand.
Fetid harbor harbor me
until someone is free
to drive me away
from what happened today.
Don't strand me standing here.
If you leave, leave beer.
About "Chaos is the New Calm" by Wyn Cooper
A practitioner of the horizontal lyric—a lyric poem that does not rise, but rather spreads over surfaces, coloring them with its particular tincture of consciousness—Wyn Cooper explores an overlooked territory that lies between the crafty irony of Frank O’Hara and the more unalloyed sentiments of contemporary popular culture, discovering unexpected equivalencies and startling imbalances.
"Chaos is the New Calm" is the title poem of a collection by Cooper. His poem “Fun” was adapted by Sheryl Crow for her hit song “All I Wanna Do.”
“What Do Women Want?" by Kim Addonizio
"What Do Women Want?"
(Kim Addonizio)
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
(Kim Addonizio)
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
“Envirez-vous" (Get drunk) by Charles Baudelaire
"Envirez-vous" (Get Drunk) by Charles Baudelaire, from Les petits poèmes en prose (A few poems in prose, 1857).
"Enivrez-Vous"
Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.
Translation (Christopher Munden):
"Get Drunk"
Always be drunk, that’s all there is; the only way not to feel the horrible burden of time that bruises your shoulders and pushes you into the ground; get drunk and stay drunk.
But on what? On wine, on poetry, on virtue, on whatever you want. Just get drunk.
And if one morning you wake up on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, or in the dismal solitude of your room, your drunkenness already disappearing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock; ask everything that flies, everything that groans, everything that rolls, everything that sings, everything that can speak; ask what time it is. And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: “It is time to get drunk." Don't be a martyred slave to time. Get drunk and stay drunk. On wine, on poetry, on virtue. On whatever you want.
"Enivrez-Vous"
Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.
Translation (Christopher Munden):
"Get Drunk"
Always be drunk, that’s all there is; the only way not to feel the horrible burden of time that bruises your shoulders and pushes you into the ground; get drunk and stay drunk.
But on what? On wine, on poetry, on virtue, on whatever you want. Just get drunk.
And if one morning you wake up on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, or in the dismal solitude of your room, your drunkenness already disappearing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock; ask everything that flies, everything that groans, everything that rolls, everything that sings, everything that can speak; ask what time it is. And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: “It is time to get drunk." Don't be a martyred slave to time. Get drunk and stay drunk. On wine, on poetry, on virtue. On whatever you want.
“He would not stay for me, and who can wonder" by A. E. Housman
"He would not stay for me, and who can wonder"
(A. E. Housman)
He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.
(A. E. Housman)
He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.
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