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.
“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.
“Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold
“Dover Beach”
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
—Matthew Arnold, first published, 1867
One of the great poems of the Victorian period, "Dover Beach" was composed by English writer Matthew Arnold while on his honeymoon in 1851. Arnold, professor of poetry at Oxford University, published the work in his collection New Poems. Today, Arnold is seen as a bridge between the romantic verse of Wordsworth and the modern poetry of the twentieth century. "Dover Beach," with its classical allusions, evocative melancholy, and plain descriptive power, is a superb example of this union.
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
—Matthew Arnold, first published, 1867
One of the great poems of the Victorian period, "Dover Beach" was composed by English writer Matthew Arnold while on his honeymoon in 1851. Arnold, professor of poetry at Oxford University, published the work in his collection New Poems. Today, Arnold is seen as a bridge between the romantic verse of Wordsworth and the modern poetry of the twentieth century. "Dover Beach," with its classical allusions, evocative melancholy, and plain descriptive power, is a superb example of this union.
“Dog's Death" : John Updike
Dog's Death
by John Updike
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
About John Updike
Best known for his novels, including the series of books about the character Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom, John Updike (1932–2009) was also an accomplished poet; his writing career began with a poem published in the New Yorker in 1954 and his first published book was a collection of poetry. Written in 1958, "Dog's Death" is a moving narrative about the loss of a puppy. Updike later wrote "Another Dog's Death" about losing an old canine companion. Both poems can be found in his Collected Poems, 1953–1993.
by John Updike
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
About John Updike
Best known for his novels, including the series of books about the character Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom, John Updike (1932–2009) was also an accomplished poet; his writing career began with a poem published in the New Yorker in 1954 and his first published book was a collection of poetry. Written in 1958, "Dog's Death" is a moving narrative about the loss of a puppy. Updike later wrote "Another Dog's Death" about losing an old canine companion. Both poems can be found in his Collected Poems, 1953–1993.
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