We present this work in honor of the poet’s 25th birthday.
Amanda Gorman American b. 1998
The announcement Swung blunt as an axe-blow: All students were to leave Campus as soon as possible.
We think we cried, Our brains bleached blank. We were already trying to forget What we would live. What we would give.
Beware the ides of March. We recognized that something ran Rampant as a rumor Among our ranks. Cases bleeding closer, Like spillage in a napkin.
There is nothing more worrisome Than a titan who believes itself Separate from the world.
Graduation day. We don’t need a gown. We don’t need a stage. We are walking beside our ancestors, Their drums roar for us, Their feet stomp at our life. There is power in being robbed & still choosing to dance.
We present this work in honor of the 40th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Tennessee Williams American 1911 – 1983
I am tired. I am tired of speech and of action. If you should meet me upon the street do not question me for I can tell you only my name and the name of the town I was born in–but that is enough. It does not matter whether tomorrow arrives anymore. If there is only this night and after it is morning it will not matter now. I am tired. I am tired of speech and of action. In the heart of me you will find a tiny handful of dust. Take it and blow it out upon the wind. Let the wind have it and it will find its way home.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
Carl Sandburg American 1878 – 1967
Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Don Marquis American 1878 – 1937
i got acquainted with a parrot named pete recently who is an interesting bird pete says he used to belong to the fellow that ran the mermaid tavern in london then i said you must have known shakespeare know him said pete poor mutt i knew him well he called me pete and i called him bill but why do you say poor mutt well said pete bill was a disappointed man and was always boring his friends about what he might have been and done if he only had a fair break two or three pints of sack and sherris and the tears would trickle down into his beard and his beard would get soppy and wilt his collar i remember one night when bill and ben johnson and frankie beaumont were sopping it up
here i am ben says bill nothing but a lousy playwright and with anything like luck in the breaks i might have been a fairly decent sonnet writer i might have been a poet if i had kept away from the theatre yes says ben i ve often thought of that bill but one consolation is you are making pretty good money out of the theatre
money money says bill what the hell is money what i want is to be a poet not a business man these damned cheap shows i turn out to keep the theatre running break my heart slap stick comedies and blood and thunder tragedies and melodramas say i wonder if that boy heard you order another bottle frankie the only compensation is that i get a chance now and then to stick in a little poetry when nobody is looking but hells bells that isn t what i want to do i want to write sonnets and songs and spenserian stanzas and i might have done it too if i hadn t got into this frightful show game business business business grind grind grind what a life for a man that might have been a poet
well says frankie beaumont why don t you cut it bill i can t says bill i need the money i ve got a family to support down in the country well says frankie anyhow you write pretty good plays bill any mutt can write plays for this london public says bill if he puts enough murder in them what they want is kings talking like kings never had sense enough to talk and stabbings and stranglings and fat men making love and clown basting each other with clubs and cheap puns and off color allusions to all the smut of the day oh i know what the low brows want and i give it to them
well says ben johnson don t blubber into the drink brace up like a man and quit the rotten business i can t i can t says bill i ve been at it too long i ve got to the place now where i can t write anything else but this cheap stuff i m ashamed to look an honest young sonneteer in the face i live a hell of a life i do the manager hands me some mouldy old manuscript and says bill here s a plot for you this is the third of the month by the tenth i want a good script out this that we can start rehearsals on not too big a cast and not too much of your damned poetry either you know your old familiar line of hokum they eat up that falstaff stuff of yours ring him in again and give them a good ghost or two and remember we gotta have something dick burbage can get his teeth into and be sure and stick in a speech somewhere the queen will take for a personal compliment and if you get in a line or two somewhere about the honest english yeoman it s always good stuff and it s a pretty good stunt bill to have the heavy villain a moor or a dago or a jew or something like that and say i want another comic welshman in this but i don t need to tell you bill you know this game just some of your ordinary hokum and maybe you could kill a little kid or two a prince or something they like a little pathos along with the dirt now you better see burbage tonight and see what he wants in that part oh says bill to think i am debasing my talents with junk like that oh god what i wanted was to be a poet and write sonnet serials like a gentleman should
well says i pete bill s plays are highly esteemed to this day is that so says pete poor mutt little he would care what poor bill wanted was to be a poet
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, and mild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; “There is no peace on earth,” I said; “For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 215th birthday.
John Greenleaf Whittier American 1807 – 1892
He comes, – he comes, – the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields And the brown hill’s withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees Where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, Have shaken them down to earth.
He comes, – he comes, – the Frost Spirit comes! From the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the northern seas, Which the white bear wanders o’er, Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, And the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night Into marble statues grow!
He comes, – he comes, – the Frost Spirit comes! On the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed As his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, Where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above And the ancient ice below.
He comes, – he comes, – the Frost Spirit comes! And the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, And ring to the skater’s heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, Or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, And in mournful silence pass.
He comes, – he comes, – the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor–fire His evil power away; And gather closer the circle ‘round, When the firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend As his sounding wing goes by!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 190th birthday.
Louisa May Alcott American 1832 – 1888
The moonlight fades from flower and rose And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung, And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, And sings to them, soft and low. The early birds erelong will wake: ‘T is time for the Elves to go.
O’er the sleeping earth we silently pass, Unseen by mortal eye, And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float Through the quiet moonlit sky;– For the stars’ soft eyes alone may see, And the flowers alone may know, The feasts we hold, the tales we tell; So’t is time for the Elves to go.
From bird, and blossom, and bee, We learn the lessons they teach; And seek, by kindly deeds, to win A loving friend in each. And though unseen on earth we dwell, Sweet voices whisper low, And gentle hearts most joyously greet The Elves where’er they go.
When next we meet in the Fairy dell, May the silver moon’s soft light Shine then on faces gay as now, And Elfin hearts as light. Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky With sunlight soon shall glow. The morning star shall light us home: Farewell! for the Elves must go.
We present this work in honor of the 30th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Audre Lorde American 1934 – 1992
Coming together it is easier to work after our bodies meet paper and pen neither care nor profit whether we write or not but as your body moves under my hands charged and waiting we cut the leash you create me against your thighs hilly with images moving through our word countries my body writes into your flesh the poem you make of me.
Touching you I catch midnight as moon fires set in my throat I love you flesh into blossom I made you and take you made into me.
The moon is dark tonight, a new moon for a new year. It is hollow and hungers to be full. It is the black zero of beginning.
Now you must void yourself of injuries, insults, incursions. Go with empty hands to those you have hurt and make amends.
It is not too late. It is early and about to grow. Now is the time to do what you know you must and have feared to begin. Your face is dark too as you turn inward to face yourself, the hidden twin of all you must grow to be.
Forgive the dead year. Forgive yourself. What will be wants to push through your fingers. The light you seek hides in your belly. The light you crave longs to stream from your eyes. You are the moon that will wax in new goodness.
Poets Corner 