National Poetry Month!
This year I'm going to try to post, and I'm going to finally get over my imposter syndrome about posting what other people have posted--just going to put up whatever poem strikes me for the day.
So.
Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac, April 1st:
April in Maine
by May Sarton
The days are cold and brown,
Brown fields, no sign of green,
Brown twigs, not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.
But as the dark flows in
The tree frogs begin
Their shrill sweet singing,
And we lie on our beds
Through the ecstatic night,
Wide awake, cracked open.
There will be no going back.
*
And then for today! I am guessing I got this at some point from
musesfool, because I can usually tell when I copied it from
wintercreek or
poetry.
Fairy Tales
by Shu Ting
You believed in your own story,
then climbed inside it-
a turquoise flower.
You gazed past ailing trees,
past crumbling walls and rusty railings.
Your least gesture beckoned a constellation
of wild vetch, grasshoppers, and stars
to sweep you into immaculate distances.
The heart may be tiny
but the world's enormous.
And the people in turn believe-
in pine trees after rain,
ten thousand tiny suns, a mulberry branch
bent over water like a fishing-rod,
a cloud tangled in the tail of a kite.
Shaking off dust, in silver voices
ten thousand memories sing from your dream.
The world may be tiny
but the heart's enormous.
(
comments at Dreamwidth. Comment there.)
So.
Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac, April 1st:
April in Maine
by May Sarton
The days are cold and brown,
Brown fields, no sign of green,
Brown twigs, not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.
But as the dark flows in
The tree frogs begin
Their shrill sweet singing,
And we lie on our beds
Through the ecstatic night,
Wide awake, cracked open.
There will be no going back.
*
And then for today! I am guessing I got this at some point from
musesfool, because I can usually tell when I copied it from
wintercreek or
poetry.
Fairy Tales
by Shu Ting
You believed in your own story,
then climbed inside it-
a turquoise flower.
You gazed past ailing trees,
past crumbling walls and rusty railings.
Your least gesture beckoned a constellation
of wild vetch, grasshoppers, and stars
to sweep you into immaculate distances.
The heart may be tiny
but the world's enormous.
And the people in turn believe-
in pine trees after rain,
ten thousand tiny suns, a mulberry branch
bent over water like a fishing-rod,
a cloud tangled in the tail of a kite.
Shaking off dust, in silver voices
ten thousand memories sing from your dream.
The world may be tiny
but the heart's enormous.
(
comments at Dreamwidth. Comment there.)