Poems for Life (6 page)

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling, — my darling, — my life and my bride,

In her sepulcher there by the sea —

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

— Edgar Allan Poe

K
ENNETH
K
OCH

Dear Adie Ellis,

I don't really have one Favorite Poem but quite a lot of favorite poems. Some poems seem so good that there couldn't possibly be any poem better, and then one goes on reading and finds another poem one likes just as well. I think if I started listing my favorite poems, it might fill up your whole book — there would be poems by Shakespeare, John Donne, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Frank O'Hara, and a lot more. Also among my favorite poems are some written by the students I had when I was teaching schoolchildren to write poetry, like this one by Jeff Morley. He was in the fifth grade at Public School 61 in New York when he wrote it, I think in 1968. I had asked my students to write poems that were completely untrue — what I called “Lie Poems.” Some children wrote lists of funny, crazy things like “I was born on a blackboard,” “I fly to school at 12:00 midnight,” or “I am in New York on a flying blueberry” — but Jeff wrote about just one strange, and obviously untrue, experience. There was something about it that seemed true, though —

T
HE
D
AWN OF
M
E
:

I was born nowhere

And I live in a tree

I never leave my tree

It is very crowded

I am stacked up right against a bird

But I won't leave my tree

Everything is dark

No light!

I hear the bird sing

I wish I could sing

My eyes, they open

And all around my house

The Sea

Slowly I get down in the water

The cool blue water

Oh and the space

I laugh swim and cry for joy

This is my home

For Ever

— Jeff Morley

With best wishes,

J
ILL
K
REMENTZ

Dear Class V:

Here's my favorite poem. I like it because it shows the way we should all think — particularly us women.

Jill Krementz

T
HE
L
OW
R
OAD

Alone, you can fight,

you can refuse, you can

take what revenge you can

but they roll over you.

But two people fighting

back to back can cut through

a mob, a snake-dancing file

can break a cordon, an army

can meet an army.

Two people can keep each other

sane, can give support, conviction,

love, massage, hope, sex.

Three people are a delegation,

a committee, a wedge. With four

you can play bridge and start

an organization. With six

you can rent a whole house,

eat pie for dinner with no

seconds, and hold a fund raising party.

A dozen make a demonstration.

A hundred fill a hall.

A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;

ten thousand, power and your own paper;

a hundred thousand, your own media;

ten million, your own country.

It goes on one at a time,

It starts when you care

to act, it starts when you do

it again after they said no,

it starts when you say We

and know who you mean, and each

day you mean one more.

— Marge Piercy

A
NGELA
L
ANSBURY

Dear Jenny,

Thank you for your letter telling me about your book project to raise money for refugee children. I'm delighted you asked me to be involved.

I've enclosed a copy of “Cuttin' Rushes,” a poem by Moira O'Neill, who was an Irish poet. My mother was a recitalist and this was one of her favorite poems. In the old days at social gatherings in Hollywood, everyone would take turns performing for each other. I would sing and my mother would recite poetry. I heard her recite this poem so often I learned it by assimilation!

Yours sincerely,

C
UTTIN
' R
USHES

Oh, maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago!

Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes.

Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low,

Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes.

Young, still young!
— and drenchin' wet the grass,

Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down;

Here, lad, here!
will ye follow where I pass,

An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain.

Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?

Rippen'
round the bog pools high among the heather,

The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,

‘Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.

Come, dear, come!
— an' back along the burn

See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown.

Quick, one kiss
, — sure, there's some one at the turn!

“Oh, we're after cuttin' rushes on the mountain.”

Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago ….

I waken out O' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.

Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow,

For all that's fair I'd sooner see a bunch O' green rushes.

Run, burn, run!
can ye mind when we were young?

The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown:

Sing, burn, sing!
can ye mind the song ye sung

The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?

— Moira O'Neill

Y
o
-Y
o
E. M
A

Dear Zoe,

Thank you for your kind letter about the project at your school. I applaud your contribution to this noble cause. My favorite poem is “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” because beauty has its own truth.

With warmest wishes, and best of luck with the project,

O
DE ON A
G
RECIAN
U
RN

I

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

II

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

III

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearièd,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

IV

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?