M Christine Delea's Blog, page 8

Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the...

The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain...

Self-Portrait Poem That Is Also a Study by Fabienne Josaphat

Self-Portrait Poem That Is Also a Study by Fabienne Josaphat I see myself in her in photos, and see her in myself. Lately it seems I see...

Planetarium by Adrienne Rich

Planetarium by Adrienne Rich Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750—1848) astronomer, sister of William; and others. A woman in the...

There will come soft rains (War Time) by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains (War Time) by Sara Teasdale There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling...

Crossroads by Joyce Sutphen

Crossroads by Joyce Sutphen The second half of my life will be black to the white rind of the old and fading moon. The second half of my...

Lately by Patricia Fargnoli

Lately               by Patricia Fargnoli Sometimes, at night I venture out 
 into the roiling universe, just stand 
on the front lawn,...

Before Breasts by Carla Carlson

Before Breasts

by Carla Carlson

(published in Mom Egg Review, July 2012)

I was happy, and slept all night long. Everyone loved me. I climbed like a monkey, stubbed my toes. I had no time for washing my ankles or combing my hair. I had my mother and father, two sisters, my brother, our cocker spaniel, our calico cat, a piano, kids on the block, kick ball, hopscotch, a creek with frogs. I dreamed of gobbling scoops of ice cream, with hot fudge, whipped cream, sprinkles, a cherry on top.

Wha...

The Land of Nod by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Land of Nod

by Robert Louis Stevenson

From breakfast on through all the day

At home among my friends I stay,

But every night I go abroad

Afar into the land of Nod.

All by myself I have to go,

With none to tell me what to do —

All alone beside the streams

And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me,

Both things to eat and things to see,

And many frightening sights abroad

Till morning in the land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way,

I never can get back by...

Not Forgotten by Toi Derricotte

Not Forgotten

by Toi Derricotte

I love the way the black ants use their dead.

They carry them off like warriors on their steel

backs. They spend hours struggling, lifting,

dragging (it is not grisly as it would be for us,

to carry them back to be eaten),

so that every part will be of service. I think of

my husband at his father’s grave—

the grass had closed

over the headstone, and the name had disappeared. He took out

his pocket knife and cut the grass away, he swept it

with his handkerchief t...