Archived Poems of the Month 2009 - 2010

Archived Poems for 2001-2002
Archived Poems for 2003-2004
Archived Poems for 2005-2006
Archived Poems for 2007-2008
Archived Poems for 2009-2010
January '09	Once there was a temple here	February '09	The First Full-moon Night
March '09	The First Spring Day	April '09	The Bridge from the Path
May '09	spring is like a perhaps hand	June '09	Summer has two Beginnings
July '09	Atavism	August '09	In August
September '09	September Poem	October '09	Red Bird
November '09	November Snow	December '09	To Juan at the Winter Solstice
January '10	Orchard Trees, January	February '10	when the winter chrysanthemums go
March '10		April '10
May '10		June '10
July '10		August '10
September '10		October '10
November '10		December '10

January 2009

	Once there was a temple here
	Once there was a temple here With marble columns gleaming white Once the gods themselves looked down Upon these altars with delight. Olympus climbs into the clouds And mortals look up from below— The hidden summit must have gods, We do not just believe—we know.
	But gods, it seems, are mortal too And gods must die, as must we all And temples, without gods, decay; Abandoned columns soon will fall. The people leave; the waters rise; What was a marble floor, now grass; The sunken statuary gaze, And dumbly watch millennia pass.
	Once the gods were worshipped here Today the rulers here, the frogs Control the fate of damsel-flies; Athena’s columns for their logs. The gods, it seems, cannot stop time And Zeus himself must lose his crown The land gives way to fish and frogs… And turtles all the way down.

	—the Digital Cuttlefish

February 2009

	The First Full-moon Night
	Last year, in the First Full-moon Night, At the Flower Market, lanterns were As bright as day; when the moon Came up on the top of the willows, My love and I met after dusk. This year, in the First Full-moon Night, The moon and lanterns are the same as before. But I do not see the one who Was with me last year, and tears wet the Sleeves of my spring gown.
	—Ou-yang Hsiu

March 2009

	The First Spring Day
	I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing; I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
	I wonder if the Springtide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me; Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.
	The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; The Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring, Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.
	—Christina Georgina Rossetti

April 2009

	The Bridge from the Path
	When the sun dips close to the western horizon, The rays fall fully and brightly on the bridge. The granite pilasters and the steel girders glow As they reflect the glory! The function of the bridge, to get the train From one side of the river to the other, Fades in the glory of the glow, Silver, orange, and gray pearl! Our heron soars against this glow, Startling and sharp in the light, Duplicating itself in the waters below, And we gaze at the beauty!
	—Charles Davis

The Bridge from the Path

When the sun dips close to the western horizon,
The rays fall fully and brightly on the bridge.
The granite pilasters and the steel girders glow
As they reflect the glory!

The function of the bridge, to get the train
From one side of the river to the other,
Fades in the glory of the glow,
Silver, orange, and gray pearl!

Our heron soars against this glow,
Startling and sharp in the light,
Duplicating itself in the waters below,
And we gaze at the beauty!

—Charles Davis

May 2009

	spring is like a perhaps hand
	Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of Nowhere)arranging a window,into which people look(while people stare arranging and changing placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here)and changing everything carefully spring is like a perhaps Hand in a window (carefully to and from moving New and Old things,while people stare carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there)and without breaking anything.
	—e.e.cummings

spring is like a perhaps hand

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

—e.e.cummings

June 2009

	Summer has two Beginnings
	"Summer has two Beginnings -- Beginning once in June -- Beginning in October Affectingly again -- Without, perhaps, the Riot But graphicker for Grace -- As finer is a going Than a remaining Face -- Departing then -- forever -- Forever -- until May -- Forever is deciduous Except to those who die --"
	—Emily Dickinson

July 2009

	Atavism
	I always was afraid of Somes's Pond: Not the little pond, by which the willow stands, Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond. There, when the frost makes all the birches burn Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines, Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn. You'll say I dream it, being the true daughter Of those who in old times endured this dread. Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red A silent paddle moves below the water, A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath; Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.
	—Elinor Wylie

Atavism

I always was afraid of Somes's Pond:
Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,
Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands
In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond.
There, when the frost makes all the birches burn
Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines
Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines,
Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn.

You'll say I dream it, being the true daughter
Of those who in old times endured this dread.
Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red
A silent paddle moves below the water,
A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath;
Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.

—Elinor Wylie

August 2009

	In August
	HEAT urges secret odors from the grass. Blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill. Wings veer: inane needles of light, and pass. Laced pools: the warm wood-shadows ebb and fill. The wind is casual, loitering to crush The sun upon his palate, and to draw Pungence from pine, frank fragrances from brush, Sucked up through thin grey boughs as through a straw. Moss-green, fern-green and leaf and meadow-green Are broken by the bare, bone-colored roads, Less moved by stirring air than by unseen Soft-footed ants and meditative toads. Summer is passing, taking what she brings: Green scents and sounds, and quick ephemeral wings.
	—Babette Deutsch

In August

HEAT urges secret odors from the grass.
Blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill.
Wings veer: inane needles of light, and pass.
Laced pools: the warm wood-shadows ebb and fill.
The wind is casual, loitering to crush
The sun upon his palate, and to draw
Pungence from pine, frank fragrances from brush,
Sucked up through thin grey boughs as through a straw.
Moss-green, fern-green and leaf and meadow-green
Are broken by the bare, bone-colored roads,
Less moved by stirring air than by unseen
Soft-footed ants and meditative toads.
Summer is passing, taking what she brings:
Green scents and sounds, and quick ephemeral wings.

—Babette Deutsch

September 2009

	September Poem
	The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down; The gentian’s bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun; The sedges flaunt their harvest In every meadow nook, And asters by the brookside Make asters in the brook;
	From dewy lanes at morning The grapes’ sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies– By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer.
	—Helen Hunt Jackson

October 2009

	Red Bird
	Red bird came all winter firing up the landscape as nothing else could. Of course I love the sparrows, those dun-colored darlings so hungry and so many. I am a God-fearing feeder of birds. I know He has many children, not all of them bold in spirit. Still, for whatever reason — perhaps because the winter is so long and the sky so black-blue, or perhaps because the heart narrows as often as it opens — I am glad that red bird comes all winter, firing up the landscape as nothing else can do.
	—Mary Oliver

Red Bird

Red bird came all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,
those dun-colored darlings
so hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds.
I know He has many children,
not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason —
perhaps because the winter is so long
and the sky so black-blue,

or perhaps because the heart narrows
as often as it opens —
I am glad

that red bird comes all winter,
firing up the landscape
as nothing else can do.

—Mary Oliver

November 2009

	November Snow
	The first to fall is the first to go. Earth wears its mantle damp and chill — Patina of November snow. Leaves raged with fire just days ago — Now grays, ash browns, pale yellows tell The first to fall are the first to go. Remains of harvest in desolate row Brace for the final winter kill Beneath their shroud of November snow. The rakes now dry, the plow and hoe Await Spring’s promise to fulfill — The first to fall are the first to go. Lit by the sky’s anemic glow The pines are standing stiff and still, Defiant of November snow. In barns of silence wait those who know What lies beneath the fields they till — The first to fall are the first to go, Together with November snow.
	—Joseph Pacheco

November Snow

The first to fall is the first to go.
Earth wears its mantle damp and chill —
Patina of November snow.

Leaves raged with fire just days ago —
Now grays, ash browns, pale yellows tell
The first to fall are the first to go.

Remains of harvest in desolate row
Brace for the final winter kill
Beneath their shroud of November snow.

The rakes now dry, the plow and hoe
Await Spring’s promise to fulfill —
The first to fall are the first to go.

Lit by the sky’s anemic glow
The pines are standing stiff and still,
Defiant of November snow.

In barns of silence wait those who know
What lies beneath the fields they till —
The first to fall are the first to go,
Together with November snow.

—Joseph Pacheco

December 2009

	To Juan at the Winter Solstice
	There is one story and one story only That will prove worth your telling, Whether as learned bard or gifted child; To it all lines or lesser gauds belong That startle with their shining Such common stories as they stray into. Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues, Or strange beasts that beset you, Of birds that croak at you the Triple will? Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns Below the Boreal Crown, Prison to all true kings that ever reigned? Water to water, ark again to ark, From woman back to woman: So each new victim treads unfalteringly The never altered circuit of his fate, Bringing twelve peers as witness Both to his starry rise and starry fall. Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty, All fish below the thighs? She in her left hand bears a leafy quince; When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling, How many the King hold back? Royally then he barters life for love. Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched, Whose coils contain the ocean, Into whose chops with naked sword he springs, Then in black water, tangled by the reeds, Battles three days and nights, To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore? Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly, The owl hoots from the elder, Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup: Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward. The log groans and confesses: There is one story and one story only. Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling, Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time. Her brow was creamy as the crested wave, Her sea-blue eyes were wild But nothing promised that is not performed.
	—Robert Graves

January 2010

	Orchard Trees, January
	It's not the case, though some might wish it so Who from a window watch the blizzard blow White riot through their branches vague and stark, That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark. They take affliction in until it jells To crystal ice between their frozen cells, And each of them is inwardly a vault Of jewels rigorous and free of fault, Unglimpsed until in May it gently bears A sudden crop of green-pronged solitaires.
	—Richard Wilbur

Orchard Trees, January

It's not the case, though some might wish it so
Who from a window watch the blizzard blow

White riot through their branches vague and stark,
That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark.

They take affliction in until it jells
To crystal ice between their frozen cells,

And each of them is inwardly a vault
Of jewels rigorous and free of fault,

Unglimpsed until in May it gently bears
A sudden crop of green-pronged solitaires.

—Richard Wilbur

February 2010

	when the winter chrysanthemums go
	When the winter chrysanthemums go, there's nothing to write about but radishes.
	—Bashou

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