sonnet

Poem-A-Day April 24: stalled in the driveway

Golden Oldie

I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway, swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.

The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air-conditioning off,

leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?—a lament
I greedily took in

without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.

■

Today’s sonnet by Rita Dove appears in her 1996 collection Mother Love: Poems.

As a bonus for today, my dear friend Michelle introduced me to a Tele-Poem Hotline established by the Oregon Poet Laureate Anis Mojgani: Just dial (503) 928-7008 to hear a poem! When I called in, the poem was even read by the poet herself. More in the Portland Monthly.

Poem-A-Day April 16: Every tongue unfurled

Hello Friends,

Every April 16, D.C. celebrates Emancipation Day — the date in 1862 that Abraham Lincoln signed an act freeing over 3,000 slaves in the district (nine months before the broader Emancipation Proclamation).

In the spirit of newfound freedom, today’s poem comes from Tyehimba Jess’s collection Olio (2016), which includes a crown of sonnets about the Fisk Jubilee Singers — a group of young people who, upon being freed, sought an education at the newly founded Fisk University and there formed a successful traveling a cappella group that popularized Black spirituals. For me, the poem has a feel of not being written by just one poet, but a whole chorus of voices — just like emancipation is not attributable to Lincoln or any one person, but to generations of people, and continues to be the work of generations of people.

In Olio, the top and bottom of the pages with the Fisk Jubilee Singers sonnets contain the names and years of Black churches that burned, adding context to the poems about the environment in which this a cappella group and the Black spirituals they sang flourished.

Tyehimba Jess comes from a slam poetry background, so I’m sure he would very much appreciate you listening to him explain and read this poem on YouTube much better than I ever could — instead of or in addition to reading the printed version below.

Fisk Jubilee Proclamation
(Choral)

O sing unto the Lord a new song… (Psalm 96)

O, sing…undo the world with blued song
born from newly freed throats. Sprung loose from lungs
once bound within bonded skin. Scored from dawn
to dusk with coffle and lash. Every tongue
unfurled as the body’s flag. Every breath
conjured despite loss we’ve had. Bear witness
to the birthing of our hymn from storied depths
of America’s sin. Soul-worn psalms, blessed
in our blood through dark lessons of the past
struggling to be heard. Behold—the bold sound
we’ve found in ourselves that was hidden, cast
out of the garden of freedom. It’s loud
and unbeaten, then soft as a newborn’s face—
each note bursting loose from human bondage.

■

Poem-a-Day April 5, 2015: fleecy

Hello Friends,

For Easter, I thought I’d send you the best use of the word oology in a poem — but I couldn’t find one! Such a poetic word, I’m certain there must be a poem-a-day-worthy oology poem out there in the world somewhere — perhaps you know of one? Please send it to me. Or write it and then send it to me.

In the meantime, the award for best use of lambent in a sonnet goes to Patty Seyburn — who deliciously considers the human condition at the intersection of believing in an afterlife and eating baby animals for dinner.

Enjoy.
Ellen

On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

I butterflied Australian rack of lamb
with shallots, garlic, parsley, butter, wine
(some in the pan, some for the palate).
Although the livestock loved in nursery rhyme
avoided clumps of mint, it served my family
nonetheless. I am no PETA zealot
(leather jacket, handbag, wallet, shoes)
but wonder if the deeds we do pursue
us in the afterlife. Does the fleecy
creature have a tenderable claim?
My lambent mind considers our short lease
on life, the oven hot. Am I to blame?
Who gave thee such a tender voice? asked Blake.
Myself am Hell. I watch the mutton bake.

“On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees” by Patty Seyburn was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 2, 2010.

For the Blake reference, see “The Lamb” (and “The Tyger”). Seyburn’s train of thought then transitions to Satan’s famous line from John Milton’s Paradise Lost — a work that greatly influenced Blake.

Poem-a-Day, April 2: On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

Dear Friends,

Due to travel delays and internet connection challenges beyond the anticipated scope, your Good Friday poem-a-day is arriving 24 hours late. My apologies. Cathy and I were supposed to be in San Antonio this weekend to watch the Stanford women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four. Unfortunately, Cathy’s uncle passed away, and we are now in Honolulu instead to spend time with family and attend his funeral.

Whether your plans for this weekend include a religious service, Final Four fever, bunnies and dyed eggs, drag queen nuns competing for best bonnet, or whether you’re simply trying to ignore all of the above, it’s certainly an apt occasion to reflect on the capacity of human languages, cultures, and religions to layer so many meanings on a single signifier — like an egg, an X, or a baby sheep.

Bon Appétit.
— Ellen

On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

By Patty Seyburn, as printed in the February 2010 issue of Poetry magazine.

For the Blake reference, see “The Lamb” (and “The Tyger”) by the illuminated 18th-century British poet William Blake. Seyburn’s train of thought then transitions to Satan’s famous line from John Milton’s Paradise Lost — a work that greatly influenced Blake.

Poem-a-day, April 23: sweet thief

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate—
And ‘gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

***

Happy birth, and death, William Shakespeare.
April 23, 1564 – April 23, 1616 (approximate and up for debate)

Poems by William Shakespeare were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 23, 2007; Poem-a-Day April 23, 2009; and Poem-a-Day April 23, 2011.

Poem-a-Day, April 18: pious rape

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon — his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet Order, where, in pious rape,
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years, of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less
Than something simple yet not understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.

*

Hello Friends —

Today’s poem is by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950). Poet Trivia: Millay’s Greenwich Village Bohemian friends called her “Vincent.”

April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. If you wish to be unsubscribed from this Poem-a-Day email list at any time, please reply to this email with a friendly unsubscribe request (preferably in heroic couplet form). You may also request to add a consenting friend to the list, or even nominate a poem.

To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.

Enjoy.
Ellen

Poet Edna St. Vincent Millay was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 17, 2011.