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Posts Tagged ‘summer poems’

Poems for August 2012

Posted by mcdoc on August 20, 2012

Brian McMichael
(1961 – )

Ode to the Peach

You are called by your color
yet by summer
you become sun-tinted
taking on to yourself
the prerogative of the redhead
and on the inside too –
the deeper you go the redder you get
intensifying to the color of blood

My soft, fuzzy love
you fill my hand
with your yielding
rounded density
you invite me with
your voluptuous curves
your feminine little cleft

Your succulent sweetness
evokes in me the desire to
delve into you
to eat you
to eat you until your juice
runs down my chin
I will not want to stop
once I start

Even when I sink my teeth
into your luscious flesh
you make only the sound
of a heart between two beats
tasting nearly like nothing
delicate, fragrant, with a hint of sharpness

In the late summer
You become most indiscreet
your overripenesses
fall to the ground
becoming oozy, squishy masses
like dung –
stinking and attracting flies
then I can’t stand you

Even into the autumn
You are inescapable
your slices unexpectedly
peek at me
from my bowl of milk
you cruelly snuggle
into my ice cream
and usurp every dessert –
shamelessly splayed
atop the tarts, the cobblers
the pies for all to see

Oh, Fruit of the Deep South
alone, in the dark winter
I break down
tormented by
your one solid defect
that when I had finally
arrived at your core
I found your hard, little brain
where your heart should have been

“Ode to the Peach” by Brian McMichael. © Brian McMichael, 2005.

Denise Levertov
(1923 – 1997)


Brilliant, this day—a young virtuoso of a day.
Morning shadows cut by sharpest scissors,
deft hands. And every prodigy of green—
whether it’s ferns or lichen or needles
or impatient points of bud on spindly bushes—
greener than ever before.
And the way the conifers
hold new cones to the light for blessing,
a festive rite, and sing the oceanic chant the wind
transcribes for them!
A day that shines in the cold
like a first-prize brass band swinging along the street
of a coal-dusty village, wholly at odds
with the claims of reasonable gloom.

“Celebration” by Denise Levertov, from This Great Unknowing. © New Directions Publishing, 1999.

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Poems for August 2011

Posted by mcdoc on August 12, 2011

John Stone
(1936 – 2008)

Whittling: The Last Class

What has been written
about whittling
is not true

most of it

It is the discovery
that keeps
the fingers moving

not idleness

but the knife looking for
the right plane
that will let the secret out

Whittling is no pastime

he says
who has been whittling
in spare minutes at the wood

of his life for forty years

Three rules he thinks
have helped
Make small cuts

In this way

you may be able to stop before
what was to be an arm
has to be something else

Always whittle away from yourself

and toward something.
For God’s sake
and your own
know when to stop

Whittling is the best example
I know of what most
may happen when

least expected

bad or good
Hurry before
angina comes like a pair of pliers

over your left shoulder

There is plenty of wood
for everyone
and you

Go ahead now

May you find
in the waiting wood
rough unspoken

what is true

nearly true

true enough.

Louise Bogan
(1897 – 1970)

The Dragonfly

You are made of almost nothing
But of enough
To be great eyes
And diaphanous double vans;
To be ceaseless movement,
Unending hunger,
Grappling love.

Link between water and air,
Earth repels you.
Light touches you only to shift into iridescence
Upon your body and wings.

Twice-born, predator,
You split into the heat.
Swift beyond calculation or capture
You dart into the shadow
Which consumes you.

You rocket into the day.
But at last, when the wind flattens the grasses,
For you, the design and purpose stop.

And you fall
With the other husks of summer.

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Poems for June 2010

Posted by mcdoc on June 23, 2010

Liam Rector (1949 – 2007)

This Summer

Sitting in the chair that is somewhere
between the chair of a barbershop and a beauty parlor,
chemo dripping into the catheter
surgically implanted into my chest, into body,
I resolve to smoke at least a half-ounce
of marijuana when I get home.
Perhaps I’ll smoke a pound.
Dizzier than hell must be dizzy,
I’m still able to drive
(though will I be able next week?),
and after getting my ticket punched
I roar out of the Farber Clinic
(how splendid to have cancer in Boston
and fall heir to the astute care
available here)
in the silver sports car I sport
during this debacle,
and heat roars into me
with humidity so deep
it is a theological offense
which I cannot help
but take personally.
I think I may die without god,
my single comic integrity
that I have remained
an atheist in the foxhole,
though I am ready
to roar through the gates
if there are gates.
This summer I’ve joined the grown-old,
the infirm, the shut-ins, and the bald-headed young
(they the hardest to bear), this summer
starting with chemotherapy and ending,
by god it seems almost an ending,
with thirty radiation treatments
which have brought me to my knees.
The marijuana works. It clears things.
How lovely!
How lonely it is sometimes to have cancer.
The grass is as good as it was
when I was sixteen and found grass made the grass
a bit greener over yonder.
Almost as good
as the music I listened to that summer.
This summer I rejoin
the ever-new and always refreshing
“Get naked and stay stoned,” Baudelairian crowd
as I plop stoned in the many rocks
of a river in Vermont
next to my friend’s house
where we have for so many summers
worshipped the backroads
with the sports cars the two of us have driven
since we got the money to get them.
In a sports car I have worshipped this summer
the songs I’ve recorded on tape
driving and listening incessantly,
thinking this may be my last summer
this summer. This summer
I have conversed with death every minute
and found out I have the talent
to submit, to leave, even to flee,
and, in this, there’s nothing exceptional
about me. Why, the sidewalks around Farber
are populated with so many about to die,
many of great courage and grim humor and great shuffle
getting ready, as they can, to go,
looking like they do, like the wounded of Atlanta
lying around in Atlanta just after the burning
of Atlanta in Gone With the Wind.
I am among them.
They are mine, and I am theirs.
Our motto: Fight to live; prepare to go.
This summer it is so good
to hear from friends (one of whom I hear
just died: brain tumor) before I drive on out
for another burn of radiation
before I suit myself with another week of chemo
tied to a portable belt so I can go out
easily to the ocean, to remaining
friends there, before I lean into another joint,
a late century life afloat on a sea of loans,
and hear over the telephone my sixteen-year-old
daughter in Virginia saying she now thinks
she will never ever smoke marijuana
because it is, after all,
just another “gateway drug.”

Louise Glück (1943 – )


On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the girls’ clothes
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
leaping off  the high rocks — bodies crowding the water.

The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
marble for  graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
buildings in cities far away.

On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were dangerous,
but in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were after.
The summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off
but always there were a few left at the end — sometimes they’d keep watch,
sometimes they’d pretend to go off  with each other like the rest,
but what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be them.
But they’d show up anyway, as though some night their luck would change,
fate would be a different fate.

At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together.
After the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed,
then we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we’d meet
and the nights we wouldn’t. Once or twice, at the end of summer,
we could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing.

And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
The game was over. We’d sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes,
worrying about the ones who weren’t there.

And then finally walk home through the fields,
because there was always work the next day.
And the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the morning,
eating a peach.  Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth.
And then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields.
One boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
The house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built.

And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night.
Standing at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen.
And a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat,
wanting the heat to break.

Then the heat broke, the night was clear.
And you thought of  the boy or girl you’d be meeting later.
And you thought of  walking into the woods and lying down,
practicing all those things you were learning in the water.
And though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you were with,
there was no substitute for that person.

The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages:
You will leave the village where you were born
and in another country you’ll become very rich, very powerful,
but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though
you can’t say what it was,
and eventually you will return to seek it.

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