Good Morning!

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“The poet speaks to all men of that other life of
theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.” 
“All great poetry is dipped in the dyes of the heart.”
– Edith Sitwell, English poet

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Everything you invent is true: You can be sure of that.
Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.
– Julian Barnes, author of
“The Noise of Time”

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14 Poets
Born in a
Bountiful Week
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June 18

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1811 – Frances Sargent Locke Osgood born on Boston, Massachusetts; American poet, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, she attended Boston Lyceum for Young Ladies, and her first poem was published when she was 14.She married Samuel Osgood in 1835, but their went through an extended separation beginning in 1843.  Her poetry was very popular in the 1840s, and after meeting Edgar Allen Poe in 1845, she exchanged poetry with him. But another poet, Elizabeth Ellet, who had been scorned by Poe, spread rumours of alleged improprieties between Frances and Poe, until 1847, when Samuel Osgood threatened to sue Ellet for defamation. She had already contracted tuberculosis, and died of the disease at age 38 in 1850.

Labor

by Frances Sargent Osgood

Labor is wealth, in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen’s robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;
Labor! all labor is noble and holy;
Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God.

“Labor” from Poems, by Frances Sargent Locke Osgood – Palala Press – 2016

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1862 – Carolyn Wells born in Railway, New Jersey, prolific American novelist, poet, and childrens’ author, who produced over 170 published works; notable for light verse and limericks, often published in magazines and newspapers. She worked as a librarian for several years until 1900, when she devoted herself to writing full-time. Wells died at age 79 in 1942.

The Humbug

by Carolyn Wells

Although a learned Entomologist
May doubt if Humbugs really do exist,
Yet each of us, I’m sure, can truly say
We’ve seen a number of them in our day.
But are they real?–well, a mind judicial
Perhaps would call them false and artificial.

“The Humbug” from A Phenominal Fauna by Carolyn Wells – Wentworth Press, 2016 reproduction

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1961 – Angela Johnson born in Tuskegee, Alabama; African American poet, and children/young adult author of over 40 books; won three Coretta Scott King Awards, in 1994 for Toning the Sweep, for Heaven (1999), and for The First Part Last (2004), which also won an American Library Association award

Untitled

by Angela Johnson

Chopsticks in the loose
grasp
of a metal hand

Spongy
stilts
of a robotic penguin

Squint
and it’s the double line dissecting a highway

Until the paint ran out

Hard to believe
Anything

as vulnerable
as human flesh
is hurtling through that calm sky

etched with a
particulate footprint:

A lovelier, cloud-soft
map of travel
still
reminiscent of a slug’s slime trail

evaporating in the elements.

“Untitled” © 2016 by Angela Johnson, appeared at the Rattle.com website 

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June 19

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1988 – Sarah Kay born in New York City to a Japanese American mother and a Jewish American father; American poet and songwriter; she began competing in poetry slams as a teenager, and in 2004 founded Project V.O.I.C.E., dedicated to using spoken word poetry as an educational and inspirational tool. Her poems are primarily performed, but some have been published in literary magazines. She has published one poetry collection, No Matter the Wreckage, in 2014, and writes a poetry column for The Paris Review.

Still Here

by Sarah Kay

My grandmother’s awakened bed
A language I don’t understand runs circles round her head
Her words get jumbled on her lips and brought her out to play
I press my head against her chest her heartbeat seems to say:
Still here, still here

You can miss me when I’m gone
But I’ll keep on holding on as long as I’m still here
I’ve seen the fire I’ve seen the storm
I took a stranger by the hand and tried to keep them warm
The buildings rolled the rivers rose at the hands of Gods and men
They can break this city down to dust and we’ll build it back again
Still here, still here

They can give us all they got
But they won’t destroy us not as long as I’m still here
I’ve walked these shoes until they’re thin
I’ve wandered halfway round the world and wandered back again
The road is long the night is cold when I’m out there on my own
Your face lit by the hallway lamp is how I know I’m home
Still here, still here

I can travel till I’m lost
But the fight is worth the cost as long as you’re still here
(you’re still here)
Still here (you’re still here) …

“Still Here” © 2012 by Sarah Kay – lyrics from a song she wrote for the Benefit Show for Hurricane Sandy Relief in December 2012

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June 20

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1786 – Marceline Desbordes-Valmore born Douai, in northern France; French poet and novelist; an orphan by 16, she became an actress and singer at the Paris Opéra-Comique and other theatres, but retired from the stage in 1823; in 1819, she became one of the founders of French romantic poetry when she published her first poetic work, Élégies et Romances, followed in 1821 by her narrative Veillées des Antilles, and five more volumes of poetry between 1825 and 1860 (the last one published posthumously).  She died in Paris at age 73 in 1859. Desbordes-Valmore was the only woman writer included in the notable Les Poètes maudits anthology published by Paul Verlaine in 1884.

A Memory

by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

When he grew pale, and his voice trembled,
And suddenly he could no longer speak;
When his eyes, burning beneath the lid,
Gave me a wound I thought he felt alike;
When all his charms, lighted by a fire
That has never faded,
Were printed in the depth of my desire,
He did not love. I did.

– translator not credited

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1910 – Josephine W. Johnson born in Kirkwood, Missouri; American novelist, poet, short story writer, and essayist; at age 24, she was the youngest winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, in 1935 for her first novel, Now in November.  She won the O. Henry Award for short stories four times – for “Dark” in 1934, “Alexander to the Park” (1942), “The Glass Pigeon” (1943), and “Night Flight” (1944).  Her poetry was published in magazines, and in one collection, Year’s End. She died of pneumonia at age 79 in 1990.

But of Deep Love

by Josephine W. Johnson

But of deep love is the desire to give
More than the living touch of warmth and fire,
More than shy comfort of the little flesh and hands;
It is the need to give
Down to the last kernel of the heart,
Down to the final gift of mind;
It is a need to give you that release which comes
Only of understanding, and to know
Trust without whimpering doubt and fear.

“But of Deep Love” from September, © 1935 by Josephine W. Johnson
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1951 – Paul Muldoon born on a farm in Portadown, Northern Ireland; prolific Irish poet; an arts producer for the BBC in Belfast (1973-1986), then taught creative writing at several universities, including Princeton (1987-1999), and Oxford (Professor of Poetry, 1999-2004). Among his many awards and honors, he won the 1994 T.S. Eliot Prize for The Annals of Chile; the 2003 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for Moy Sand and Gravel; and the 2004 Shakespeare Prize for Achievement in the Humanities and Arts.

Why Brownlee Left

by Paul Muldoon

Why Brownlee left, and where he went,
Is a mystery even now.
For if a man should have been content
It was him; two acres of barley,
One of potatoes, four bullocks,
A milker, a slated farmhouse.
He was last seen going out to plough
On a March morning, bright and early.

By noon Brownlee was famous;
They had found all abandoned, with
The last rig unbroken, his pair of black
Horses, like man and wife,
Shifting their weight from foot to
Foot, and gazing into the future.

“Why Brownlee Left” from Why Brownlee Left, © 1980 by Paul Muldoon –  Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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1952 – Vikram Seth born in Calcutta (now Kolkata), India; Indian poet and novelist who has published eight books of poetry, three novels, two children’s books, a travel book, and four connected libretti set to music by Alec Roth. Seth’s poetry collections include Mappings, All You Who Sleep Tonight, and Summer Requiem.

 Mistaken

by Vikram Seth

I smiled at you because I thought that you
Were someone else; you smiled back; and there grew
Between two strangers in a library
Something that seems like love; but you loved me
(If that’s the word) because you thought that I
Was other than I was. And by and by
We found we’d been mistaken all the while
From that first glance, that first mistaken smile.

“Mistaken” from The Collected Poems, © 1999 by Vikram Seth – Penguin Books

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1978 – Rebecca Hazelton born in Richmond, Virginia; American poet, editor, and critic. Her poetry collections include Gloss; Vow; Bad Star; and Fair Copy. She and Alan Michael Parker are co-editors of The Manifesto Project, a collection of contemporary poetic manifestos.  

You Are the Penultimate Love of My Life

by Rebecca Hazelton

I want to spend a lot but not all of my years with you.
We’ll talk about kids
                              but make plans to travel.

I will remember your eyes
                              as green when they were gray.
Our dogs will be named For Now and Mostly.
               Sex will be good but next door’s will sound better.

There will be small things.
I will pick up your damp towel from the bed,
                                                            and then I won’t.
I won’t be as hot as I was
                              when I wasn’t yours
and your hairline now so
               untrustworthy.

When we pull up alongside a cattle car
                              and hear the frightened lows,
                              I will silently judge you
                              for not immediately renouncing meat.
You will bring me wine
                              and notice how much I drink.

                                              The garden you plant and I plant
                              is tunneled through by voles,
                                                             the vowels
                                                             we speak aren’t vows,
               but there’s something
                              holding me here, for now,
               like your eyes, which I suppose
                                                             are brown, after all.

“You Are the Penultimate Love of My Life” from Vow, © 2013 by Rebecca Hazelton –
Cleveland State University Press Poetry Center

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June 21

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1949 – John Agard born in Georgetown, British Guiana (now Guyana); prolific Guyanese poet, playwright, and children’s writer. In 1977, he moved to Ironbridge, Shropshire, Great Britain. Agard was poet-in-residence at the National Maritime Museum in 2008.. In 2012, he was selected for the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry. He was awarded BookTrust’s inaugural Lifetime Achievement Award in 2021. Among his many poetry collections are Shoot Me with Flowers; Limbo Dancer in Dark Glasses; From the Devil’s Pulpit; and Travel Light Travel Dark.

Coffee in Heaven

by John Agard

You’ll be greeted
by a nice cup of coffee
when you get to heaven
and strains of angelic harmony.

But wouldn’t you be devastated
if they only serve decaffeinated
while from the percolators of hell

your soul was assaulted
by Satan’s fresh espresso smell?

“Coffee in Heaven” from Alternative Anthem: Selected Poems, © 2009 by John Agard – Bloodaxe
Books

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1950 – Anne Carson born in Toronto, Ontario; Canadian poet, professor of classics, essayist, and translator. Since 1979, she has been teaching at American universities, including the University of Michigan, NYU, and Yale. In addition to numerous translations of ancient Greek plays and poetry, she has published books of poetry, mixed collections of poetry and prose, and a verse novel. Her vast number of awards and honors include the 1996 Lannan Literary Award for Poetry; the 2001 T.S. Eliot Prize (for The Beauty of the Husband); and the 2921 PEN/Nabokov Award for Achievement in International Literature. She has held dual U.S. and Icelandic citizenship since 2022.

Town of the Sound of a Twig Breaking

by Anne Carson

Their faces I thought were knives.
The way they pointed them at me.
And waited.
A hunter is someone who listens.
So hard to his prey it pulls the weapon.
Out of his hand and impales.
Itself.

“Town of the Sound of a Twig Breaking” from Plainwater: Essays and Poetry, © by Anne Carson – Vintage Books, 2000 Reprint edition

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June 22

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1951 – Rosario Murillo born in Managua; Nicaraguan poet, revolutionary, and politician. She was Secretary General of the Sandinista Cultural Workers and Director of Ventana Barricada Cultural, the cultural weekly newspaper of the FSLN. Her husband is Daniel Ortega, so she has been the First Lady of Nicaragua since 2007, and Nicaragua’s Vice President since 2017.

When your eyes go to bed worn out

by Rosario Murillo

When your eyes go to bed worn out
with so much unending waiting
when the smile once more comes back to us
and vital still between us
by that time
over there beyond the old oak tree
in that street which my dreams keep watch over today
together we will remember
we will talk of the smell of weariness
we will retell each other the war.

 “When your eyes go to bed worn out,” translated by Janet Brof, appeared in Bomb, issue #9, in April 1984

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June 23

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1888 – Anna Akhmatova born in an Odessa suburb, Ukraine, but she grew up in Tsarskoye Selo (now Pushin) near St. Petersburg; Akhmatova was a pseudonym for Russian poet Anna Andreyevna Gorenko, one of the most acclaimed and significant Russian poets of the 20^th century, noted for remaining in the Soviet Union, even after her work was condemned and censored by Stalinist authorities, and writing in secret about the horrors of living under Stalin. Requiem, her interconnected set of poems about Stalin’s Great Purge, is considered her masterwork.  Her first husband was executed by the Soviet secret police, and her son spent many years in the Gulag. Requiem was written and rewritten between 1935 and 1961, and published in Germany in 1963. She died of heart failure at age 76 in 1966. Requiem was not published in the USSR until 1987.

The Muse

by Anna Akhmatova

When in the night I await her coming,
My life seems stopped. I ask myself: What
Are tributes, freedom, or youth compared
To this treasured friend holding a flute?
Look, she’s coming! She throws off her veil
And watches me, steady and long. I say:
“Was it you who dictated to Dante the pages
Of Hell?” And she answers: “I am the one.”

– translated by Stanley Burnshaw
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1926 – Annette Mbaye d’Erneville born in Sokone, Senegal; Senegalese writer, poet, teacher and radio programme director for Radio Senegal.  As a journalist, she has specialized in women’s issues, and launched Awa magazine in 1963, the first francophone publication for African women. She writes children’s literature and poetry. Noted for  Poèmes africains, and La Bague de cuivre et d’argent (The Copper and Silver Ring), which won prix Jeune Afrique in 1961.

My House

by Annette Mbaye d’Erneville

I have built my house
Without sand, without water
My mother’s heart
Forms a great wall
My father’s arms
The floor and the roof
My sister’s laughter
The doors and the windows
My brother’s eyes
Light up the house
My home feels good
My home is sweet

“My House” from Talking Drums, © 2004 – Bloomsbury Publishing

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June 24

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1916 – John Ciardi born on Boston, Massachusetts; American poet, translator, etymologist, editor, and columnist. He was the director of the Middlebury Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in the 1960s, poetry editor for Saturday Review, and recorded commentaries on word histories for National Public Radio. His many poetry collections include Homeward to America; Live Another Day; The Reason for the Pelican (one of several books of verse for children); Echoes: Poems Left Behind; and Stations of the Air. He died of a heart attack at age 69 in 1986.

The Dolls

By John Ciardi

Night after night forever the dolls lay stiff
by the children’s dreams. On the goose-feathers of the rich,
on the straw of the poor, on the gypsy ground—
wherever the children slept, dolls have been found
in the subsoil of the small loves stirred again
by the Finders After Everything. Down lay
the children by their hanks and twists. Night after night
grew over imagination. The fuzzies shed, the bright
buttons fell out of the heads, arms ripped, and down
through goose-feathers, straw; and the gypsy ground
the dolls sank, and some—the fuzziest and most loved
changed back to string and dust, and the dust moved
dream-puffs round the Finders’ boots as they dug,
sieved, brushed, and came on a little clay dog,
and a little stone man, and a little bone girl, that had kept
their eyes wide open forever, while all the children slept.

“The Dolls” from In the Stoneworks, © 1961 by John Ciardi – Rutgers University Press

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