Today’s poem is “Design” by Robert Frost. This poem has the remarkable ability to make the hair on the back of my neck rise up.

——

Design

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth —
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth —
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small.

I remember, years ago, when I sat two feet from the TV on Saturday mornings and turned the volume to the lowest possible setting so that I could watch Looney Tunes when it came on at 8:30 without my parents waking up. Certain of the Bugs Bunny sketches were my favorites, but the cartoon I consistently liked the most often was Wile E. Coyote vs. the Roadrunner.

I remember, one day, watching a Wile E. Coyote sketch. It started out like any other—Roadrunner was meep-meeping like his life depended on it, Coyote had bought a few metric tons of rockets and flare guns, the laws of physics were on vacation in Bermuda—but then, when Coyote went to assemble his first contraption, he turned to the screen and started talking.

I was devastated. Wile E. Coyote? Talking? What is wrong with these writers? I turned off the TV and sadly padded back to my bedroom. (Or, more likely, I shrugged, switched to L2, and turned on Ocarina of Time. That game was probably good enough to distract me from an alien invasion.)

So. I didn’t appreciate Wile E. Coyote talking then. But after seeing today’s poem, a slam by Shane Hawley at the 2010 National Poetry Slam semifinals… I do now.

Today’s poem is “Shake the Dust,” brought to you courtesy of back-to-back National Individual Poetry Slam champion Anis Mojgani. Not much to say that isn’t said more fervently by Anis himself. Enjoy.

Today’s poem is “Fish R Us” by Mark Doty.

——

Fish R Us

Clear sac
of coppery eyebrows
suspended in amnion,
not one moving–

A Mars,
composed entirely
of single lips,
each of them gleaming–

this bag of fish
(have they actually
traveled here like this?)
bulges while they

acclimate, presumably,
to the new terms
of the big tank
at Fish R Us. Soon

they’ll swim out
into separate waters,
but for now they’re
shoulder to shoulder

in this clear and
burnished orb, each fry
about the size of this line,
too many lines for any

bronzy antique epic,
a million of them,
a billion incipient citizens
of a goldfish Beijing,

a Sao Paulo,
a Mexico City.
They seem to have sense
not to move but hang

fire, suspended, held
at just a bit of distance
(a bit is all there is), all
facing outward, eyes

(they can’t even blink)
turned toward the skin
of the sac they’re in,
this swollen polyethylene.

And though nothing’s
actually rippling but their gill,
it’s still like looking up
into falling snow,

if all the flakes
were a dull, breathing gold,
as if they were streaming
toward–not us, exactly,

but what they’ll be …
Perhaps they’re small enough
–live sparks, for sale
at a nickel apiece–

that one can actually
see them transpiring:
they want to swim
forward, want to

eat, want to take place.
Who’s going to know
or number or even see them all?

They pulse in their golden ball.

Today’s poem is another whose title really says all you need to know about the poem. This one comes to you courtesy of Richard Brautigan, from the book of the same name.

——

The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster

Today’s poem is the delicious “Gravy” by Michael McFee. Slather it on.

——

Gravy

Meat grease, flour and water, stirred till smooth—
it’s what my forebears ate, if they were lucky.

It’s what my mother ate, those hard dark years
she worked at a sawmill way out in the mountains,
learning to live on cigarettes and coffee

and cold biscuits raised from the dead by gravy.

Now and then she’d cook a little for us,
something to moisten and darken and quicken

the bowls of bland white rice or mashed potatoes
I’d shape into a cratered volcano
whose steaming lava overflow improved

everything it touched on my dinner plate.

Good gravy’s not an afterthought, a dressing,
a murky cloud masking a dish’s dull prospect:

whether poured from a Thanksgiving china boat
or a black iron skillet in Bloody Madison,
it’s the meal’s essence, where flesh meets spirit,

where fat becomes faith, where juice conveys grace

as red-eye, giblet, sausage, faithful sawmill—
whenever I think of those savory names

and the times I’ve poured or ladled or spooned
then mixed and dipped and sopped up their elixir,
not wanting to waste a single filling drop,

my mouth starts making its own thin gravy again.

Today’s poem is “Autobiography” by Ross White. White teaches at UNC-Chapel Hill and is the editor of Inch, a journal of short poetry and microfiction. This poem appeared in the Greensboro Review—which, if you’re looking to bestow patronage upon any journals, is an excellent choice.

——

Autobiography

O bless the Internet,
where by dint of an @,
an unwitting British party girl
might send photos to Ross White,
an American stranger in a cheap apartment,
not altogether an unwilling recipient,
mistaking me for Ross White,
who, last time I looked,
was a peachfuzz-mustachioed
footy player living in a prep school dormitory;
who, from the captions provided,
seems to be the intended recipient
of photos sent to Ross White,
American stranger—
not the Kyoto-based Ross White,
who teaches English and reports
fascination with Japanese girls
in neon cub-ear caps… I’d like to marry one,
and certainly not to be confused
with world traveler Ross White,
who reports Penang is a hot stinking place
too far from Australia
and the mates I left behind,
who didn’t like wearing short white pants
with high white socks
on the estates of wealthy Malaysians—,
an American stranger who
(and I’d like to put this part in third person,
but this Ross White has an affection
for confessional)
is both me and fascinated
by Boxing Day,
which is when Ross White’s British friend
took her mates out dancing:
Emilie, who, according to the captions,
drank too many shots,
was weepy in the bathroom
about a bloke,
crept out to make calls on her mobile,
and Lauren was dressed
like a black-and-white bee,
and Lora, in every photo
but about whom the captions say little,
so perhaps Ross White knows Lora well,
and Liam from Leeds was there—
let us not forget handsome, thinly bearded Liam,
he was in only the one photo,
Lora and Liam from Leeds
and Ross White’s British friend,
arm in arm in arm, both girls
kissing Liam from Leeds on the cheek,
though he leans toward Lora!—
and if I were Ross White
(which I am, you know),
I might be red-faced over Liam,
because he’s only in the one shot
but too handsome to repeatedly omit,
so I wonder if he held the camera all night,
in which case he paid loving attention to Lora,
and I might pace or plot or
pound at the keyboard—
though perhaps that isn’t behavior
befitting Ross White,
the other Ross White,
maybe any of the other Ross Whites—
but if that Ross White would volunteer
his e-mail address to his British friend posthaste,
I would be ever so grateful,
for it appears that I’ve become a little flush,
placed in the awkward position
of unintentional and eager voyeur,
and thank heavens
the pictures were of a night of dancing,
no more—still, please,
Ross White,
send your address to her. 

If you follow my blog, you’ve no doubt noticed a few posts here and there about Neil Gaiman that hint at my shamelessly fanboyish love of his work. As such, it seems silly that I’ve gone this long without posting anything by him.

As such: today’s poem is “The Day the Saucers Came” by Neil Gaiman. As he states in his intro, “it’s sort of about the end of the world.” But not completely.

(The poem comes from Gaiman’s book Fragile Things, which you can buy here. I highly recommend doing so, as it contains—among other things—the coolest Cthulu mythos/Sherlock Holmes crossover you’re likely to see, and the Locus-winning and Hugo-nominated “How to Talk to Girls at Parties,” which despite the title I do not recommend using as a how-to.)

Today’s poem is “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath, read by Sylvia Plath. Disclaimer: immensely disturbing. Disclaimer: also hauntingly good.

Today’s poem is “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens. Which is a poem in thirteen parts full of dense and trenchant symbolism that I will entirely skip over in favor of just saying “listen to it.” I’m not sure who is actually reading in this video (the youtube page gives no indication), but it’s quite a good rendition.

Only time I will ever say this, but that dude from Fox News totally nailed this one.

Usually when I post a video, it’s of a poet reading his own work. Today, we have something a bit different. The poem is “Bridge for the Living” by Philip Larkin, but it’s read by Sir Tom Courtenay as the voice component of a short film about Hull, the city in which the bridge was built, by Dave Lee. Multimedia! As you might expect from Larkin, the poem is quite strong, and Courtenay gives a superb reading of it. Enjoy.

rocketboom:

Batman’s no bronie.

Via

Still the best gif.

Today’s poem comes from Thomas B. Pruit. Pruit is a poet I have the distinct pleasure of knowing, and he is, without a doubt, one of the kindest souls in the world of poetry. He works as an English teacher, which is illustrated in his choice of subject matter for this poem—a meditation on Grendel from Beowulf.

——

Steadfast

A monster deep in dwelling dark,
Bramble-born, outside he stood
To tear our flesh and drink our blood
And suck our mealy marrow down,
  To smear his greasy blackness drear,
    Swallow our light, snuff out our cheer,
To wrap his torn and weary world
Around our sight and smell and sound.

Yet, in our grip lies glint of steel,
The balance of a mighty blade;
There’s dread and daring in the feel,
There’s thirst for justice swiftly made—
  In the gyre of the starry glade,
    In the hoary rhythms of the sea,
In the dauntless dance of courage dared.

At home in the light and warmth we’ve shared,
A gracious gift on us bestow:
Keep bright the hall with cadence clear;
With song and story rebuke the foe,
  Who dwells within the shadow’s fear,
    Who works to turn our weal to woe.
In beauty and laughter and gladness sheer,
Let the feast of light be ever near. 

(Copyright Thomas B. Pruit)

To complete our monostich bender, today I present “Six One-Line Film Scripts,” a collection of six monostiches by Tom Andrews. I’m not sure if I should call this six poems or one poem in six sections, but whatever it is it works. Enjoy.

——

Six One-Line Film Scripts

Film Noir

Everything on earth is asleep – except Robert Mitchum.

French Flick

The camera is an emptiness that longs to be a camera.

Historical Epic

Thousands of extras … reset their alarm clocks.

Stephan Mallarme Counts the Buttons on the Hangman’s Coat

Mallarme: Two, three … no … two … no … wait, two, three … one, two …

God, Guilt, and Death

This will not work on film.

The Needle

Medium shot of a camel squeezing through the eye of a needle.