The Freedom of the Moon, a poem by Robert Frost.

Post 663 - The Freedom of the Moon by Robert Frost. I've tried the new moon tilted in the air Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster As you might try a jewel in your hair. I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster, Alone, or in one ornament combining With one first-water star almost shining. I put it shining anywhere I please. By walking slowly on some evening later, I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees, And brought it over glossy water, greater, And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow, The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

Maiden Name, a poem by Philip Larkin.

Post 662 - Maiden name, a poem by Philip Larkin.

Marrying left your maiden name disused.
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face,
Your voice, and all your variants of grace;
For since you were so thankfully confused
By law with someone else, you cannot be
Semantically the same as that young beauty:
It was of her that these two words were used.

Now it's a phrase applicable to no one,
Lying just where you left it,scattered through
Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two
Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon -
Then is it scentless, weightless, strengthless, wholly
Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly.
No, it means you. Or, since you're past and gone,

It means what we feel now about you then:
How beautiful you were, and near, and young,
So vivid, you might still be there among
Those first few days, unfingermarked again.
So your old name shelters our faithfulness,
Instead of losing shape and meaning less
With your depreciating luggage laden.

Aunt Jennifer's Tigers, a poem by Adrienne Rich.

Post 661 - Adrienne Cecile Rich (May 16, 1929 – March 27, 2012) was an American poet, essayist and feminist. She was considered one of the most widely read and influential poets of the second half of the 20th century, and was credited with bringing the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse. In 1971, she was the recipient of the Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America and was awarded the National Book Award for Poetry in 1974. She also was awarded the Ruth Paul Lilly Poetry Prize in 1986, the Elmer Holmes Bobst Award in Arts and Letters from NYU, and the National Poetry Association Award for Distinguished Service to the Art of Poetry in 1989. In 1997, Rich declined the National Medal of Arts in protesting against the House of Representatives’ vote to end the National Endowment for the Arts as well as other policies of the Clinton Administration regarding the arts generally and literature in particular. In 2002, she was appointed a chancellor of the newly augmented board of the Academy of American Poets. She was the winner of the 2003 Yale Bollingen Prize for American Poetry.

Aunt Jennifer's Tigers by Adrienne Rich.

Aunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.

Aunt Jennifer’s fingers fluttering through her wool

Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band

Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer’s hand.

When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie

Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made

Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

Woman Waving to Trees, a poem by Dorothea Tanning.

Dorothea Tanning was an American painter, printmaker, sculptor and writer. She also designed sets and costumes for ballet and theatre. She died earlier this year at 101 having just published her second anthology of poems, Coming To That.

Woman Waving to Trees, a poem by Dorothea Tanning.

Not that anyone would
notice it at first.
I have taken to marveling
at the trees in our park.
One thing I can tell you:
they are beautiful
and they know it.
They are also tired,
hundreds of years
stuck in one spot—
beautiful paralytics.
When I am under them,
they feel my gaze,
watch me wave my foolish
hand, and envy the joy
of being a moving target.

Loungers on the benches
begin to notice.
One to another,
"Well, you see all kinds..."
Most of them sit looking
down at nothing as if there
was truly nothing else to
look at until there is
that woman waving up
to the branching boughs
of these old trees. Raise your
heads, pals, look high,
you may see more than
you ever thought possible,
up where something might
be waving back, to tell her
she has seen the marvelous.

Testy Pony, a poem by Zachary Schomburg.

Post 659 - Zachary Schomburg was born in Omaha, Nebraska, spent his childhood in Iowa, and received his BA from College of the Ozarks. Currently, he's pursuing a doctorate in creative writing from the University of Nebraska. Schomburg edits Octopus Magazine and Octopus Books, and co-curates the Clean Part Reading Series in Lincoln, NE. His debut collection, The Man Suit, was published Black Ocean in 2007.

Testy Pony by Zachary Schomburg.

I am given a pony for my birthday, but it is the wrong
kind of pony. It is the kind of pony that won't listen.
It is testy. When I ask it to go left, it goes right.
When I ask it to run, it sleeps on its side in the tall
grass. So when I ask it to jump us over the river into
the field I have never before been, I have every
reason to believe it will fail, that we will be swept down
the river to our deaths. It is a fate for which I am
prepared. The blame of our death will rest with the
testy pony, and with that, I will be remembered with
reverence, and the pony will be remembered with
great anger. But with me on its back, the testy pony
rears and approaches the river with unfettered
bravery. Its leap is glorious. It clears the river with
ease, not even getting its pony hooves wet. And then
there we are on the other side of the river, the sun
going down, the pony circling, looking for something
to eat in the dirt. Real trust is to do so in the face of
clear doubt, and to trust is to love. This is my failure,
and for that I cannot be forgiven.

Are You Drinking? a poem by Charles Bukowski.

Post 658 - Are You Drinking? by Charles Bukowski.

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook

out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back 

hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your
exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill 

with life, the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel 

clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring 

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is 

walking across the

floor

toward 

me.

oh, it's just 

my cat

this

time.

Pebble, a poem by Zbigniew Herbert.

Post 657 - Zbigniew Herbert was born in 1924 in Lvov, which was then in eastern Poland but is currently in the Ukraine. In a world which seems confusing to many, Herbert’s honesty and clarity are perhaps unparalleled among poets. He would be my choice as the most under-appreciated poet of our times.

Pebble.

The pebble 

is a perfect creature

equal to itself 

mindful of its limits

filled exactly 

with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything 

does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness 

are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse 

when I hold it in my hand 

and its noble body 

is permeated by false warmth

- Pebbles cannot be tamed 

to the end they will look at us 

with a calm and very clear eye

Translated by Peter Dale Scott and Czeslaw Milosz