count my hopes

This is for Earth Day, but it also now makes me think about Maybe Happy Ending, which we saw in New York last week and absolutely loved. There are some parallels, although this is not (obviously) a poem about fireflies.

so I count my hopes: the bumblebees
are making a comeback, one snug tight
in a purple flower I passed to get to you;

your favorite color is purple but Prince's
was orange & we both find this hard to believe;
today the park is green, we take grass for granted

the leaves chuckle around us; behind
your head a butterfly rests on a tree; it’s been
there our whole conversation; by my old apartment

was a butterfly sanctuary where I would read
& two little girls would sit next to me; you caught
a butterfly once but didn't know what to feed it

so you trapped it in a jar & gave it to a girl
you liked. I asked if it died. you say you like
to think it lived a long life. yes, it lived a long life.

—Fatimah Asghar, "I Don't Know What Will Kill Us First: The Race War or What We've Done to the Earth," originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 8, 2019 (where you can listen to the poet read the poem), by the Academy of American Poets.

all the golden nights

This one's for all the shows we've seen (one more on Tuesday, or maybe two if we win a lottery for a Wednesday matinee), and especially for Audra McDonald in Gypsy today. And thanks to my wife for the poem suggestion. ♥

This is the quiet hour; the theaters
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The million lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music through an open door.

—Sara Teasdale (1884-1933), "Broadway," from Rivers to the Sea, 1915. I love a sonnet.

accented in gold

It's a two-poem day! This is because yesterday was so absolutely jam-packed that I wasn't at my computer at all. We moved from the airport hotel at LGA to the hotel we're staying at in Manhattan, went to brunch, went to look at cherry blossoms in Central Park, and went to see Wicked. (Which was wonderful! It was Lucy's first time seeing the stage play and I hadn't seen it in like 20 years.) Then we went back to the hotel and Lucy ordered take-out and crashed and I went to dinner with friends and then walked most of the way back to the hotel like an idiot who hasn't lived in New York in over a year and is paying for this with very sore feet and legs today.

Anyway, I kept thinking about this poem while we were walking through Central Park, so here's Ana Božičević for April 9:

Everyone shivering in their
Leather jackets
Eating sandwiches named after
Serial killers
And in the middle of
All of it
Magnolia trees
Enough to make you
Stop and say

Fuck!

Super tenderly.

—Ana Božičević, "Spring 2," published in the NY Tyrant, July 5, 2018.

*

Today's poem is also a little for New York, of course. I really love this poem, and it was always going to be one of the first ones I posted for this week:

for Erika

i ask you what's the first thing you think about
when you see the color yellow & like a real
new yorker, you say yellow cabs. not sunlight
or a yellow ribbon tied around a vase of fresh begonias.
yellow cabs honking down Broadway. i still remember
the night we first shared a cab. you whispered
honey, whispered lace, whispered chrysanthemum.
all that practice & it turns out, i had never ridden
in a cab the right way around us the streetlights blurred
into yellow ribbons, & when you put your hand
on my thigh it was like i knew for the first time
why god gave us thighs. why god gave us hands.
maybe god invented yellow for the cabs,
so the first time we touched like this
it could be accented in gold.

—José Olivarez, "Love Poem Beginning with a Yellow Cab," from Promises of Gold (Macmillan, 2023).

forget the epitaph

When we were in New York, I went to see Suffs on Broadway with my mom. It was great—I have notes, of course, but overall I really enjoyed it, and I'm really glad I got to see it—and when I got home (or rather, back to the hotel) I obviously ended up reading up on the historical figures I didn't know as much about. This is how I learned that after Inez Milholland died, her husband married Edna St. Vincent Millay, who then WROTE A POEM about her husband's dead wife. Because, like, obviously. So this is the poem I would have posted on April 19, if I hadn't already been in bed and half-asleep when I learned of its existence.

                        Read in Washington, November eighteenth, 1923, at the unveiling of a statue
                        of three leaders in the cause of Equal Rights for Women

Upon this marble bust that is not I
Lay the round, formal wreath that is not fame;
But in the forum of my silenced cry
Root ye the living tree whose sap is flame.
I, that was proud and valiant, am no more;—
Save as a dream that wanders wide and late,
Save as a wind that rattles the stout door,
Troubling the ashes in the sheltered grate.
The stone will perish; I shall be twice dust.
Only my standard on a taken hill
Can cheat the mildew and the red-brown rust
And make immortal my adventurous will.
Even now the silk is tugging at the staff:
Take up the song; forget the epitaph.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "To Inez Milholland," 1923. I wouldn't say it's Edna's best work, but there's still something about it that really does land.

that shit fucked

On my last night in New York City (for this April, at least), here is a poem for Shakespeare day:

And another thing / the grace you brought Othello / how you forged that moor / got him talking down his eloquence as if his tongue wasn't part swan feather / part molasses / how you wrote a church of darkness steepled by Iago / and Ol' Thello its soul / beacon of honor and light / Bruh / that shit literary fire / race-theory brimstone / middle-passage gold

but /

how you played Caliban / his tongue as Othello's / and just as wronged / How you imbibed him with / emblemed him of colonized peoples / got me all riled up / imagining my ancestor's vengeance / a rough blade thrust through Prospero's proud heart / but you didn't / Play ends / Cali still enslaved / Bruh / that shit fucked

—Inua Ellams, "Fuck / Shakespeare," published in Poetry (May 2020). I read this poem for the first time today, while trying to decide what to post for Shakespeare day, and honestly I am obsessed with it now. Like, goddamn.

awake as a rumor of war

This poem is for yesterday, posted a little late because I went to see Fat Ham last night and got back late enough that I just went straight to bed instead of posting a poem. The play is fucking amazing—mistresscurvy and I saw it at the Public last fall and wanted to see it again on Broadway, and it really just absolutely fucking slays. Go see it if you can!

As some of you know, I am moving to Houston at the end of the year, which means this is probably my last year of posting poetry month poems from New York City (after thirteen! years!). Pending being back in New York during April(s) in the future, which seems reasonably likely. But it's definitely a change. I thought I was going to post a lot more NYC poems this year, actually, but there have only been a few; we'll see how the nostalgia treats me next year. In the meantime, though, a little New York poem for April 28. I'm pretty sure I read this one for the first time on the subway.

Curtains forcing their will
against the wind,
children sleep,
exchanging dreams with
seraphim. The city
drags itself awake on
subway straps; and
I, an alarm, awake as a
rumor of war,
lie stretching into dawn,
unasked and unheeded.

—Maya Angelou (1928-2014), "Awaking in New York," from Shaker, Why Don't You Sing?, 1983.

to reach the limits of ourselves

I went to see Cradle Will Rock at Classic Stage Company tonight (the first of three shows I am seeing this week). It was an amazing production, but I totally didn't realize how well I still knew the show from my obsession with the 1999 movie and the Patti Lupone recording of the musical (I know it...really well?!). Anyway, there are a shortage of poems about unions and labor organizing and the Federal Theatre Project. But I've been sitting on this poem since the beginning of the month, and although it's not directly related, it seems appropriate to me, in a sort of two-steps-sideways kind of way. 

I lived in the first century of world wars.

Most mornings I would be more or less insane,

The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,

The news would pour out of various devices

Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.

I would call my friends on other devices;

They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.

Slowly I would get to pen and paper,

Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.

In the day I would be reminded of those men and women,

Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,

Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.

As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,

We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,

To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile

Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,

Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means

To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,

To let go the means, to wake.

I lived in the first century of these wars.

—Muriel Rukeyser, "Poem" from The Speed of Darkness, 1968. With thanks to N., who brought this poem to my attention.

the branch, the iron blade

For April 19—yesterday—in honor of the news that Hadestown is COMING TO BROADWAY IN 2019, after a run at the National in London. I'm so excited? It's so good? Oh my god. Anyway, Rilke:

Rufe mich zu jener deiner Stunden,
die dir unaufhörlich widersteht:
flehend nah wie das Gesicht von Hunden,
aber immer wieder weggedreht,

wenn du meinst, sie endlich zu erfassen.
So Entzognes ist am meisten dein.
Wir sind frei. Wir wurden dort entlassen,
Wo wir meinten, erst begrüßt zu sein.

Bang verlangen wir nach einem Halte,
wir zu Jungen manchmal für das Alte
und zu alt für das, was niemals war.

Wir, gerecht nur, wo wir dennoch preisen,
Weil wir, ach, der Ast sind und das Eisen
Und das Süße reifender Gefahr.


Call me to the one among your moments
that stands against you, ineluctably:
intimate as a dog’s imploring glance
but, again, forever, turned away

when you think you’ve captured it at last.
What seems so far from you is most your own.
We are already free, and were dismissed
where we thought we soon would be at home.

Anxious, we keep longing for a foothold—
We, at times too young for what is old
and too old for what has never been;

doing justice only where we praise,
because we are the branch, the iron blade,
and sweet danger, ripening from within.

—Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), II, 23 from The Sonnets to Orpheus, 1923, translated by Stephen Mitchell (New York: Vintage International, 1989).

each one of us a queen

Tonight I went to see Anastasia on Broadway, and it was GREAT, and so was the vodka and Russian food that we went out for beforehand. So, in keeping with the theme (sort of), here is some Marina Tsvetaeva:

Hell, my ardent sisters, be assured,
Is where we’re bound; we’ll drink the pitch of hell—
We, who have sung the praises of the lord
With every fiber in us, every cell.

We, who did not manage to devote
Our nights to spinning, did not bend and sway
Above a cradle—in a flimsy boat,
Wrapped in a mantle, we’re now borne away.

Every morning, every day, we’d rise
And have the finest Chinese silks to wear;
And we’d strike up the songs of paradise
Around the campfire of a robbers’ lair,

We, careless seamstresses (our seams all ran,
Whether we sewed or not)—yet we have been
Such dancers, we have played the pipes of Pan:
The world was ours, each one of us a queen.

First, scarcely draped in tatters, and disheveled,
Then plaited with a starry diadem;
We’ve been in jails, at banquets we have reveled:
But the rewards of heaven, we’re lost to them,

Lost in nights of starlight, in the garden
Where apple trees from paradise are found.
No, be assured, my gentle girls, my ardent
And lovely sisters, hell is where we’re bound.

—Marina Tsvetaeva (1892–1941), “Bound for Hell,” translated from the Russian by Stephen Edgar, and in this case from Poetry magazine, 2012, and courtesy of the Poetry Foundation.