Tuesday Poem: "Horses at Midnight Without a Moon" by Jack Gilbert

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.

Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise 
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing. 
Our spirit persists like a man struggling 
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.

by Jack Gilbert

For more information about poet, Jack Gilbert, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jack-gilbert

Tuesday Poem: "American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin' by Terrance Hayes

The black poet would love to say his century began
With Hughes or, God forbid, Wheatley, but actually
It began with all the poetry weirdos & worriers, warriors,
Poetry whiners & winos falling from ship bows, sunset
Bridges & windows. In a second I’ll tell you how little
Writing rescues. My hunch is that Sylvia Plath was not
Especially fun company. A drama queen, thin-skinned,
And skittery, she thought her poems were ordinary.
What do you call a visionary who does not recognize
Her vision? Orpheus was alone when he invented writing.
His manic drawing became a kind of writing when he sent
His beloved a sketch of an eye with an X struck through it.
He meant I am blind without you. She thought he meant
I never want to see you again. It is possible he meant that, too. 

by Terrance Hayes

For more information about poet, terrance hayes, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/terrance-hayes

Tuesday Poem: "Today's Special" by Warren Decker

Today's special is all-natural rage, 

Grilled on a smoldering fire. 

Its powerful flavor made subtle with age,

Today's special is all-natural rage. 

Domestically raised in a comfortable cage, 

And fed only free-range desire, 

Today's special is all-natural rage,

Grilled on a smoldering fire. 

by Warren Decker

Poet, Warren Decker, keeps a low profile, but you can find his blog here:

https://disorienteering.wordpress.com/

Tuesday Poem: "On the pier at Kinlochbervie" by Norman MacCaig

The stars go out one by one
as though a bluetit the size of the world
were pecking them like peanuts out of the sky's string bag,

A ludicrous image, I know.

Take away the gray light.
I want the bronze shields of summer
or winter's scalding sleet.

My mind is struggling with itself.

That fishing boat is a secret
approaching me. It's a secret
coming out of another one.
I want to know the first one of all.

Everything's in the distance,
as I am. I wish I could flip that distance
like a cigarette into the water.

I want an extreme nearness.
I want boundaries on my mind.
I want to feel the world like a straitjacket.

by Norman MacCaig

For more information about poet, Norman MacCaig, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/norman-maccaig