Tuesday Poem: "You Say You Said" by Marianne Moore

“Few words are best.”

        Not here. Discretion has been abandoned in this part

        of the world too lately

        For it to be admired. Disgust for it is like the

Equinox—all things in

One. Disgust is

        No psychologist and has not opportunity to be a hypocrite.

        It says to the saw-toothed bayonet and to the cue

Of blood behind the sub-

Marine—to the

        Poisoned comb, to the Kaiser of Germany and to the

        intolerant gateman at the exit from the eastbound ex-

        press: “I hate

You less than you must hate

Yourselves: You have

        Accoutred me. ‘Without enemies one’s courage flags.’

        Your error has been timed

        To aid me, I am in debt to you for you have primed

Me against subterfuge.”

by Marianne Moore

For more information on poet, Marianne Moore, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/marianne-moore

Tuesday Poem: "Letter to Noah’s Wife" by Maya C. Popa

You are never mentioned on Ararat
or elsewhere, but I know a woman’s hand
in salvation when I see it. Lately,
I’m torn between despair and ignorance.
I’m not a vegetarian, shop plastic,
use an air conditioner. Is this what happens
before it all goes fluvial? Do the selfish
grow self-conscious by the withering
begonias? Lately, I worry every black dress
will have to be worn to a funeral.
New York a bouillon, eroded filigree.
Anything but illness, I beg the plagues,
but shiny crows or nuclear rain.
Not a drop in London May through June.
I bask in the wilt by golden hour light.
Lately, only lately, it is late. Tucking
our families into the safeties of the past.
My children, will they exist by the time
it’s irreversible? Will they live
astonished at the thought of ice
not pulled from the mouth of a machine?
Which parent will be the one to break
the myth; the Arctic wasn’t Sisyphus’s
snowy hill. Noah’s wife, I am wringing
my hands not knowing how to know
and move forward. Was it you
who gathered flowers once the earth
had dried? How did you explain the light
to all the animals?

by Maya C. Popa

Photo Credit: Sam Nester

For more information about the poet, Maya C. Popa, see:

https://poets.org/poet/maya-c-popa

Tuesday Poem: "The Applicant" by Sylvia Plath

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

by Sylvia Plath

For more information about the poet, Sylvia Plath, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sylvia-plath

Tuesday Poem: "On the Sale By Auction of Keats’ Love Letters" by Oscar Wilde

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
     To one he loved in secret, and apart.
     And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
     The merchant’s price. I think they love not art
     Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
     In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
     With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw
     Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?

by Oscar Wilde

For more information about the poet, Oscar Wilde, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde