When we were engaged, my husband bought a book of Emily Dickinson’s poems. Now, if you know my husband, you know he’s not so much a poetry reader. This was a pure act of love for me, his bride-to-be, who was (and still is) an avid poetry reader.

I tell him about sonnets.
He tells me about mechanical workings, string theory, economics, and how to get from Point A to Point B.

We learn things from each other like that. It’s a nice argument for bringing back the bartering system.

So, SuperMan, here’s my trade for the day: a little poem Ms. Dickinson wrote. You are the atom I prefer.

Of all the souls that stand create

Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away,—
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!

–

Sources

1. Emily Dickinson’s poem “Of All the Souls That Stand Create” taken from this website.

Images

1. “fresh love” from viZZZual.com on Flickr.

She gets her decaf, stirs the cream in,
Takes slow sips in the silence she craved at
7 o’clock when they woke up too early, at
10 o’clock when the baby wouldn’t nap, at
12 o’clock when there was no peanut butter, at
3 o’clock when the questions were endless, at
6 o’clock when he was home, dearly come home, and
They smiled at each other across the roar of life.
Now peace, the roar tucked into various beds with blankets, kisses, promises, and
She sits beside him.
It is too much, after all that, to watch the tragedy of a child
Lost, wounded, silenced.

She clicks the button, erases the concerned serious faces,
Pushes away the guilt of not hearing, the
Dread of her own possible losses, the
Fear of being too lucky, too long.

She puts away the words of the worst reality,
Picks up a book of poetry,
A magazine,
A notebook, a pencil,
The phone.
This small quiet space is what fuels her, fills her, defines her,
So she chooses.
Carefully she fills her cup with what is delicious and rich,
Refusing the bitter,
Ready, in the morning, to be again poured out.

by Frank O’Hara

I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

Images courtesy of Igor Dugonjic and .Pete.

God’s Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs–
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

You like? Want to read more? The entire text of Hopkins’ Poems is available online at Bartleby. I, myself, am a little in love with Hopkins. It’s a good thing he’s dead, or my husband might have something to worry about. Except that Hopkins was a Jesuit priest, so I’m thinking probably nothing to worry about after all… Ah. Read more about Hopkins at the Poets.org biography, if you like. More of my favorite poems from Hopkins:

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend

Pied Beauty (freckles!)

My own heart let me have more pity on

Summa

Grandeurious mountain photo courtesy of panoramas (flickr). Gerard’s headshot from Poets.org.

Those once-upon-a-time romances never did come true
Till I stepped through the looking glass and woke up into you.
You scared me into life, you shook me out of the mundane.
The too familiar ruts I walked seem pitiful and plain.

We (waste not, want not) save up all our dimes.

(A penny’s none too dear these days.) We strain

With waiting out, wading through the stain,

The ooze, morass, of one more tricky year

That’s what we say, in case the neighbors  hear.

And oh the tricks we turn; when rainbows fade,

We pull ‘em down and sew ‘em up. (Fair trade

Certified, of course.) And clouds we use -

diverse in black and white and all gray hues.

Ingenious Business rolling up her sleeves.

“They must be fed and clothed,” she says, “And please

Don’t tell me it’s their future that I’ll take.”

A pause. “To gain the present, I will stake

Tomorrow.”  And she moves back to her work.

…

Stuck on the last line. Suggestions?