For April -- A Poem a Day
April Come She Will By: Simon & Garfunkel April come she will! When streams are ripe and swelled with rain May she will stay Resting in my arms again June she'll change her tune In restless walks she'll prowl the night July she will fly And give no warning to her flight August die she must The autumn winds blow chilly and cold September I remember A love once new has now grown old
Poetry & Prose By: Lang Leav Sometimes I am caught between poetry and prose, like two lovers I can’t decide between. Prose says to me, let’s build something long and lasting. Poetry takes me by the hand, and whispers, come with me, let’s get lost for awhile.
She Was Fed Turtle Soup By: Lois Red Elk The willows were turning green, slips of leafs pointing to one another in a slow tempo soothing the air with whispers of coming water. Her feet were bare and the earth cool while a loose hem feathered her ankles for her walk. Bracing on stems for the gradual pace to not disturb all the sleeping turtles, she wished for sunlight in a shade of green to hurry growth and to keep her hidden. How close could she lean into the memory of relatives who lived this life of damp shells and slow demeanor without alerting them of her intent. All of grandma’s voices were now shaking her sleepy mind and begging her return to answer the details of her dream. It was the call of tradition that signaled the next step to seal the new experience into her life basket. She will be served turtle’s energy for her growth. Off of grandma’s favorite tree a knot was cut and shaped into a bowl. Handles in the shape of young turtles were carved into the sides. Into the cottonwood bowl was poured the prepared soup with essence of memory from a life once lived. Thanking all that came before this earth life, was her detailed prayer. A calling of all water animals to witness the taking of one energy to give to the energy of another, a child who passed the test of recalling ancient blood. Her heart will live with turtle strength. Her life will be long and purposefully directed. Her song will be like the cool breeze moving tall willows above eddies remembering motion.
A Hymn to the Evening By: Phyllis Wheatley Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain; Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing, Exhales the incense of the blooming spring. Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats. Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread! But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below! Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin. Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.
The Rainbow By: Christina Rossetti Boats sail on the rivers, And ships sail on the seas; But clouds that sail across the sky Are prettier than these. There are bridges on the rivers, As pretty as you please; But the bow that bridges heaven, And overtops the trees, And builds a road from earth to sky, Is prettier far than these.
A Body By: Jeff Gately '19 The Past is a series of memories and patterned, cognizant electrical currents your brain took note of like, “whoa that was nuts,” as a smell arced so high and blue and white, when you smelled her sage that calmed your nerves and reminded you of your aunt Karen and her hugs that made you feel sweetly and safe. When you smell this sage your brain goes “Hell yes, this again!” reminded of the past but clearly in the present here, in your adult skin with scars and irritations and dry flakes on elbows and hair on shoulders. When she hugs you, you are sweetly and safe and strong. Acutely aware of size, and your care for body and space. Smell your own safe and Camelia Sinsensis on your adult skin, which contains billions of creatures that keep you upright and clean. And you feel sweetly and safe in this skin that contains all the parts of you keeping you to here to smell sage, cedar, smoke and rain, and the perfume that is too much like an aunt who’s not Karen in CVS and the way a taste becomes a smell becomes a taste, back to a smelling you’re in Texas eating brisket in a fucking prairie but so sad. Or so your’re singing quiet in your brother’s car, 2002. Or you’re in her car, smelling sage on her wrist and thinking about Aunt Karen who was always Sure to show you how sweetly and safe You are.
I'm From By: Rachael Kuper '20 Am I from my birthplace? Nearby farms in the garden state more known for oil and petrochemical refinery. From boardwalks down at The Shore? Carnival rides and lost toenails. Where the firefighters dress as Santa each year to deliver candy canes. Waiting outside my elementary school during bomb threats. Where our neighborhood gang, mainly boys, spent summers in an above ground pool, on a recycled-material deck, playing tether ball, and catching tadpoles in our man made pond. From loud talkers who move their hands violently, like me, or maybe the Jersey mobsters next door rebuilding the kitchen- all cash. Perhaps the pink house whose bricks I picked out at age three. Am I from where I moved to and remember learning to know? Remember being an outsider, before becoming part of the place. The land of ten thousand lakes, but really many more, with summers tubing behind a boat and walking to the marina for candy. Lakes that freeze so thick eighteen-wheelers drive across all winter. The snow piles taller than cars and fills parking lots because they accumulate for months, never melting. Could I be from flooded fields zambonied smooth for pick-up hockey games? Where game night is a dinner to eat all the animals they hunted that year. Where people never invite non-family to holiday dinner. From politeness and helpfulness and chipperness to boot, but not niceness. I learned about Minnesota (n)ice. Am I from my family? The Jewish half? Or French-Canadian eighth? The Welsh eighth then? From the aunt with a PhD or the uncle who dropped out of high school? From never drinking around the kids or pouring a too big glass for the fifteen-year-old? Coffee decaf after eleven am or caffeinated late at night? Maybe the side with cheesy family reunions each year or the side where people don’t recognize each other after a decade apart? Am I from anywhere at all? Am I from nowhere at all? Am I from anyone? I’m made of a patchwork of people and places and identities and cultures and none are where I’m from. Maybe I’m from wandering and wondering and being stuck for two minutes.
Global Warming By: Jane Hirshfield When his ship first came to Australia, Cook wrote, the natives continued fishing, without looking up. Unable, it seems, to fear what was too large to be comprehended.
The Easter Flower By: Claude McKay Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily Soft-scented in the air for yards around; Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; And many thought it was a sacred sign, And some called it the resurrection flower; And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.
Nothing Gold Can Stay By: Robert Frost Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
Sonnet 34 By: William Shakespeare Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way, Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke? ‘Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face. For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace. Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss. The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offense’s cross. Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
The Real Monsters By: Nikita Gill
Our mothers tell us that there are no monsters under our beds, or hidden inside our closets but they don’t warn us that sometimes monsters come dressed as people that claim to love you more than the sun loves the moon.
Out of Body Experience, Please Hear Me Out By: Christine Read '20 Thoughts clouding my memory on love I am distracted by the true facts of our connection I constantly ask myself in the mirror Who will I become? and why am I stuck thinking of the image you and I painted so long ago, all alone with no one but the emptiness in my heart Still I go on, cuz this hearts all I got and with the love I give I know I won’t end up alone- in my dreams, we have something real, a connection so true I can’t help this thinking, the back and forth thoughts that replay as I stare in the mirror Why must I hate this mirror? I can feel her pumping, my heart won’t break through this chest- I have to stop this thinking, my hands keep shaking, why won’t you love me? It’s like no matter the connection your body still glides through those doors, leaving me cold and alone You think I want to be alone? Even when isolated, the reflection in the mirror reminds me of our connection how could you? How could you bruise my heart like that? After all I have done for you and the love I tried to give you, now I’m out here thinking- Why can’t I stop this thinking- and who am I to think I can’t be satisfied being alone? I have it somewhere, stored inside of me, self-love But it keeps staring back that mirror- deep down, somewhere in my heart I know between us there is a connection But if there just so happens to be no connection I hope all this thinking- out loud meant something, cuz my heart means something, and I don’t like to be alone but when I look at myself in the mirror I want it, I want to love. (Outro) You were standing behind me glancing at the mirror, and it got me thinking- of this connection. Why does my heart refuse to feel whole and why is this love making me feel so alone?
Pulled Over in Short Hills, NJ, 8:00 AM By: Ross Gay It’s the shivering. When rage grows hot as an army of red ants and forces the mind to quiet the body, the quakes emerge, sometimes just the knees, but, at worst, through the hips, chest, neck until, like a virus, slipping inside the lungs and pulse, every ounce of strength tapped to squeeze words from my taut lips, his eyes scanning my car’s insides, my eyes, my license, and as I answer the questions 3, 4, 5 times, my jaw tight as a vice, his hand massaging the gun butt, I imagine things I don’t want to and inside beg this to end before the shiver catches my hands, and he sees, and something happens.
Paul Revere’s Ride By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, -- A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When be came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Has My Heart Gone To Sleep? By: Antonio Machado Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shallow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence.
How I Learned Bliss By: Oliver de la Paz I spied everything. The North Dakota license, the “Baby on Board” signs, dead raccoons, and deer carcasses. The Garfields clinging to car windows—the musky traces of old coffee. I was single-minded in the buzz saw tour I took through the flatlands of the country to get home. I just wanted to get there. Never mind the antecedent. I had lost stations miles ago and was living on cassettes and caffeine. Ahead, brushstrokes of smoke from annual fires. Only ahead to the last days of summer and to the dying theme of youth. How pitch-perfect the tire-on-shoulder sound was to mask the hiss of the tape deck ribbons. Everything. Perfect. As Wyoming collapses over the car like a wave. And then another mile marker. Another. How can I say this more clearly? It was like opening a heavy book, letting the pages feather themselves and finding a dried flower.
A Work in Progress By: Noor Unnahar
i was suppose to be a city with busy streets and twinkling lights but I wanted to be a house full of warm sunlight and dried flowers gracing its vases i’m neither today but a hollow skeleton of progress where everyday something builds and collapse i am happier in this
To Love By: Rupi Kaur To hate is an easy lazy thing but to love takes strength everyone has but not all are willing to practice
Ducks on the River By: Pamela Leavey '19 The line moves Drawn and driven By a finely feathered force It fans outwards Creating a palpable pattern Of disruption. They look like small children Scampering about On a green lawn— They flap their wings Suddenly, they lift off Splashing the still water. They spiral downward Then swoop and swirl On the wafting wind They sweep, swerve Swivel and dive And then they diverge Back into the motionless drink, Creating fresh, fluid Lines of movement. Suddenly, the lines begin to dwindle While they intermingle Amidst the still steel blue water Motion becomes Barely perceptible— Reflection resonates As the still water No longer replicates The movement of mallards.
Lone By: Shannon Stimpson '21 Her hands, dexterous as ever, now untethered, grasped at anything within reach- fallen leaves, budding branches, pits of cherries long since discarded and dried. Her fingers pricked, palms bled, and she reveled in each sensation as they were hers and hers alone.
LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS By: Shel Silverstein Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child, Listen to the DON'TS Listen to the SHOULDN'TS The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT'S Listen to the NEVER HAVES Then listen close to me— Anything can happen, child, ANYTHING can be.
How Would You Paint Me? By: Christy Ann Martine If you were an artist how would you paint me? With deep solid strokes or your brush sweeping softly? Would you paint me by number, quickly fill in the lines or sketch me first, taking your time? Would you use vibrant colors or plain shades of gray? Would you change me in any way? Would you hang me proudly and gaze at me often or tuck me away until I'm forgotten?
You Fit Into Me By: Margaret Atwood you fit into me like a hook into an eye a fish hook an open eye
The Rose That Grew From Concrete By: Tupac Shakur Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet. Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.
Caged Bird By: Maya Angelou A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
From Walt to Emily (Dedicated to Emily Dickinson's Poem 39) By: Natasha Murray '20
I have gained more than I have lost. Two brothers buried in the soil, their faces unseen and voices unheard, but my brothers come in many forms: Two blue jays harmonizing outside my window, the sea breeze tickling my neck, a white feather appearing on my bedroom floor, God’s land sprouting where they lay I smile and look to the clouds Two angels open the gates of Heaven My entire being lights up with up joy! Giver! Supporter! Lord! I am richer than I have ever been!
An April Day By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-in of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And when the eve is gone, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April! -- many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
April Rain Song By: Langston Hughes Let the rain kiss you Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops Let the rain sing you a lullaby The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.