Poetry Club, day 17

This one’s another haiku. Such a useful format! The author was 13 when she wrote it. Now she’s a young woman. If you’ve read or seen or had any exposure to the legend of King Arthur, then you will get this poem.

Think of an iconic moment in a classic story. Could you render it in haiku?




I don’t understand.

All I did was lift the sword

from the stone.


Sara Barkat, age 13


Your turn.

Poetry Club, day 16

Last week of Poetry Club, friends! I’m so happy everyone has played along.

In some ways Julia Kasdorf was the inspiration behind The Joy of Poetry. I took a workshop with her at Laity Lodge years ago, where I met one poet who became a friend, Sandra Heska King, and another who became a publisher, L.L. Barkat.

When I read this poem at The Writer’s Almanac, I printed it because it shows a mother’s weakness and a child’s response to it. There is so much more to this mother-child story than is explained in the poem. The bats in the office — really, bats? — suggest something darker than a flying mammal. The hope is in the beginning of the poem, that somehow all that the child has suffered will mean something “years from now.”


Years From Now When You Are Weary 


and worn out, wondering how you’ll pay

a bill or make the rent or meet a deadline


set by some thoughtless boss—and kid,

such days will come—remember yourself


at five: hair light from the sun or just from

being young, new lunchbox pasted


with butterflies, how you hung your backpack

on a hook, then wouldn’t let me take your picture


on the first day of school, sending me

out of that classroom, to the car, to my job


where a pair of bats flapped in the hallway.

Bats may be just bats, but one darted


into my office, quick as the boxer’s head

that bobs and weaves and never gets hit.


It landed and hung from the drapes, upside

down, as you hung in my body for a while.


Bats are not the only flying mammals.

That afternoon in line for the bus, you cried,


so tired you thought you’d fall asleep

and miss your stop. Years from now, child,


in some helpless dusk, remember that fatigue

but how you made it home to me anyway


in the care of a kind farmer—bus driver.

Recall that once I arrived late, your bus


gone, and when I found you, carefully seated

by a coffeepot in a corner of a dim garage


at the school bus lot, you just said, Let’s go,

Mama. Don’t tell anyone about this.


Julia Kasdorf


Your turn.


Poetry Club, day 15

Obviously, I picked this poem because of the title. And because it says in such eloquent detail how stories like Romeo and Juliet can’t be fully appreciated until we’re old enough to look on our teenage selves with wisdom. But, hey, we probably wouldn’t go back to it if we weren’t introduced to it in the first place, when we were young, star-crossed lovers.

Again, Tania, thank you. Wish I could’ve used it.


Teaching Shakespeare


They hold no loyalties to the star-crossed lovers,

their books resting lightly in their hands, pencils tapping,

urging me to gallop apace so the two can put themselves

out of their misery.

It’s nothing but a lust story;

he saw her work those curves in some circle dance,

and that was it.

I press: is it possible? Is it remotely

conceivable that they loved?

                                       Hey, we go to parties

and check each other out. We know nothing

about love. But we’d never die for looks

like those morons.

They all nod in agreement, and I fear

the slow, dreadful flowering of the remaining scenes,

the doodling, the glaring out of windows, my own

growing conviction that Romeo would have played the


had he lived three more days.

The class genius stares


at his neighbor’s blonde ponytail, then blurts,

So who’s this Tie-balt?

To her melodious laughter.

I can only look down and smile, remembering my own

foolish fortune,

when I allowed my mind to sculpt itself

around a startling green eye, or a lock of hair hanging


a boy’s forehead.

I wish I could tell them, it’s all true—

all of it. We know nothing about love for a long, long


I wish I could tell them how I rode my bike a mile

out of the way to catch a glimpse of Teddy at his


hoop; how I hid my perfect trig scores from Kevin;

how for David, I ringed my eyes with so much smoky


they watered;

how for no love at all I took a little

of my life

every day.


Tania Runyan


Your turn.

Poetry Club, day 14

If you’ve read The Joy of Poetry, you know I have a note in the Acknowledgments apologizing to people who gave me permission to use a poem that for one reason or another I didn’t end up using. This is one of those poems. Not only did Marcus give permission, but we have the same publisher, who also agreed. So here it is. A science-y love poem.


Revolution Day

for Amy Goodyear


Under French and Swiss, it loops

straddling resistance and neutrality

in tunnels that are many stories

tall. They’ll accelerate particles.

Who knows what that means—

except their white coats and access keys.

The Higgs particle could be in reach

Signatures of supersummetry, too.

Right. I say, accelerate this family.

Send mom round the rings.

Counter-rotate dad and kids

all of them riding seven trillion

electron volt beams like some carnie

just set it up in a mall parking lot:

“6 tickets a ride, or get a wristband.”

Start the flight that ends with a smash.

We’ll all super-collide to find immensity,

energy, strange answers to strangers’

questions. Asymmetry’s embedded here

in the universe—even families—even moms.

Somebody chose what stays and what goes.

Dark matter, gone. Life, the universe,

everything has 23 per cent dross, so mom

lick your finger, smudge the cheek of all

existence and say, Smile for the camera.


Marcus Goodyear


Your turn.


Poetry Club, day 13

This poem is in the public domain, so there’s no financial reason why I didn’t include it in The Joy of Poetry. But I feel its absence. It’s a poem I think my mom would have liked because 1) It’s addressed to the Almighty, and 2) It rhymes.

I’m posting it today because April 19 is what E.B. White called a “flagless memorial day.” He used the term in his essay “Death of a Pig.” It’s the day that he would always remember because of what it signified in his life. It’s just That Day.


No Coward Soul is Mine


No coward soul is mine

No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere

I see Heaven’s glories shine

And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear


O God within my breast

Almighty ever-present Deity

Life, that in me hast rest,

As I Undying Life, have power in Thee


Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,

Worthless as withered weeds

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main


To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by thy infinity,

So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of Immortality.


With wide-embracing love

Thy spirit animates eternal years

Pervades and broods above,

Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears


Though earth and moon were gone

And suns and universes ceased to be

And Thou wert left alone

Every Existence would exist in thee


There is not room for Death

Nor atom that his might could render void

Since thou art Being and Breath

And what thou art may never be destroyed.


~ Emily Bronte


Your turn.

Poetry Club, day 12

Pablo Neruda means a lot to me. If you’ve read The Joy of Poetry, you know my parents met in Chile, and that my dad met Neruda.

I found Neruda’s Cien sonetos de amor at a local bishop in Bonners Ferry, Idaho. The day after we returned home was our 25th anniversary of John and I meeting each other. On that blessed day I gave my love … nothing. I wanted to be left alone for some poetry time.

John’s lived with me for a long time. He kindly gave me space. But I’d forgotten he’d be gone that night. When I finally stopped writing, I missed him. So I picked up my Neruda.

If my parents taught me anything, it was to never take your loved one for granted. Neruda was married three times, but I feel sure he would find ways to celebrate an anniversary without working on a stupid laptop.

Yes, Love, we were home that day, and summer had arrived. We traveled to Canada, not Armenia. Sat beside the Kootenai, not the Yang-Tse. Instead of sailing home across the “crackling sea,” we flew home over the Rocky Mountains. We returned to rain — all Memorial Day it rained, and never were the citizens of our drought-stricken agricultural ‘burg so happy. We may have felt like “two blind birds,” but we returned to our nest, to our wall, to our home.



Love, we’re going home now,

where the vines clamber over the trellis:

even before you, the summer will arrive,

on its honeysuckle feet, in your bedroom.


Our nomadic kisses wandered over all the world:

Armenia, dollop of disinterred honey—:

Ceylon, green dove—:and the Yang-Tse with its old

old patience, dividing the day from the night.


And now, dearest, we return, across the crackling sea

like two blind birds to their wall,

to their nest in a distant spring:


because love cannot always fly without resting,

our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea:

our kisses head back home where they belong.


~ Pablo Neruda


Your turn.


Poetry Club, day 11

In The Joy of Poetry I often said there is no secret to understanding poetry. Because I delight in contradiction, I give you a poem about the secret meaning of a poem. I love the turn in the poem where she begins to talk about her poetry and what secrets it might or might not hold.

P.S. Glynn Young wrote a nice essay about Denise Levertov at Tweetspeak a while back.


The Secret 


Two girls discover

the secret of life

in a sudden line of



I who don’t know the

secret wrote

the line. They

told me


(through a third person)

they had found it

but not what it was

not even


what line it was. No doubt

by now, more than a week

later, they have forgotten

the secret,


the line, the name of

the poem. I love them

for finding what

I can’t find,


and for loving me

for the line I wrote,

and for forgetting it

so that


a thousand times, till death

finds them, they may

discover it again, in other



in other

happenings. And for

wanting to know it,



assuming there is

such a secret, yes,

for that

most of all.


Denise Levertov


Your turn.



Poetry Club, day 10

I have a chapter in The Joy of Poetry about poems as songs. This was one I got permission for, but it was a little steep. J. Patrick Lewis has been the children’s poet laureate, and a lot of his poems convey history.

If you don’t know the legend of blues guitarist Robert Johnson, who sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads in exchange for the ability to play guitar, well, here it is as a poem. It’s one long quotation, with the devil talking to Mister Johnson.


At the Crossroad, Highways 61 and 49


“Mister Johnson

I see you look to buyin’

Mister Johnson

That all you want is Fame?

Mister Johnson

Now what you got to offer?

Mister Johnson

Salvation is my name

With a rhythm on a riff

That’s practically God

Oh Lord, I’m a pure

Undivining rod

I’m a flickerin’ candle

With the blackest light

I’m the darkest angel

And I own the night

Mister Johnson

That instrument you got there

Mister Johnson

It’s Lucifer’s guitar

Mister Johnson

I’ll tune it for you, baby

Mister Johnson

They won’t know who you are

I’m a cutthroat seller,

The Magician of Deal

Who can stoke sweet fire

That’ll make you feel

Like a hothouse flower

On double defrost

Who won’t give a nickel

For the petals it lost

Mister Johnson

You slink on back to livin’

Mister Johnson

In devil-may-care control

Mister Johnson

Don’t thank me for the favor

Mister Johnson

I thank you for your soul”


~ J. Patrick Lewis


Your turn.

Poetry Club, day 9

I think at some point I gave up on including this one The Joy of Poetry, but it’s so good. Every writer should know it.

Laura Brown referenced this poem on her blog in a short entry titled “Writer’s Daughter.” I already liked the poem, but her personal reflection opened it up to me in a new way.

That’s the best way to take in a poem — personalize it.




Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.


Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down


Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.


The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.


By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.


My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.


The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.


Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.


~ Seamus Heaney


Your turn.



Poetry Club, day 8

I first wrote about this poem in my journal in June 2014 when Laura Brown and I were poetry buddying our way through Kevin Young’s collection Book of Hours. I was really taken with this one and have returned to it over and over.

Originally, The Joy of Poetry was supposed to have an entire chapter about buddying with Laura and about the poems in Young’s collection. Unfortunately, Harper Collins does not offer coupons for permissions. Also, when I rewrote the book, that whole chapter with Laura was condensed down to a sentence, a decision I still regret although I don’t know how I could have rectified it.

There’s a nod in the poem to Robert Browning’s “Andrea del Sarto,” about a man’s reach exceeding his grasp or what’s a heaven for. It makes me think that we have expectations for our children — how can we not? But as they grow and we learn who they are, we let go of who we thought they were. Sometimes we have to let them travel beyond our reach. Sometimes we grasp nothing, and it sure doesn’t feel like heaven. That’s why exceeding is necessary.



(for my stepdaughter)


May you never see

the diseased carp

being carried from the lake

like a lost girl, limp.


May the white dog

of Mercy drag you

from the car long before

it pours into flame.


May Mercy come

when called.


May you never lose

the family dog through

early ice, as your father did,


then weeks later spot

him below, frozen, eyeing you

skating just


out of reach, looking

like heaven to him.


May you exceed

our expectations, not

our reach, our reach

but not our grasp,


our homes

not our arms.


~ Kevin Young


Your turn.