Final Favorite

Final Favorite: "Workshop" by Billy Collins

I chose this poem as my final favorite over the other ones because I feel that I can relate to it the most. This poem mirrors my feelings as a student studying poetry. Most of the time I'm lost and can't see the deeper meaning of the poem, like the speaker in "Workshop". Poetry is confusing to me because it is so subjective. The meanings can differ from person to person, which the speaker notices in this poem, speculating that maybe his thoughts were "just how I [he] read it." Though this aspect of poetry confuses me, it also is what fascinates me about poetry. The fact that a poet can capture so many different themes and nuances in anywhere from a few words to a whole page is something I find interesting. Despite being confused with poetry 9 times out of 10, when I do figure out the meaning, I enjoy the poetry just like the speaker who feels a "very powerful sense of something" when reading the poem.

"Stars" by Emily Bronte

1) Poem:

Stars
 Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our earth to joy
Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought, star followed star
Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.

Why did the morning dawn to break
So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight
His fierce beams struck my brow:
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil
I saw him blazing still;
And steep in gold the misty dale
And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow then
To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!

It would not do the pillow glowed
And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.

The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.

O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;
O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn

That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!
--Emily Bronte

2) Vocabulary: petrel:  any of numerous tube-nosed seabirds of the families Procellariidae, Hydrobatidae, and Pelecanoididae.

3) Analysis:
     
     A) Paraphrase of first stanza: Why do the stars depart once morning comes?
        Paraphrase of second stanza: The speaker gazed at the stars all night, an experience she descibes as divine.
        Paraphrase of third stanza: The speaker is at peace with the stars, which give her life and watch her dream.
        Paraphrase of fourth stanza: The speaker goes on to describe how she dreams at night.
        Paraphrase of fifth stanza: Why must the harsh morning light break the serenity of nighttime?
        Paraphrase of sixth stanza: The speaker personifies the sun as a harsh male figure. When the sun rises, the whole world rejoices except for the speaker.
        Paraphrase of seventh stanza: The speaker can't escape the sun, it is still there even when her eyes are closed.
        Paraphrase of eighth stanza: The speaker wishes to call back night and go back into the sanctuary it provides.
        Paraphrase of ninth stanza: As much as the speaker doesn't want it, morning comes anyway.
        Paraphrase of tenth stanza: Flies are buzzing around the speaker's room in the daylight, trapped until she opens a window.
        Paraphrase of eleventh stanza: The speaker begs for the stars and the night to come back to hide her from the burning light of day.
        Paraphrase of twelfth stanza: The speaker describes day as feeding off of tears and suffering men's blood. The speaker wishes to sleep through the day and only wake at night.

    B) Theme: The theme of this poem is that nighttime and dreams and their serenity can provide a haven from the troubles that can plague a person's life in the daytime. Sleep heals and helps us to recover from the day's work. In the poem, the speaker takes this theme to the extreme, saying that she prefers night and sleep to the harsh reality of life.

4) Personal Connection: To be perfectly honest, I can't really pin down what I like so much about this poem. I found it last year while working on another project and originally thought it was a love poem, so I just thought it was cute. However, now that I read it, I realize that the "you" the speaker addresses is not a lover but is in fact the stars in the night sky. So for one thing, I like this poem because it clearly shows how poetry can be interpreted in many different ways. I also like it because it shows what a help that sleep can be. As a student I LOVE sleep, and I know firsthand that it can erase a tough day from your mind and help you to be prepared for the next one. The poem also talks about escaping into dreams which is nice because, who wouldn't want the chance to step out of their own shoes, if only for a little while?

"Hope" by Sri Chinmoy

1) Poem:

Hope

Hope abides; therefore I abide.
Countless frustrations have not cowed me.
I am still alive, vibrant with life.
The black cloud will disappear,
The morning sun will appear once again
In all its supernal glory.

      -- Sri Chinmoy

2) Vocabulary: supernal: being in or belonging to the heaven of divine beings; heavenly, celestial, or divine.

3) Analysis:

     
     A) Paraphrase:  Hope puts up with life's troubles, giving the speaker a reason to put up with them too. Despite the frustrations in life, the speaker acknowledges that they are still alive and can keep going. They say that the bad times will pass and that happiness will come back into their life.

   
    B) Theme: This poem shows the power of hope on someone's life. If a  person has hope, they can get through even the toughest of times. Hope keeps people from being bogged down with troubles in life and gives them optimism, showing us that the black clouds will clear and that the sun will shine in our lives if we just have hope.

4) Personal Connection: I loved this poem from the very first time that I read it. It's just so happy and inspiring, that it lifts my mood when I read it. This poem reminds me of the power that hope can have in someone's life, to free them from the burdens they carry. It also encourages having an optimistic outlook, which someone like me who has anxiety definitely needs. The poem says that no matter how bad things seem, with hope and optimism, happiness will always come into your life, which I find as a very inspiring message that anyone should be reminded of.

"Workshop" by Billy Collins

1) Poem:

Workshop 
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.   

It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now   

so immediately the poem has my attention,

like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.

And I like the first couple of stanzas,

the way they establish this mode of self-pointing

that runs through the whole poem

and tells us that words are food thrown down   

on the ground for other words to eat.   

I can almost taste the tail of the snake   

in its own mouth,

if you know what I mean.

But what I’m not sure about is the voice,

which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,   

but other times seems standoffish,

professorial in the worst sense of the word

like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.   

But maybe that’s just what it wants to do.

What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,   

especially the fourth one.

I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges   

which gives me a very clear picture.

And I really like how this drawbridge operator   

just appears out of the blue

with his feet up on the iron railing

and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging—

a hook in the slow industrial canal below.

I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s.

Maybe it’s just me,

but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.   

I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?   

And what’s an obbligato of snow?

Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.

At that point I’m lost. I need help.

The other thing that throws me off,

and maybe this is just me,

is the way the scene keeps shifting around.   

First, we’re in this big aerodrome

and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,   

which makes me think this could be a dream.   

Then he takes us into his garden,

the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,   

though that’s nice, the coiling hose,

but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be.   

The rain and the mint green light,

that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?   

Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery?

There’s something about death going on here.

In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here   

is really two poems, or three, or four,   

or possibly none.

But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite.

This is where the poem wins me back,

especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.

I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before,

but I still love the details he uses

when he’s describing where he lives.

The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,   

the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can,   

the spool of thread for a table.

I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work   

night after night collecting all these things

while the people in the house were fast asleep,   

and that gives me a very strong feeling,

a very powerful sense of something.

But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that.   

Maybe that was just me.

Maybe that’s just the way I read it.

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. 
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now 
so immediately the poem has my attention, 
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. 

And I like the first couple of stanzas, 
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing 
that runs through the whole poem 
and tells us that words are food thrown down 
on the ground for other words to eat. 
I can almost taste the tail of the snake 
in its own mouth, 
if you know what I mean. 

But what I’m not sure about is the voice, 
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, 
but other times seems standoffish, 
professorial in the worst sense of the word 
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. 
But maybe that’s just what it wants to do. 

What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, 
especially the fourth one. 
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges 
which gives me a very clear picture. 
And I really like how this drawbridge operator 
just appears out of the blue 
with his feet up on the iron railing 
and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— 
a hook in the slow industrial canal below. 
I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s. 

Maybe it’s just me, 
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. 
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? 
And what’s an obbligato of snow? 
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. 
At that point I’m lost. I need help. 

The other thing that throws me off, 
and maybe this is just me, 
is the way the scene keeps shifting around. 
First, we’re in this big aerodrome 
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, 
which makes me think this could be a dream. 
Then he takes us into his garden, 
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, 
though that’s nice, the coiling hose, 
but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be. 
The rain and the mint green light, 
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? 
Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? 
There’s something about death going on here. 

In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here 
is really two poems, or three, or four, 
or possibly none. 

But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite. 
This is where the poem wins me back, 
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. 
I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before, 
but I still love the details he uses 
when he’s describing where he lives. 
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, 
the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, 
the spool of thread for a table. 
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work 
night after night collecting all these things 
while the people in the house were fast asleep, 
and that gives me a very strong feeling, 
a very powerful sense of something. 
But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that. 
Maybe that was just me. 
Maybe that’s just the way I read it. 

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19755#sthash.Dd8Cpfty.dpuf

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now so immediately the poem has my attention, like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. And I like the first couple of stanzas, the way they establish this mode of self-pointing that runs through the whole poem and tells us that words are food thrown down on the ground for other words to eat. I can almost taste the tail of the snake in its own mouth, if you know what I mean. But what I’m not sure about is the voice, which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, but other times seems standoffish, professorial in the worst sense of the word like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. But maybe that’s just what it wants to do. What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, especially the fourth one. I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges which gives me a very clear picture. And I really like how this drawbridge operator just appears out of the blue with his feet up on the iron railing and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— a hook in the slow industrial canal below. I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s. Maybe it’s just me, but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? And what’s an obbligato of snow? Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. At that point I’m lost. I need help. The other thing that throws me off, and maybe this is just me, is the way the scene keeps shifting around. First, we’re in this big aerodrome and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, which makes me think this could be a dream. Then he takes us into his garden, the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, though that’s nice, the coiling hose, but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be. The rain and the mint green light, that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? There’s something about death going on here. In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none. But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite. This is where the poem wins me back, especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before, but I still love the details he uses when he’s describing where he lives. The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, the spool of thread for a table. I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work night after night collecting all these things while the people in the house were fast asleep, and that gives me a very strong feeling, a very powerful sense of something. But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that. Maybe that was just me. Maybe that’s just the way I read it. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19755#sthash.8TDSSKep.dpuf

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now so immediately the poem has my attention, like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. And I like the first couple of stanzas, the way they establish this mode of self-pointing that runs through the whole poem and tells us that words are food thrown down on the ground for other words to eat. I can almost taste the tail of the snake in its own mouth, if you know what I mean. But what I’m not sure about is the voice, which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, but other times seems standoffish, professorial in the worst sense of the word like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. But maybe that’s just what it wants to do. What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, especially the fourth one. I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges which gives me a very clear picture. And I really like how this drawbridge operator just appears out of the blue with his feet up on the iron railing and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— a hook in the slow industrial canal below. I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s. Maybe it’s just me, but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? And what’s an obbligato of snow? Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. At that point I’m lost. I need help. The other thing that throws me off, and maybe this is just me, is the way the scene keeps shifting around. First, we’re in this big aerodrome and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, which makes me think this could be a dream. Then he takes us into his garden, the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, though that’s nice, the coiling hose, but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be. The rain and the mint green light, that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? There’s something about death going on here. In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none. But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite. This is where the poem wins me back, especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before, but I still love the details he uses when he’s describing where he lives. The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, the spool of thread for a table. I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work night after night collecting all these things while the people in the house were fast asleep, and that gives me a very strong feeling, a very powerful sense of something. But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that. Maybe that was just me. Maybe that’s just the way I read it. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19755#sthash.8TDSSKep.dpuf

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now so immediately the poem has my attention, like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. And I like the first couple of stanzas, the way they establish this mode of self-pointing that runs through the whole poem and tells us that words are food thrown down on the ground for other words to eat. I can almost taste the tail of the snake in its own mouth, if you know what I mean. But what I’m not sure about is the voice, which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, but other times seems standoffish, professorial in the worst sense of the word like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. But maybe that’s just what it wants to do. What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, especially the fourth one. I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges which gives me a very clear picture. And I really like how this drawbridge operator just appears out of the blue with his feet up on the iron railing and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— a hook in the slow industrial canal below. I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s. Maybe it’s just me, but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? And what’s an obbligato of snow? Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. At that point I’m lost. I need help. The other thing that throws me off, and maybe this is just me, is the way the scene keeps shifting around. First, we’re in this big aerodrome and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, which makes me think this could be a dream. Then he takes us into his garden, the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, though that’s nice, the coiling hose, but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be. The rain and the mint green light, that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? There’s something about death going on here. In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none. But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite. This is where the poem wins me back, especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before, but I still love the details he uses when he’s describing where he lives. The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, the spool of thread for a table. I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work night after night collecting all these things while the people in the house were fast asleep, and that gives me a very strong feeling, a very powerful sense of something. But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that. Maybe that was just me. Maybe that’s just the way I read it. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19755#sthash.8TDSSKep.dpuf

 --Billy Collins

2) Vocabulary: obbligato: an obbligato part or accompaniment or a continuing or persistent subordinate or background motif.

                      dirigible: an airship

3)  Analysis: 

      
      A) Paraphrase of first stanza: The title of the poem in the speaker's poetry workshop catches his/her attention and makes the speaker want to continue reading.

           Paraphrase of the second stanza: The speaker likes the first few stanzas of the poem and how they blatantly use words to prove the point that they are trying to make.

         Paraphrase of the third stanza: The speaker is unsure about the voice/tone of the poem. At some points, it's casual and at others, it is snobby. The speaker isn't sure if that was the poet's intention or not.

         Paraphrase of the fourth stanza: The speaker describes what he/she likes about the middle stanza including the imagery of clouds, how a character appears and how the words the poet used sound nice because of their consonance.

         Paraphrase of the fifth stanza: The poem begins to confuse the speaker by using difficult imagery and vocabulary. The speaker is lost and needs help to interpret the poem.

         Paraphrase of the sixth stanza: The speaker is also confused by how the poem shifts around from place to place quickly. The speaker tries to analyze, saying that maybe part of the poem is a dream or that there is a connection to death.

        Paraphrase of the seventh stanza: The speaker wonders whether the poem is really one poem but rather many poems or none at all.

        Paraphrase of the eighth stanza: The speaker's favorite stanza is the last one which describes a cartoon-like mouse house. The speaker reflects on how hard the mouse worked to build the house which makes him/her feel a strong emotion. The speaker doubts anyone else felt it, saying that it was just how he/she read the poem.

   
     B)Theme: The theme of this poem is that everyone appreciates and interprets poetry differently. Poems have many underlying meanings that may be apparent to some but hidden to others. Despite the usual difficulty that students like the speaker have with making sense of poetry, if the really work at it, they get a better appreciation for the poem and develop their own views on its meaning.

4) Personal Connection: I feel that I connect the most with this poem out of my five favorites because it is basically my exact thoughts any time I try to analyze any poem. Ever. Especially e.e. cummings. Like the speaker, I find poetry really difficult to understand. I either over-analyze it or under-analyze it. I usually start very black-and-white with my interpretations, focusing on aspects I like and don't like of the poem until I can even begin to think of theme. However, also similar to the speaker, I find that after my brain hurts and I've managed to interpret the poem, I really do enjoy poetry. It has the ability to make you feel any range of emotions just with a few words. It's powerful and beautiful and I applaud those who can successfully write it.

"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

1) Poem:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
--Mary Oliver  

3) Analysis: 

     A) Paraphrase:You do not have to spend your life regretting the past and asking for forgiveness for living, instead do what you love to do. Despite your despair, the world still goes on. No matter who you are, the world is yours for the taking and it calls to you, both exciting and scary at the same time.

    B) Theme: This poem is about finding one's place in the world and accepting life for what it is. The speaker is saying that we as people should not spend our whole life repenting for living our lives. The message is to embrace life as well as nature and to do whatever makes you happy in life, rather than focusing on mistakes. The speaker goes on to elaborate on this point to say that the world is calling to us, comparing this to the call of wild geese. Though life can be "harsh", it can also be "exciting" and people should go out and live life to the fullest.

4) Personal Connection: The first thing that made actually stop and pick out this poem to read from the countless online was the title, "Wild Geese". Growing up, and even now I love watching geese fly by in their v-formation and honking. I always marveled and wondered how they could possibly keep that formation so effortlessly. Watching geese is always a moment that makes me feel closer to nature and helps me to stop and realize its true beauty. Looking back at what I just wrote, I realize it has barely anything to do with the content of the poem but it is truthfully what drew me to this poem. After I read the poem, it instantly became a favorite. I love its message of living life to the fullest and not dwelling on mistakes. I connect to this be cause dwelling on the past is something I do often and this poem serves as a reminder that past is past and that we should enjoy the life ahead.

"To Dorothy" by Marvin Bell

1) Poem:

To Dorothy
 You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
and a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
“Things that are lost are all equal.”
But it isn’t true. If I lost you,
the air wouldn’t move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn’t be yours. If I lost you,
I’d have to ask the grass to let me sleep.
--Marvin Bell

2) Vocabulary:  mulberry:the edible, berrylike collective fruit of any tree of                                      the genus Morus OR a tree of this genus.
  
3) Analysis: 

     A) Paraphrase or the first stanza: The speaker thinks Dorothy is beautiful because of her flaws and characteristics that make her unique. The speaker is content to sleep alongside his love in their personal quiet.
        Paraphrase of the second stanza: The speaker says how some think that everything that is lost is the same and doesn't matter but he disagrees. He says that if he lost Dorothy, his world would be over, there would be no more contented silence, just lonely silence and he would wish for death.

    B) Theme: There are a few themes to this poem. One is that beauty is not about perfection. True beauty is about being imperfect and love is strongest when those imperfections are accepted and appreciated by those in love. Another theme is that true love is one where the people in love can not live without each other. They would rather die than to be without the one they love. This poem is a love poem which identifies the real meanings of beauty and love.


4) Personal Connection: This poem is one of my favorites for a few reasons, the obvious one being that is is downright adorable, especially because Marvin Bell wrote it for his wife Dorothy. But besides the "aww" aspect of it, the fact that the poem was not a conventional love poem also drew me to it. Instead of fawning over a lover, the poem instead focuses what characteristics make her unique by saying that she is "beautiful, inexactly". He accepts her flaws which I think is key to any love. Any person would want to be with someone who loves them for who they are and doesn't expect them to be perfect. This poem shows unconditional love which I find beautiful and heart-warming.

 

  

To Dorothy

  by Marvin Bell

You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
and a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
the air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you,
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20932#sthash.LNI6AumX.dpuf

To Dorothy

  by Marvin Bell

You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
and a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
the air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you,
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20932#sthash.LNI6AumX.dpuf

You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
and a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
the air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you,
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20932#sthash.LNI6AumX.dpuf

You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
and a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
of a windy night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
"Things that are lost are all equal."
But it isn't true. If I lost you,
the air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours. If I lost you,
I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20932#sthash.LNI6AumX.dpuf