to pit against its beatings, and sinks them pitilessly.
Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minute
brilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sails
they glide to the wind tossing green water
from their sharp prows while over them the crew crawls
ant-like, solicitously grooming them, releasing,
making fast as they turn, lean far over and having
caught the wind again, side by side, head for the mark.
In a well guarded arena of open water surrounded by
lesser and greater craft which, sycophant, lumbering
and flittering follow them, they appear youthful, rare
as the light of a happy eye, live with the grace
of all that in the mind is fleckless, free and
naturally to be desired. Now the sea which holds them
is moody, lapping their glossy sides, as if feeling
for some slightest flaw but fails completely.
Today no race. Then the wind comes again. The yachts
move, jockeying for a start, the signal is set and they
are off. Now the waves strike at them but they are too
well made, they slip through, though they take in canvas.
Arms with hands grasping seek to clutch at the prows.
Bodies thrown recklessly in the way are cut aside.
It is a sea of faces about them in agony, in despair
until the horror of the race dawns staggering the mind,
the whole sea become an entanglement of watery bodies
lost to the world bearing what they cannot hold. Broken,
beaten, desolate, reaching from the dead to be taken up
they cry out, failing, failing! their cries rising
in waves still as the skillful yachts pass over.
— William Carlos Williams
PETER JENNINGS
MAN WITH WOODEN LEG ESCAPES PRISON
I like this poem because it introduces young readers to the idea that poems don’t have to rhyme, and that poems can tell stories. It has a good message about perseverance and determination and adaptation. Finally, James Tate, who won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1993, deserves the attention.
Man with wooden leg escapes prison. He’s caught.
They take his wooden leg away from him. Each day
he must cross a large hill and swim a wide river
to get to the field where he must work all day on
one leg. This goes on for a year. At the Christmas
Party they give him back his leg. Now he doesn’t
want it. His escape is all planned. It requires
only one leg.
— James Tate
EDWARD I. KOCH
Dear Ms. Ellis,
I received your letter and I am delighted to participate in your project to aid the International Rescue Committee.
For me, Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee” is a poem of sentimentality at its very best. It carries the reader back to a gentler age and turns tragedy into a thing of beauty. It is a gracious love poem.
All the best.
Sincerly
ANNABEL LEE
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee; —
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love —
I and my Annabel Lee —
With a love that the wingèd seraphs in Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me: —
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud, by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we —
Of many far wiser than we —
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, — my darling, — my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea —
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
— Edgar Allan Poe
KENNETH KOCH
Dear Adie Ellis,
I don’t really have one Favorite Poem but quite a lot of favorite poems. Some poems seem so good that there couldn’t possibly be any poem better, and then one goes on reading and finds another poem one likes just as well. I think if I started listing my favorite poems, it might fill up your whole book — there would be poems by Shakespeare, John Donne, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Frank O’Hara, and a lot more. Also among my favorite poems are some written by the students I had when I was teaching schoolchildren to write poetry, like this one by Jeff Morley. He was in the fifth grade at Public School 61 in New York when he wrote it, I think in 1968. I had asked my students to write poems that were completely untrue — what I called “Lie Poems.” Some children wrote lists of funny, crazy things like “I was born on a blackboard,” “I fly to school at 12:00 midnight,” or “I am in New York on a flying blueberry” — but Jeff wrote about just one strange, and obviously untrue, experience. There was something about it that seemed true, though —
THE DAWN OF ME:
I was born nowhere
And I live in a tree
I never leave my tree
It is very crowded
I am stacked up right against a bird
But I won’t leave my tree
Everything is dark
No light!
I hear the bird sing
I wish I could sing
My eyes, they open
And all around my house
The Sea
Slowly I get down in the water
The cool blue water
Oh and the space
I laugh swim and cry for joy
This is my home
For Ever
— Jeff Morley
With best wishes,
JILL KREMENTZ
Dear Class V:
Here’s my favorite poem. I like it because it shows the way we should all think — particularly us women.
Jill Krementz
THE LOW ROAD
Alone, you can fight,
you can refuse, you can
take what revenge you can
but they roll over you.
But two people fighting
back to back can cut through
a mob, a snake-dancing file
can break a cordon, an army
can meet an army.
Two people can keep each other
sane, can give support, conviction,
love, massage, hope, sex.
Three people are a delegation,
a committee, a wedge. With four
you can play bridge and start
an organization. With six
you can rent a whole house,
eat pie for dinner with no
seconds, and hold a fund raising party.
A dozen make a demonstration.
A hundred fill a hall.
A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;
ten thousand, power and your own paper;
a hundred thousand, your own media;
ten million, your own country.
It goes on one at a time,
It starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.
— Marge Piercy
ANGELA LANSBURY
Dear Jenny,
Thank you for your letter telling me about your book project to raise money for refugee children. I’m delighted you asked me to be involved.
I’ve enclosed a copy of “Cuttin’ Rushes,” a poem by Moira O’Neill, who was an Irish poet. My mother was a recitalist and this was one of her favorite poems. In the old days at social gatherings in Hollywood, everyone would take turns performing for each other. I would sing and my mother would recite poetry. I heard her recite this poem so often I learned it by assimilation!
Yours sincerely,
CUTTIN’ RUSHES
Oh, maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago!
Meself was risin’ early on a day for cuttin’ rushes.
Walkin’ up the Brabla’ burn, still the sun was low,
Now I’d hear the burn run an’ then I’d hear the thrushes.
Young, still young! — and drenchin’ wet the grass,
Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin’ sweetly down;
Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass,
An’ find me cuttin’ rushes on the mountain.
Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?
Rippen’ round the bog pools high among the heather,
The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,
‘Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.
Come, dear, come! — an’ back along the burn
See the darlin’ honeysuckle hangin’ like a crown.
Quick, one kiss, — sure, there’s some one at the turn!
“Oh, we’re after cuttin’ rushes on the mountain.”
Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago ….
I waken out O’ dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
Oh, that’s the Brabla’ burn, I can hear it sing an’ flow,
For all that’s fair I’d sooner see a bunch O’ green rushes.
Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were young?
The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an’ brown:
Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung
The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?
— Moira O’Neill
Yo-Yo E. MA
Dear Zoe,
Thank you for your kind letter about the project at your school. I applaud your contribution to this noble cause. My favorite poem is “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” because beauty has its own truth.
With warmest wishes, and best of luck with the project,
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
I
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
II
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
III
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
IV
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
V
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
— John Keats
DAVID MAMET
Dear Ms. Shaw:
Pls. find attached a copy of my poem “The Dog.” I chose it because I could remember it.
Most sincerely yours,
THE DOG
— David Mamet
JASON MCMANUS
Dear Candice Gorman:
I’m delighted to join in your poetry project and I’ve chosen as my favorite one by Emily Dickinson, which I sometimes recite by heart at difficult times. It, to me, is the affirmation of the power of human imagination and creativity, the ability not only to imagine words unseen but to empathize with people unknown, souls unmet — a different way of saying that none of us are islands, we all share the human experience.
With all best wishes,
I NEVER SAW A MOOR
I never saw a Moor —
I never saw the Sea —
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a Billow be.
I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven —
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Checks were given —
— Emily Dickinson
JOAN S. MCMENAMIN
Dear Louise,
What a pleasure it is for me to have a letter from you and to hear about the class’s wonderful poetry project! I especially admire all this work for refugee children and I am happy to be a part of it.
There are two different poems that are a part of my life. One is in my wallet and has been since I can’t remember when.
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone;
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.
— A. L. Gordon
The other I read for the first time when I was in college, and I copied it then. It beautifully says what I deeply
believe, that love is the center of our lives and being.
He that loveth, flieth, runneth, and rejoiceth;
He is free and not “bound” …
Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of trouble,
Attempts what is above its strength
Pleads no excuse of impossibility …
For it thinks all things possible.
It is therefore able to undertake all things, and it
Completes many things, and brings them to a conclusion,
Where he who does not love, faints and lies down.
— Thomas à Kempis
Please put in my order for the book when it is ready, and meanwhile this brings love and admiration for all of you for fine work on behalf of refugee youngsters.
Affectionately,
VED MEHTA
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your letter and for asking me to choose a poem for your collection. My choice is “Dover Beach” by Matthew Arnold. My explanation for this choice is that it was the first poem I read in English (my fourth language) with any degree of understanding, and it was the subject of one of my first papers for an English literature class. I’ve reread it many times since with increasing pleasure. Also Matthew Arnold was a great figure at Balliol College, Oxford, where I was an undergraduate, and I belonged to a society named after him.
Next time we are in the elevator together, please do introduce yourself.
With warm good wishes,
Yours sincerely,
P.S. We are just leaving for Maine for the summer, so I don’t have a copy of the poem to hand, but I’m sure you can find it in any number of anthologies.
DOVER BEACH
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light
Poems for Life Page 3
