I thought today would be a good day to share some poetry. whether you know all, some, or none of these poems or poets, I hope they will inspire you to delve deeper into the poetry world this week. these are some of my favorite poems by my favorite poets whose collections fill my bookshelf. I try my best to read and support contemporary poets, but it is these long lost poets (excluding one) who stay in my mind the most.
Wild Nights - Wild Nights!, Emily Dickinson
Wild nights - Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile - the winds - To a Heart in port - Done with the Compass - Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden - Ah - the Sea! Might I but moor - tonight - In thee!
A Glimpse, Walt Whitman
A glimpse through an interstice caught, Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner, Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand, A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest, There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.
The Sick Rose, William Blake
O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm: Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
Morning Song, Sylvia Plath
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
Figs from Thistles: First Fig, Edna St. Vincent Millay
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light!
Second Fig, Edna St. Vincent Millay
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
Clouds, Carolyn Forche
A whip-poor-will brushed her wing along the ground a moment ago, fifty years in the orchard where my father kept pear and plum, a decade of peach trees and Antinovka’s apples whose seeds come from Russia by ship under clouds islanding a window very past where also went the soul of my mother in a boat with blossoming sails like apple petals in wind fifty years at once.
Fall, Leaves, Fall, Emily Bronte
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day.
I first read Blake and Dickinson during my undergrad. between 2012 and 2016. Whitman and Forche were read during my mfa between 2019 and 2021. Bronte, Millay, and Plath were read in the periods between when I was at my most a voracious reader. it's not to say that I didn't know of nor read any of these poets outside these respective years. it's that I didn't dedicate the necessary time to them. but when I actually did, I was so engulfed and mesmerized by their poems—poets whose writing will stay with me for many more years to come.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Emily Dickinson