You asked for it!
It's tough to choose a favorite poem, or poet. It's like novels, I like whatever I'm reading at the moment. And I teach poetry every semester. But here's a few that are currently on my "playlist."
I'm going to Hawaii next week, so I've been reading a lot of Lois-Ann Yamanaka.
BOSS OF THE FOOD Lois-Ann Yamanaka
(EDIT--I copied and pasted this without realizing some asshole had removed all the "fucks!" How can you censor poetry? So I put them back in.)
Before time, everytime my sista like be the boss
of the food. We stay shopping in Mizuno Superette
and my madda pull the Oreos off the shelf
and my sista already saying, Mommy,
can be the boss of the Oreos?
The worse was when she was the boss
of the sunflower seeds.
She give me and my other sistas
one seed at a time.
We no could eat the meat.
Us had to put um in one pile on one Kleenex.
Then, when we wen' take all the meat
out of the shells and our lips stay all cho cho,
she give us the seeds one at a time
cause my sista, she the boss
of the sunflower seeds.
One time she was the boss
of the Raisinettes.
Us was riding in the back
of my granpa's Bronco down Kaunakakai Wharf.
There she was, passing us one Raisinette at a time. My mouth was all watery
'cause I like eat um all one time, eh?
So I wen' tell her, Gimme that bag.
And I wen' grab um.
She said, I'ng tell Mommy.
And I said, Go you fuckin' bird killa;
tell Mommy.
She wen' let go the bag.
And I wen' start eating the Raisinetes all one time.
But when I wen' look at her,
I felt kinda bad cause I wen' call her bird killa.
She was boss of the parakeet too, eh,
and she suppose to cover the cage every night.
But one time, she wen' forget.
When us wen' wake up, the bugga was on its back,
legs in the air all stiff.
The bugga was cold.
And I guess the thing that made me feel bad
was I neva think calling her bird killa
would make her feel so bad
that she let go the bag Raisinettes.
But I neva give her back the bag.
I figga what the fuckk.
I ain't going suffer eating one Raisinette at a time.
Then beg her for one mo
and I mean one mo
fuckin' candy.
I've also been teaching a lot of Billy Collins (the Poet Laureate of the United States...a fellow CUNY professor!!!)
Candle Hat --Billy Collins
(You can hear him read it <a href="http://www.contemporarypoetry.com/dialect/poetry/collinscandlehat.html">here</a>)
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates:
Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,
Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness,
Rembrandt looks relieved as if he were taking a breather
from painting The Blinding of Sampson.
But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror
and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio
addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.
You can only wonder what it would be like
to be wearing such a chandelier on your head
as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.
But once you see this hat there is no need to read
any biography of Goya or to memorize his dates.
To understand Goya you only have to imagine him
lighting the candles one by one, then placing
the hat on his head, ready for a night of work.
Imagine him surprising his wife with his new invention,
the laughing like a birthday cake when she saw the glow.
Imagine him flickering through the rooms of his house
with all the shadows flying across the walls.
Imagine a lost traveler knocking on his door
one dark night in the hill country of Spain.
"Come in, " he would say, "I was just painting myself,"
as he stood in the doorway holding up the wand of a brush,
illuminated in the blaze of his famous candle hat.
And for some reason, lately, I've had a line from Sekou Sundiata's "Blink Your Eyes" running through my head--"Ride when the hard times come. Ride when they're gone." But that's one you really have to hear him perform...
Blink Your Eyes
--Sekou Sundiata
I was on my way to see my woman,
But the law said I was on my way
through a red light, red light, red light
And if you saw my woman you could understand
I was just being a man
It wasn’t about no light, it was about my ride
And if you saw my ride you could dig that too, you dig
Sunroof, stereo, radio, black leather, bucket seats sit low
You know the body’s cool but the tires are worn
Ride when the hard times come, ride when they’re gone
In other words the light was green
I could wake up in the morning without a warning
And the my world could change
Blink your eyes
All depends, all depends on the skin,
All depends on the skin we’re living in
Up to the window comes the law with his hand on his gun
"What’s up? What’s happening?" I said
I guess that's when I really broke the law
He said a routine, step out the car routine
Assume the position.
"Put your hands up in the air. You know the routine.
Like you just don’t care. License and registration."
Deep was the night and the light from the
North star and the car door. Deja vous.
We’ve been through this before. Why did you stop me?
"Somebody had to stop you. I watch the news.
You always lose. You’re unreliable.
That’s undeniable. This is serious.
You could be dangerous."
I could wake up in the morning without a warning
and my world could change
Blink your eyes
All depends, all depends on the skin,
All depends on the skin we’re living in.
New York City, they got laws
Can’t no brothers drive outdoors in certain neighborhoods
on particular streets near and around certain types of people
They got laws
All depends, all depends on the skin
All depends on the skin you’re living in.
And also, I'm not usually a big fan of the romantics (although I have a certain fondness for Wordsworth and Coleridge's <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> and come to think of it, I love the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" so I guess I do like the romantics ;)). But the other night I had a chance to look again at Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn," and there's just no way to ignore the man's brilliance, and the importance of what he's saying (and I don't agree with T.S. Eliot that the last two lines ruin the poem...I think they <b>save</b> it!)
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish'd 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 loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
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!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearičd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
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 its 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.
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.'
By the way, I hope you're all reading this poetry <b>out loud</b>! :)