Poem for 1/10/22 - Walnuts in Nangarhar - by Zohra Saed

 

Walnuts in Nangarhar

Zohra Saed

That time in Aagam when father, a child then, picked fresh walnuts with the mountain girls; they showed him the fleshy green skin over shell & nut he rubbed on his lips & cheeks, giggling. The girls circled around him, clapped in unison & teased. In a hand mirror, he saw himself stained pink, a delicious trick that kept its color a full week— That time so long ago, in the season of walnuts.

Copyright © 2022 by Zohra Saed. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 10, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets. About This Poem “My father, at the age of five, went to Aagam on vacation. He grew up in Jalalabad. Walnuts and pine nuts grow in abundance in Afghanistan. He told me this memory to share how young girls learned to take the flesh of the walnut fruit to make a lipstick stain. I think of those trees on the mountains. I think of those young girls who were my father’s age then, grandmothers now.” —Zohra Saed

Poem for 1/6/22 - To Be Alive - by Dr. Margaret Siber

 To Be Alive

by Dr. Margaret Siber

Early evening peace descends

Encompassing my being, my soul

Alive, to be alive

I watch the sun descending

Illuminating the rusted surface of the ocean

Soon, very soon the earth’s turn 

Will hide the source of all life

Until morning.

A lazy yellow finch

Invisible in the gnarled black cherry tree

Sings an occasional short melody

Escorting the sun’s passage

Three elder ducks disrupt

The calm surface of the ocean

Splashing, playing, fading

Alive, to be alive.

Poem for 1/5/21 - Farewell by Federico García Lorca

 

Farewell

Federico García Lorca

translated by Jenny Minniti-Shippey If I die, Leave the balcony open. The boy is eating oranges. (From my balcony I hear him.) The reaper scythes the wheat. (From my balcony I feel it.) If I die, Leave the balcony open!   Despedida  Si muero, dejad el balcón abierto. El niño come naranjas. (Desde mi balcón lo veo). El segador siega el trigo. (Desde mi balcón lo siento). ¡Si muero, dejad el balcón abierto!

Copyright © 2021 by Federico García Lorca and Jenny Minniti-Shippey. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 31, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 1/4/21 - Darkest Before Dawn - by James Crews

Darkest Before Dawn

by James Crews

Three days into the new year,

and despite the lack of adequate light,

our white phalaenopsis orchid

has eased open a third delicate bloom.

Perhaps coaxed by the warmth

of the woodstove a few feet away,

the orchid thrives in its tiny pot

shaped like the shell of a nautilus,

sending out new stems and glossy leaves,

its aerial roots--green at the tips--

reaching upward like tentacles

to sip the morning air. These blooms

stir something too long asleep in me,

proving with stillness and slow growth

what I haven't been able to trust

these past few months--that hope

and grace still reign in certain sectors

of the living world, that there are laws

which can never be overturned

by hateful words or the wishes

of power-hungry men. Be patient,

this orchid seems to say, and reveal

your deepest self even in the middle

of winter, even in the darkness

before the coming dawn.

 

Poem for 1/3/21 - The New Year by Carrie Williams Clifford

 

The New Year

Carrie Williams Clifford

The New Year comes—fling wide, fling wide the door Of Opportunity! the spirit free To scale the utmost heights of hopes to be, To rest on peaks ne’er reached by man before! The boundless infinite let us explore, To search out undiscovered mystery, Undreamed of in our poor philosophy! The bounty of the gods upon us pour! Nay, in the New Year we shall be as gods: No longer apish puppets or dull clods Of clay; but poised, empowered to command, Upon the Etna of New Worlds we’ll stand— This scant earth-raiment to the winds will cast— Full richly robed as supermen at last!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on January 1, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Poem for 12/30/21 - Night Thoughts - by Louise Glück

 

Happy New Year!!

Night Thoughts

LOUISE GLÜCK

Long ago I was born. 
There is no one alive anymore
who remembers me as a baby.
Was I a good baby? A
bad? Except in my head
that debate is now
silenced forever.
What constitutes
a bad baby, I wondered. Colic,
my mother said, which meant
it cried a lot.
What harm could there be
in that? How hard it was
to be alive, no wonder
they all died. And how small
I must have been, suspended
in my mother, being patted by her
approvingly. 
What a shame I became
verbal, with no connection
to that memory. My mother’s love!
All too soon I emerged
my true self,
robust but sour,
like an alarm clock.

Poem for 12/29/21 - Memorial Hoops by Reginald Dwayne Betts

 

Memorial Hoops

Reginald Dwayne Betts

The day broke a record for cold, for us wanting To be anywhere but outside, & it was late May, the weekend we called Memorial. My mother Is a veteran, but that is a story for another time, & we were driving into the mother of rivers state, My youngest son, named after two men, one who Turned a trumpet into a prayer, the other who Before a piano became whatever those who know say God sounds like, me, & friends, who like me, imagined Watching their sons trade baskets with strangers Was some kind of holy. Around us was more granite Than Black folks & I carried Primo Levi’s If This Is a Man In my knapsack, hesitant to return to all the astonishing Ways we make each other suffer &, still, somehow, Survive, & astonished most by how we remember. I’ve Forgotten my fair share of things that matter. But Who am I kidding? The weekend was about Basketball. We’d driven three hours to this colder Weather. My youngest boy hoped he’d heat up once A ball touched his hands. Did I say we named the child After the idiosyncrasies of Jazz, all because as children I don’t think my wife & I knew enough ambition To save us from what we’d encounter. These were the days When he and the nine he suited up with desired Little more than to hear the rasp of a ball against whatever Passed for wood in a gym with a hoop. There is something To be said about how basketball makes men of boys and boys Of men. The ref who chattered with us parents wondered Why a cousin the age of the ballers ate chips for breakfast. The other team had a player who made me think, though She be but little she is fierce, as she, the only girl on The court slipped a jewel into that hovering crown We cheered, even those of us whose boys sought to dribble & jump shot their way to the glory of a win. & when Miles Came down as if he knew what would happen. I didn’t hold My breath. A crossover, the ball then swung around his back, The kid before him lost on some raft in a wild river. Maybe He knew the ball would fall true because he turned around To watch us as much as to get back on defense. We laughed & laughed & watched as kids barely large enough to launch all of that need at a target did so, again & again.

Copyright © 2021 by Reginald Dwayne Betts. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 29, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.