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Phillip B. Williams
Phillip B. Williams

Hunter

Recorded for Poem-a-Day, May 2, 2016.
About this Poem 

“I wanted to write a short poem after having worked on a fourteen-page poem for quite some time. In some way killing or at least wounding love, with the v being the arrowhead, seemed like an appropriate way to move on with my life.”
—Phillip B. Williams

Hunter

Phillip B. Williams

            When you were mine though not
mine at all permanently, just a body borrowed
without permission, a body interrupted,
interruptive—

                           the sky opened like a secret in a mouth

mouth with a word in it
   
word with an arrowhead in its flank: Love, small

creature it was

                                     crying in the night beneath me

Copyright © 2016 by Phillip B. Williams. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 2, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2016 by Phillip B. Williams. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 2, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.

American Poets
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Joy Harjo
poem

[Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome]

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.
Christina Rossetti
1881
collection

Classic Books of American Poetry

This collection of books showcases the masterpieces of American poetry that have influenced—or promise to influence—generations of poets. Take a look.

poem

Morning Song

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.
Sylvia Plath
1966
collection

Mother Knows Best

The poets in this collection present poems about their mothers and discuss their mothers' responses to the poems written about them.