poem-a-day
Why Eat Why Kill
Why Eat Why Kill
how hunger boy
mercer must you
brain crane lay
over lap one
dream broom
person starved
down chaff
rain pencil
shaving ego
peck of
pimpled flesh
on fire
eat burnt crane
eat burnt crane
eat burnt crane
who your gods then
while you wait
for the soupbird to unshade yr life
in who the cleated teeth
of rain
in mist
in whom the fired
sibilant remnants
a passing
storm’s little
unsuccessful denials
of fire
inside every song
another song
fruit teaches this
white sun flesh
the seed at the breast
thread wrestled button the
crane
burnt
eaten
can’t stack a day’s
strength a night’s
rest at the unravel hotel
truly hungry fools
dream too but
not of confluences
not of gardenias
not of pedigrees
not the stony feats of insomniac sentinels
mothered
by the
killing maze
milk like junk wool
milk like gauze
milk like hesitancy
might as well
eat your own cane
god and crawl
Copyright © 2016 by Abraham Smith. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 18, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.
Copyright © 2016 by Abraham Smith. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 18, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.
Maya Angelou
Juan Felipe Herrera
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.
Langston Hughes
Solmaz Sharif
Vacation
I love the hour before takeoff, that stretch of no time, no home but the gray vinyl seats linked like unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall be summoned to the gate, soon enough there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers and perforated stubs—but for now I can look at these ragtag nuclear families with their cooing and bickering or the heeled bachelorette trying to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s exhausted mother waiting to be called up early while the athlete, one monstrous hand asleep on his duffel bag, listens, perched like a seal trained for the plunge. Even the lone executive who has wandered this far into summer with his lasered itinerary, briefcase knocking his knees—even he has worked for the pleasure of bearing no more than a scrap of himself into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late, they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning —a little hope, a little whimsy before the loudspeaker blurts and we leap up to become Flight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.
Elizabeth Bishop
Travel
The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
