More poetry that isn’t pretentious and a waste of time…
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Forgetfulness
By Billy Collins
William James Collins (b. 1941)
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
—————
I Shall Not Care
By Sara Teasdale
Sara Trevor Teasdale (1884-1933)
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
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The Song of Mr Toad
By Kenneth Grahame
Kenneth Grahame (1859-1932)
The world has held great Heroes,
As history-books have showed;
But never a name to go down to fame
Compared with that of Toad!
The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them knew one half as much
As intelligent Mr Toad!
The animals sat in the Ark and cried,
Their tears in torrents flowed.
Who was it said, “There’s land ahead?”
Encouraging Mr Toad!
The Army all saluted
As they marched along the road.
Was it the King? Or Kitchener?
No. It was Mr Toad!
The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting
Sat at the window and sewed.
She cried, “Look! who’s that handsome man?”
They answered, “Mr Toad.”
—————
The Ghost Ship
By A. E. Stallings
Alicia Elsbeth Stallings (b. 1968)
She plies an inland sea. Dull
With rust, scarred by a jagged reef.
In Cyrillic, on her hull
Is lettered, Grief.
The dim stars do not signify;
No sonar with its eerie ping
Sounds the depths — she travels by
Dead reckoning.
At her heart is a stopped clock.
In her wake, the hours drag.
There is no port where she can dock,
She flies no flag,
Has no allegiance to a state,
No registry, no harbor berth,
Nowhere to discharge her freight
Upon the earth.
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Ode to the Typo
Author Unknown
The typographical error is a slippery thing and sly;
You can hunt till you are dizzy, but somehow it gets by.
Till the forms are off the presses, it is strange how still it keeps.
It shrinks down in a corner, and it never stirs or peeps.
That mean, elusive error is too small for human eyes,
But when the ink is on the paper, it grows to mountain size.
The boss, he stares with horror, then tears his hair and groans;
The copyreader drops his head and swears in undertones.
The remainder of the issue may be clean as clean can be,
But the typographical error is the olny thing you see.
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