Bed Music-Charles Simic

Our love was new, 

But your bedspreads were old.

In the flat below,

They stopped eating

With forks in the air. 
They made the old sour puss

Climb the stairs

and squint through the keyhole,

While we went right ahead

Making the springs toot,
Playing “Low Down on the Bayou,”

Playing “Big Legend Mama,”

Playing “Shake It Baby”

And “Carolina Shout.”
That was the limit!

They called the fire brigade.

They called the Law.

They could’ve brought some hooch,

We told the cops.

Another Elegy [“This is what our dying looks like”]-Jericho Brown

This is what our dying looks like. 

You believe in the sun. I believe 

I can’t love you. Always be closing, 

Said our favorite professor before 

He let the gun go off in his mouth. 

I turned 29 the way any man turns 

In his sleep, unaware of the earth 

Moving beneath him, its plates in 

Their places, a dated disagreement. 

Let’s fight it out, baby. You have 

Only so long left—a man turning 

In his sleep—so I take a picture. 

I won’t look at it, of course. It’s 

His bad side, his Mr. Hyde, the hole 

In a husband’s head, the O 

Of his wife’s mouth. Every night, 

I take a pill. Miss one, and I’m gone. 

Miss two, and we’re through. Hotels 

Bore me, unless I get a mountain view, 

A room in which my cell won’t work, 

And there’s nothing to do but see 

The sun go down into the ground 

That cradles us as any coffin can.

Be Nobody’s Darling-Alice Walker

​Most people think of Alice Walker solely as a novelist. In my brain, she’s the ultimate multi-hyphenate: poet-author-essayist-scholar-educator-finder of Zora. I’ve been in a bit of a mood for the past few days, which is not helped buy the fact that I can’t find a book to read, but this poem brightened my day quite a bit. I wish that the teenage version of me knew about this poem because I would have probably painted it on my bedroom wall. 


Be nobody’s darling; 

Be an outcast.
Take the contradictions
Of your life
And wrap around
You like a shawl,
To parry stones
To keep you warm.
Watch the people succumb
To madness
With ample cheer; 
Let them look askance at you
And you askance reply.
Be an outcast; 
Be pleased to walk alone
Or line the crowded
River beds
With other impetuous

Make a merry gathering
On the bank
Where thousands perished
For brave hurt words
They said.

But be nobody’s darling; 
Be an outcast.
Qualified to live
Among your dead.

Ladylike Silence

-Zora Neale Hurston
I speak loudly 

And forcefully

Because my voice is important too.

I can be demure

But I will  yell

To be heard.

I can curse like 

A sailor

Or speak like a Southern belle.

They will never take my silence

As being complicit;

Will never beat me to death 

With it. 

If You Forget Me-Pablo Neruda

I don’t think that this poet’s work needs a wordy introduction or explanation of its inclusion on the blog. 


I want you to know

one thing. 

You know how this is: 
if I look 
at the crystal moon, at the red branch 
of the slow autumn at my window, 
if I touch 
near the fire 
the impalpable ash 
or the wrinkled body of the log, 
everything carries me to you, 
as if everything that exists, 
aromas, light, metals, 
were little boats 
that sail 
toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 

Well, now, 
if little by little you stop loving me 
I shall stop loving you little by little. 

If suddenly 
you forget me 
do not look for me, 
for I shall already have forgotten you. 

If you think it long and mad, 
the wind of banners 
that passes through my life, 
and you decide 
to leave me at the shore 
of the heart where I have roots, 
that on that day, 
at that hour, 
I shall lift my arms 
and my roots will set off 
to seek another land. 

if each day, 
each hour, 
you feel that you are destined for me 
with implacable sweetness, 
if each day a flower 
climbs up to your lips to seek me, 
ah my love, ah my own, 
in me all that fire is repeated, 
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 
my love feeds on your love, beloved, 
and as long as you live it will be in your arms 
without leaving mine.

The Coming of Light-Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:

the coming of love, the coming of light. 

You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,

stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, 

sending up warm bouquets of air. 

Even this late the bones of the body shine

and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

Poem No. 3-Sonia Sanchez

​I’ve been battling a lingering sickness which made this week especially difficult. I have spent a bunch of time in bed which made me think of the lines of this poem. 


I gather up 

each sound 

you left behind 

and stretch them 

on our bed. 

each nite 

I breathe you 

and become high.