Edna St. Vincent Millay: I shall go back again to the bleak shore
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand…
Donald Trump: MAGA Sonnets
…you’re lucky I’m your president.
You’re so lucky. You’re so lucky, I always tell our great
First Lady, Darling, you’re so lucky.
Doug Anderson: How it happens
God help me, I don’t know where I’m going.
We hold each other’s hand like children
finding our way home among the closing wolves.
Edna St. Vincent Millay: Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave
Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave,
Mortal Endymion, darling of the Moon!
Edna St. Vincent Millay: I shall forget you presently, my dear (Sonnet IV)
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day
Christina Rossetti: The Plague
‘Listen, the last stroke of death’s noon has struck—
The plague is come,’ a gnashing Madman said…
Dawn Potter: Sonnet in Search of Poems I’ve Never Written
I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…
Stephen Dobyns: Persephone, Etc.
Wasn’t it beneath this spot the son of Kronos
pursued his inamorata, holding out a handful
of shining seeds?
Michael Simms: Re-reading Christina Rossetti’s ‘In an Artist’s Studio’
The value of Rossetti’s poem lies in both the expert use of the Petrarchan sonnet, a particularly challenging form to master in English, and in the poet’s complex stance on the role of art in creating and re-enforcing images of women.
Arlene Weiner: November
He tears off summer’s dress,
exposes trunk and limb, threatens
worse coming. Yet he brings gifts…
David Huddle: Bliss Happens
It’s talk that charms the heart. I’ve had it in real
life–folks who conversed with me the way Armstrong
and Fitzgerald sang duets.
David Huddle: Collusion
Ignorant high school bully that he is,
our fake President tweets out a nickname
for anyone who thwarts or critiques him–
those who care about decency or ethics
or just basic intelligence.
Ellen McGrath Smith — Shaken 48: How careful was I when I took my way
Hands in my pockets, the salt on the streets,
the yellowing aura that means you are here
by my side again, waking me in dread
with no buffer or bounce. It’s been ten years.
Robinson Jeffers: Wonder and Joy
The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure They are only foolish artificial things! Can a bird ever tire of having wings? And I, so long as life and … Continue reading
