I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted–
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth.
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I know, I know, y’all are getting sick of National Poetry Month. With only 9 glorious days left, I’m going to have to step it up a notch.
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I have no personal anecdote to share about this poem, except that in 1993 or so I decided that I would discover the Next Great Poet, and randomly checked out books by people I had never heard of in my quest. Most of the poets needed to remain on the shelves of Willis Library, but occasionally I would find at least one poem I liked. Here is one. It is short.
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Here is a shout out to my 17-year-old self. Starting in 10th grade, when I was 15, I had a mad crush on a boy I will call Crush. It finally went away and then I had a class with him in college and it started all over again. I even made a pillowcase for my body pillow with Crush’s senior picture ironed on to it. I still sleep with it. He is awfully faded now. Ted, my ex-husband, used to punch Crush in the face and say, “stupid Crush” with his teeth clenched before we went to sleep. Larry Ferrari hates him as well and tosses him on the floor whenever possible. Here is a poem that is good for people like me who have crushes for 15 years without any physical contact or encouragement from the person in question.
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I taught this poem my first semester teaching. Well, by “teaching” I mean I “assigned it” and the kids were supposed to “figure it out” “themselves” in a “5-paragraph essay.”
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A study in contrasts for this Saturday evening. One is a poem. One is a song. They have the same name. That is not a coincidence.
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Since it’s almost the weekend, I thought the poem of the day should be something a little sexy. I know I said that all poems were about doing it, and they are, but all of them aren’t explicitly about doing so. This one is, especially considering the author.
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It’s time for the poem of the day.
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My friend Meg gave me this great book called Very Bad Poetry. It contains very bad poetry with snarky comments by the editors. Each author gets a standard Norton Anthology-esque introduction, with critical highlights from his or her career.
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I just wrote a huge entry about the glory of e. e. cummings, which was leading up to a certain poem. Then I couldn’t find the poem. However, there are still 17 more days of National Poetry Month, so worry not! You’ll get that one another day.

The following poem is exceedingly sweet. I recommend that all the boys give this poem to their ladyfriends and claim authorship. No one will know.
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Tsk, tsk, tsk. theohreally has fallen behind.

Because I know you are all dying for more poems, I will get those out of the way first.

A poem for Saturday:
I find Edmund Spenser one of the more annoying poets ever to have walked the earth. He purposefully used antiquated spellings in order to sound more poetic. Also, he whined a lot. Here is one that my students and I liked because it highlights these two annoying qualities perfectly. Spenser is put out with his lady friend because she doesn’t pay any attention to him when he wails and cries. Good for her. Here’s Sonnet 54 by my friend and yours, Mister Edmund Spenser.

A poem for Sunday:
Here’s an obvious one. “Easter, 1916” by William Butler Yeats.

Kicker’s Miller Williams poem reminded me of my own middle school bully. I’m not going to get into the pain and heartache of it all, but I am going to tell a brief story about her. I’m also going to use her actual name. What’s she going to do, slam my hand in my locker again if she Googles herself?
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I have mentioned that next door to my office is an $.88 Store. On the other side of the building, there’s a Family Dollar. You have to cross a street, and then take a little worn path to get there (unless you want to walk further).

The path is gross. It has bottles and cans and old diapers and oily rags and various scraps of paper and, I am certain, objects with bodily fluids on them. It makes me feel trashy to take the path because obviously, other trashy people who litter like there is no other option take the path as well. The grass is not high enough to make me believe killers are hiding in it. It’s just tall enough to make dumb people think they can put diapers in there and no one will notice.
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Sunday’s selection:
Rilke’s Duino Elegies–the First Elegy.

Don’t you know yet?
Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe;
perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.