RIP John AshberyÂ

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RIP John AshberyÂ

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The Mare of Money by Roger Reeves
from The Poetry FoundationÂ
RIP Denis Johnson #traindreams
Anne Carson, Glass Irony and God
francine j. harris in Hunger MountainÂ

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In search of an eye compress.Â
RIP, Leonard Cohen.
from The Poetry FoundationÂ

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Wait by Galway Kinnell
Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Havenât they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. The desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Wait. Donât go too early. Youâre tired. But everyoneâs tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamedâ Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.
(Thereâs never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this âhomeland of the free.â)
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slaveryâs scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seekâ And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for oneâs own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, meanâ Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet todayâO, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet Iâm the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned Thatâs made America the land it has become. O, Iâm the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my homeâ For Iâm the one who left dark Irelandâs shore, And Polandâs plain, and Englandâs grassy lea, And torn from Black Africaâs strand I came To build a âhomeland of the free.â
The free?
Who said the free? Â Not me? Surely not me? Â The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams weâve dreamed And all the songs weâve sung And all the hopes weâve held And all the flags weâve hung, The millions who have nothing for our payâ Except the dream thatâs almost dead today.
O, let America be America againâ The land that never has been yetâ And yet must beâthe land where every man is free. The land thatâs mineâthe poor manâs, Indianâs, Negroâs, MEâ Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you chooseâ The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the peopleâs lives, We must take back our land again, America!
O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oathâ America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plainâ All, all the stretch of these great green statesâ And make America again!
from The Poetry FoundationÂ
wonât you celebrate with me by Lucille Clifton
wonât you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.

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Mother to Son by Langston Hughes
Well, son, Iâll tell you: Life for me ainât been no crystal stair. Itâs had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floorâ Bare. But all the time Iâse been a-climbinâ on, And reachinâ landinâs, And turninâ corners, And sometimes goinâ in the dark Where there ainât been no light. So boy, donât you turn back. Donât you set down on the steps âCause you finds itâs kinder hard. Donât you fall nowâ For Iâse still goinâ, honey, Iâse still climbinâ, And life for me ainât been no crystal stair.
I am beyond thrilled to have been selected by Calvin Bedient as the winner of Omnidawnâs 2015 Open Poetry Prize, for my book The Room in Which I Work. Look for it in spring 2017.
Congrats to my good friend Andrew Seguin who won the Omnidawn Open Poetry Prize judged by Calvin Bedient. Comprised of poems, translations, collage and photographs, this book is ambitious, brilliant, and beautiful. I can't wait to see it in print. Check out Andy's website at andrewseguin.com.