Spring is almost here – I swear! It’s a stunningly beautiful day here, which always makes me a bit itchy for a hike in the melting snow. Since I’m stuck at work, I’m reading spring-y poems instead. Want some?
Here are four poems for you today…one by Margaret Atwood (February), one by Pablo Neruda (Ode to Bicycles), one by e. e. cummings (in just), and one by Naomi Shihab Nye (The Rider). Enjoy!! 🙂
February // Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
Ode to bicycles//Pablo Neruda
I was walking
a sizzling road:
the sun popped like
a field of blazing maize,
an infinite circle
with an empty
blue sky overhead.
A few bicycles
moment of summer,
Workers and girls
were riding to their
their heads to the sky,
sitting on the
of the whirling
as they rode by
bridges, rosebushes, brambles
I thought about evening when
sing, eat, raise
at the door,
does it have a soul,
and fallen there
a translucent insect
that will return to
when it’s needed,
when it’s light,
of each day.
in just//e. e. cummings
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
when the world is puddle-wonderful
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
The Rider//Naomi Shihab Nye
A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,
the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.
What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.
A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.