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Poem for the Day

Posted: 17 January 2017

Draw a line that is her breast,
Show the way she holds her weight.
Charcoal has a dusty smell...
As it's etched upon the page.
Take the time to see her jaw,
Feel the bite beneath her skin.
Teeth and muscle and bone create
The stillness of her chin....

It isn't how your hand moves
It's how you see,
It isn't the grade of the pencil
It's the line it leaves.
How your eyes trace,
Her body's solid grace,
That is the truth of a woman.

How the hip begets a thigh
Is the finest kind of spell.
Let your eye become your hand,
As you stroke her belly's swell.

It isn't how her heart beats,
It's the way it pulls her skin.
It isn't just the curve of a sigh
That does you in.
The scratchy sound her hair makes,
As you draw that place,
That is the truth of a woman.

The Truth of a Woman
Kristina Olsen

Poem for the Day

Posted: 12 January 2017

Behold the systematic GLUTTON
who eats the fat first off his mutton,
and while the blessing says, "We're grateful," ...
he's asking for a second plateful.

This man is also AVARICIOUS,
finding the smell of dough delicious,
and takes a fierce, uxorious PRIDE
in one possession: his young bride.

His neighbor just across the fence,
a man of strong CONCUPISCENCE,
ENVYING the husband his fair flower,
would buy her favors by the hour.

ANGER inflames the husband's face,
but AVARICE takes the higher place.
He says, "Don't let my ANGER trouble you;
Take her-I'll take your BMW."

The deal is struck; with one car more,
a final sin completes his score.
The sinner says, "I'd shoot them both,
were I not such a slave to SLOTH."

Seven Deadly Sins
Virginia Hamilton Adair

Poem for the Day

Posted: 11 January 2017

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.
 
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.
 
Those Who Love
Sara Teasdale

Poem for the Day

Posted: 10 January 2017

 

    Daybreak until nightfall,
he sat by his wife at the hospital
    while chemotherapy dripped
through the catheter into her heart.
    He drank coffee and read 
the Globe. He paced; he worked
    on poems; he rubbed her back
and read aloud. Overcome with dread,
    they wept and affirmed 
their love for each other, witlessly,
    over and over again.
When it snowed one morning Jane gazed
    at the darkness blurred
with flakes. They pushed the IV pump
    which she called Igor
slowly past the nurses' pods, as far
    as the outside door
so that she could smell the snowy air.

Her Long Illness
Donald Hall

Poem for the Day

Posted: 31 December 2014

As this will be my last Poem for the Day, for a while anyway, I can think of no better with which to end. I hope that you all have a very happy and peaceful New Year.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind? ...
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowan fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fitt,
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Auld Lang Syne
Robert Burns

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