We love poetry almost as much as music around here, so in honor of National Poetry Month the Third Man Staff has collaborated to share some of their favorite poems with you. Grab a cup of tea, kick up your feet, and comment below with a poem or poet that you think we should check out!
—
CAM S.
"Ballad of the Moon, Moon"
by Federico Garcia Lorca
Moon came to the forge
in her petticoat of nard
The boy looks and looks
the boy looks at the Moon
In the turbulent air
Moon lifts up her arms
showing — pure and sexy —
her beaten-tin breasts
Run Moon run Moon Moon
If the gypsies came
white rings and white necklaces
they would beat from your heart
Boy will you let me dance —
when the gypsies come
they’ll find you on the anvil
with your little eyes shut
Run Moon run Moon Moon
I hear the horses’ hoofs
Leave me boy! Don’t walk
on my lane of white starch
The horseman came beating
the drum of the plains
The boy at the forge
has his little eyes shut
Through the olive groves
in bronze and in dreams
here the gypsies come
their heads riding high
their eyelids hanging low
How the night heron sings
how it sings in the tree
Moon crosses the sky
with a boy by the hand
At the forge the gypsies
cry and then scream
The wind watches watches
the wind watches the Moon
—
DANIEL D.
“THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS”
by Langston Hughes
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
—
ARIANA D.
"Another One"
by Ron Padgett
When you’re a child you learn there are three dimensions
Height, width and depth
Like a shoebox
Then later you hear there’s a fourth dimension
Time
Hmm
Then some say there can be five, six, seven…
I knock off work
Have a beer at the bar
I look down at the glass and feel glad
—
REBECCA C.
“Ghost Grease”
by Dean Young
It’s eschatology kegger night
and some guy in an Abort the Pope tee shirt
says the gum left behind when a bandaid’s
ripped off holds the cosmos together
but he’s got one of those leaks
you can only diagnosis by plunging
the whole shebang into a bucket and squeezing.
Then a guy with a patch in his head
says I’ve been repeating myself since ’73
when my first injuries were my finest
although they healed. What’s the worst
that can happen? Jail, terrible pain followed
by death? Been there, seen the demonstration
where the objectors get smashed and drug out,
unconscious from the struggle
but some just stroll through the smoke
to meet a grade school teacher so go figure.
Now here’s a suspect with a feather in her chest
to say the self is a visitation
but when questioned further
says even noodles are a visitation.
Been gone so long slurp the lyrics.
For a ghost, it’s always the hour
when you can see the landscape’s underpainting
done with a pallet knife, waxy, then
the ephemera blotted in and the citoyens
congregate to start the calendar over.
Now that my ghost life’s underway,
everyone’s trying to contact me
as if I know who’s out, who’s in,
as if I’ve got a clue about the yen.
Last numb of March wearing off
like novocain in the brambles
by the perpetual construction site
where the morning crew demolishes
what the night shift’s built.
Someone’s unplugged the river.
Someone’s broken a wheel off the sky,
bells jittering in the sewer system.
How different from the cops who busted me
flashing their orthodontia
was the morning sergeant of sheep
when he let me out of my cell,
gave back my belt and key,
everything else kept as evidence
as if anyone needs convincing.
I’d never been that happy.
Not swimming in the mouth of my lover,
not spitting on the king.
—
BEN BLACKWELL
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
—
CHET W.
“A Blessing”
by JAMES WRIGHT
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
—
BRETT M.
“Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie”
by Bob Dylan
(excerpt)
“If the wind’s got you sideways with with one hand holdin’ on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood’s easy findin’ but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin’ and the street gets too long
And you start walkin’ backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow’s mornin’ seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin’
And yer rope is a-slidin’ ‘cause yer hands are a-drippin’
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe’s a-pourin’
And the lightnin’s a-flashing and the thunder’s a-crashin’
And the windows are rattlin’ and breakin’ and the roof tops a-shakin’
And yer whole world’s a-slammin’ and bangin’
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
“I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn’t they tell me the day I was born”
(Listen to the full poem HERE)
—
JOSHUA G.
“SOUND PIECE VI”
by Yoko Ono
Tape the sound of your baby son crying.
Let him listen to the tape when he is
going through pain as a grown man.
—
KIM B.
“A Little Closer to the Edge”
by OCEAN VUONG
Young enough to believe nothing
will change them, they step, hand-in-hand,
into the bomb crater. The night full
of black teeth. His faux Rolex, weeks
from shattering against her cheek, now dims
like a miniature moon behind her hair.
In this version the snake is headless — stilled
like a cord unraveled from the lovers’ ankles.
He lifts her white cotton skirt, revealing
another hour. His hand. His hands. The syllables
inside them. O father, O foreshadow, press
into her — as the field shreds itself
with cricket cries. Show me how ruin makes a home
out of hip bones. O mother,
O minutehand, teach me
how to hold a man the way thirst
holds water. Let every river envy
our mouths. Let every kiss hit the body
like a season. Where apples thunder
the earth with red hooves. & I am your son.
—
JAMIE M.
“Masks”
by Shel Silverstein
She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through.
Then passed right by–
And never knew.
