February 28, 2013

[Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] Poem-A-Day: Tis Late by April Bernard

Tis Late 
 
Of course the tall stringy woman

draped in a crocheted string-shawl 
 
selling single red carnations
 
coned in newsprint the ones
 
she got at the cemetery
 
and resells with a god bless you
 
for a dollar that same woman 
 
who thirty years ago
 
was a graduate student
 
in playwriting who can and will
 
recite "At the round earth's
 
imagined corners, blow--"
 
announces silently amidst her louder
 
announcements that the experiment
 
some amateurs mixed of
 
white fizzing democracy
 
with smoky purple capitalism
 
has failed. We already knew that.
 
Her madness is my madness
 
and this is my flower in a cone
 
of waste paper I stole from
 
someone's more authentic grief
 
but I will not bless you
 
as I have no spirit of commerce
 
and no returning customers
 
and do not as so many must
 
actually beg for my bread. It is another
 
accident of the lab explosion
 
that while most died and others lost legs
 
some of us are only vaguely queasy
 
at least for now 
 
and of course mad conveniently mad
 
necessarily mad because 
 
"tis late to ask for pardon" and
 
we were so carefully schooled 
 
in false hope schooled
 
like the parrot who crooks her tongue
 
like a dirty finger
 
repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.  

Copyright © 2013 by April Bernard. Used with permission of the author.
About this Poem:
 

"In a New England city where I once lived, there is a well-known local 'character,' a former graduate student, now street person, who recites poetry from the canon. I put a Donne sonnet in her mouth for this poem's purposes, because Donne is one of my touchstones and because, as I hope is obvious from the poem, she and I have so much in common. We are all of us only one or two steps away from the street."

 
April Bernard
Poetry by Bernard

Romanticism

 

Poem-A-Day launched in 2006 and features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

 

Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem In Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.
February 28, 2013

April Bernard is the author of four collections of poems, most recently, 

Romanticism (W.W. Norton, 2009). Last year she published a novel, Miss Fuller (Steerforth, 2012).  She is the Director of Creative Writing at Skidmore College and teaches in the Bennington Writing Seminars low-residency MFA Program. Bernard won the Academy's 1989 Walt Whitman Award.  

 

Related Poems
by John Donne
by Emily Dickinson
by Mark Wunderlich

This email was sent to messagesheart@gmail.com by poetnews@poets.org |  
Academy of American Poets | 75 Maiden Lane | Suite 901 | New York | NY | 10038


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[Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] Poem-A-Day: Tis Late by April Bernard

Tis Late 
 
Of course the tall stringy woman

draped in a crocheted string-shawl 
 
selling single red carnations
 
coned in newsprint the ones
 
she got at the cemetery
 
and resells with a god bless you
 
for a dollar that same woman 
 
who thirty years ago
 
was a graduate student
 
in playwriting who can and will
 
recite "At the round earth's
 
imagined corners, blow--"
 
announces silently amidst her louder
 
announcements that the experiment
 
some amateurs mixed of
 
white fizzing democracy
 
with smoky purple capitalism
 
has failed. We already knew that.
 
Her madness is my madness
 
and this is my flower in a cone
 
of waste paper I stole from
 
someone's more authentic grief
 
but I will not bless you
 
as I have no spirit of commerce
 
and no returning customers
 
and do not as so many must
 
actually beg for my bread. It is another
 
accident of the lab explosion
 
that while most died and others lost legs
 
some of us are only vaguely queasy
 
at least for now 
 
and of course mad conveniently mad
 
necessarily mad because 
 
"tis late to ask for pardon" and
 
we were so carefully schooled 
 
in false hope schooled
 
like the parrot who crooks her tongue
 
like a dirty finger
 
repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.  

Copyright © 2013 by April Bernard. Used with permission of the author.
About this Poem:
 

"In a New England city where I once lived, there is a well-known local 'character,' a former graduate student, now street person, who recites poetry from the canon. I put a Donne sonnet in her mouth for this poem's purposes, because Donne is one of my touchstones and because, as I hope is obvious from the poem, she and I have so much in common. We are all of us only one or two steps away from the street."

 
April Bernard
Poetry by Bernard

Romanticism

 

Poem-A-Day launched in 2006 and features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

 

Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem In Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.
February 28, 2013

April Bernard is the author of four collections of poems, most recently, 

Romanticism (W.W. Norton, 2009). Last year she published a novel, Miss Fuller (Steerforth, 2012).  She is the Director of Creative Writing at Skidmore College and teaches in the Bennington Writing Seminars low-residency MFA Program. Bernard won the Academy's 1989 Walt Whitman Award.  

 

Related Poems
by John Donne
by Emily Dickinson
by Mark Wunderlich

This email was sent to messagesheart@gmail.com by poetnews@poets.org |  
Academy of American Poets | 75 Maiden Lane | Suite 901 | New York | NY | 10038


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[Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] [Messages] Poem-A-Day: Tis Late by April Bernard

Tis Late 
 
Of course the tall stringy woman

draped in a crocheted string-shawl 
 
selling single red carnations
 
coned in newsprint the ones
 
she got at the cemetery
 
and resells with a god bless you
 
for a dollar that same woman 
 
who thirty years ago
 
was a graduate student
 
in playwriting who can and will
 
recite "At the round earth's
 
imagined corners, blow--"
 
announces silently amidst her louder
 
announcements that the experiment
 
some amateurs mixed of
 
white fizzing democracy
 
with smoky purple capitalism
 
has failed. We already knew that.
 
Her madness is my madness
 
and this is my flower in a cone
 
of waste paper I stole from
 
someone's more authentic grief
 
but I will not bless you
 
as I have no spirit of commerce
 
and no returning customers
 
and do not as so many must
 
actually beg for my bread. It is another
 
accident of the lab explosion
 
that while most died and others lost legs
 
some of us are only vaguely queasy
 
at least for now 
 
and of course mad conveniently mad
 
necessarily mad because 
 
"tis late to ask for pardon" and
 
we were so carefully schooled 
 
in false hope schooled
 
like the parrot who crooks her tongue
 
like a dirty finger
 
repeating what her flat bright eyes deny.  

Copyright © 2013 by April Bernard. Used with permission of the author.
About this Poem:
 

"In a New England city where I once lived, there is a well-known local 'character,' a former graduate student, now street person, who recites poetry from the canon. I put a Donne sonnet in her mouth for this poem's purposes, because Donne is one of my touchstones and because, as I hope is obvious from the poem, she and I have so much in common. We are all of us only one or two steps away from the street."

 
April Bernard
Poetry by Bernard

Romanticism

 

Poem-A-Day launched in 2006 and features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

 

Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem In Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.
February 28, 2013

April Bernard is the author of four collections of poems, most recently, 

Romanticism (W.W. Norton, 2009). Last year she published a novel, Miss Fuller (Steerforth, 2012).  She is the Director of Creative Writing at Skidmore College and teaches in the Bennington Writing Seminars low-residency MFA Program. Bernard won the Academy's 1989 Walt Whitman Award.  

 

Related Poems
by John Donne
by Emily Dickinson
by Mark Wunderlich

This email was sent to messagesheart@gmail.com by poetnews@poets.org |  
Academy of American Poets | 75 Maiden Lane | Suite 901 | New York | NY | 10038


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