This poetry collection consist of poems that relates to the Summer season. Poetry pieces owned by Poetry Foundation. I collected this Summer poems to let Steemians read something when they're on their vacations. Have fun!
End of Summer
BY STANLEY KUNITZ
An agitation of the air,
A perturbation of the light
Admonished me the unloved year
Would turn on its hinge that night.
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
Blue poured into summer blue,
A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
That part of my life was over.
Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.
Stanley Kunitz, "End of Summer" from The Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz. Copyright © 1953 by Stanley Kunitz. Reprinted by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Source: The Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz (W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2002)
Dog Days of Summer
BY MEENA ALEXANDER
In the dog days of summer as muslin curls on its own heat
And crickets cry in the black walnut tree
The wind lifts up my life
And sets it some distance from where it was.
Still Marco Polo Airport wore me out,
I slept in a plastic chair, took the water taxi.
Early, too early the voices of children
Mimicking the clatter in the Internet café
In Campo Santo Stefano in a place of black coffee
Bordellos of verse, bony accolades of joy,
Saint Stephen stooped over a cross,
A dog licking his heel, blood drops from a sign
By the church wall—Anarchia è ordine—
The refugee from Istria gathers up nails.
She will cobble together a gondola with bits of driftwood
Cast off the shores of the hunger-bitten Adriatic.
In wind off the lagoon,
A child hops in numbered squares, back and forth, back and forth,
Cap on his head, rhymes cool as bone in his mouth.
Whose child is he?
No one will answer me.
Voices from the music academy pour into sunlight
That strikes the malarial wealth of empire,
Dreams of an old man in terrible heat,
Hands bound with coarse cloth, tethered to a scaffold,
Still painting waves on the walls of the Palazzo Ducale.
Meena Alexander, "Dog Days of Summer" from Quickly Changing River. Copyright © 2008 by Meena Alexander. Reprinted by permission of Northwestern University Press.
Source: Quickly Changing River (Northwestern University Press, 2008)
Summer 1967
BY JAMES K. BAXTER
Summer brings out the girls in their green dresses
Whom the foolish might compare to daffodils,
Not seeing how a dead grandmother in each one governs her limbs,
Darkening the bright corolla, using her lips to speak through,
Or that a silver torque was woven out of
The roots of wet speargrass.
The young are mastered by the Dead,
Lacking cunning. But on the beaches, under the clean wind
That blows this way from the mountains of Peru,
Drunk with the wind and the silence, not moving an inch
As the surf-swimmers mount on yoked waves,
One can begin to shake with laughter,
Becoming oneself a metal Neptune.
To want nothing is
The only possible freedom. But I prefer to think of
An afternoon spent drinking rum and cloves
In a little bar, just after the rain had started, in another time
Before we began to die — the taste of boredom on the tongue
Easily dissolving, and the lights coming on —
With what company? I forget.
Where can we find the right
Herbs, drinks, bandages to cover
These lifelong intolerable wounds?
Herbs of oblivion, they lost their power to help us
The day that Aphrodite touched her mouth to ours.
James K. Baxter, "Summer 1967" from Selected Poems. Copyright © 2010 by The James K. Baxter Trust. Reprinted by permission of Carcanet Press, Ltd.
Source: Collected Poems (Oxford University Press, Ltd., 1979)
Summer in a Small Town
BY TONY HOAGLAND
Yes, the young mothers are beautiful,
with all the self-acceptance of exhaustion,
still dazed from their great outpouring,
pushing their strollers along the public river walk.
And the day is also beautiful—the replica 19th-century paddle-wheeler
perpetually moored at the city wharf
with its glassed-in bar and grill
for the lunch-and-cocktail-seekers
who come for the Mark Twain Happy Hour
which lasts as long as the Mississippi.
This is the kind of town where the rush hour traffic halts
to let three wild turkeys cross the road,
and when the high school music teacher retires
after thirty years
the movie marquee says, “Thanks Mr. Biddleman!”
and the whole town comes to hear
the tuba solos of old students.
Summer, when the living is easy
and we store up pleasure in our bodies
like fat, like Eskimos,
for the coming season of privation.
All August the Ferris wheel will turn
in the little amusement park,
and screaming teenage girls will jump into the river
with their clothes on,
right next to the No Swimming sign.
Trying to cool the heat inside the small towns
of their bodies,
for which they have no words;
obedient to the voice inside which tells them,
“Now. Steal Pleasure.”
Source: Poetry (July/August 2009)
Summer Mowing
BY JENNIFER GRAY
He has transformed
his Tonka dump truck
into a push mower, using
lumber scraps and duct tape
to construct a handle
on the front end of the dump box.
One brave screw
holds the makeshift
contraption together.
All summer they outline
the edges of these acres,
first Daddy, and then,
behind him
this small echo, each
dodging the same stumps,
pausing to slap a mosquito,
or rest in the shade,
before once again pacing
out into the light,
where first one,
and then the other,
leans forward to guide the mowers
along the bright edges
of this familiar world.
Poem copyright ©2015 by Jennifer Gray, “Summer Mowing,” from Plainsongs, (Vol. XXXV, no. 3, 2015). Poem reprinted by permission of Jennifer Gray and the publisher.
Image source: Hypnotic Paintings of Water by Eric Zener
Poetry source: Poetry Foundation
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