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Poetry by JC Snyder

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  • you take it all for granted

    this is less a poem and more a few thoughts i have today. remembering the life of a fellow volleyball player. someone i knew only through association and friends yet i am deeply saddened over the loss of her to the world. when someone dies, you feel it too.

    when someone dies, you feel it too.
    your bones quake.
    you remember with razor instinct
    this skin is not
    forever, this sky is such
    ephemeral gift – how
    wildly your cells
    take for granted
    “breathe in
    breathe out”
    each and every second.
    you never noticed it before
    or how your loved
    ones seem so far away.
    and then someone else just stops
    and your breath catches,
    you’re asleep, now Wake Up.

    July 29, 2013

  • startled by air

    By the bay,
    on cement cracked by weeds,
    people sit like gulls fishing in dying daylight.
    Fish bite, get taken, tossed, have one last
    gulp and die.

    Watch fish startled by air. Watch weeds bend beneath thin legs.
    Watch gull-like people throw another line,
    drown another beer,
    unfazed.

    July 23, 2013

  • Afterlife by Bruce Snider

    Exceptional, must-read poem from Bruce Snider, as featured on American Life in Poetry. “the rusty nail he hammered catches me, leaves its stain…” brilliant.

    American Life in Poetry: Column 435
    BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
    Perhaps there’s a kind of afterlife that is made up of our memories of a departed person, especially as these cling to that person’s belongings. Bruce Snider, who lives and teaches in California, suggests that here.

    Afterlife

    I wake to leafless vines and muddy fields,
    patches of standing water. His pocketknife

    waits in my dresser drawer, still able to gut fish.
    I pick up his green shirt, put it on for the fourth day

    in a row. Outside, the rusty nail he hammered
    catches me, leaves its stain on everything.

    The temperature drops, the whole shore
    filling with him: his dented chew can, waders,

    the cattails kinked, bowing their distress.
    At the pier, I use his old pliers to ready the line:

    fatheads, darters, a blood worm jig. Today, the lake’s
    one truth is hardness. When the trout bite,

    I pull the serviceable things glistening into air.

    American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2012 by Bruce Snider from his most recent book of poems, Paradise, Indiana, Pleiades Press, 2012. Poem reprinted by permission of Bruce Snider and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2013 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

    American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
    Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
    This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

    July 22, 2013

  • my baby, he cries (for the first time)

    like a beautiful snowflake or
    how each grain of sand is ground down from ancient mountains into a tiny 
    fraction of itself, altogether unique,
    my baby
    blinks tiny eyelashes open and
    for the first time breathes air instead of stars,
    he cries.

    July 17, 2013

  • dreams (journal entry, 2013)

    i have dreamed of him. that
    figure, those eyes, a simple road passed.
    and i’ve dreamed of terrible storms,
    terrible choices and love love love, lost.
    never had. never known.

    one love i have for certain, this song, Mona Lisas
    and Mad Hatters. i now dream of nothing here at 30,000 ft.
    heading back to Vegas.
    outside this window, whitewash, a cosmic nothingness, a limbo…
     
    i remember returning that day
    to my dying grandmother, and the first flight, the first time
    i looked at the world from this height. and the first time i jumped into it.
    above the white
    a steady blue
    above it all, Elton John sings
    “and I thank the Lord for the people I have found
    I thank the Lord for the people I have found”

    (from the red journal, 2013)

    July 16, 2013

  • summer hot bricks

    I saw a man with a dog as the
    sky opened up and fell in love.

    I ran to stay dry.
    Rain didn’t last.
    Such chance encounter dried
    quickly on summer hot bricks.

    July 12, 2013

  • "Old Men Pitching Horseshoes" by X. J. Kennedy

    Happy 4th of July everyone!! Can’t think of a more appropriate topic than horseshoes 🙂 Enjoy this pick from Ted Kooser.

    ******************************

    American Life in Poetry: Column 432

    BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
    One of the most distinctive sounds in small-town America is the chiming of horseshoe pitching. A friend always carries a pair in the trunk of his car. He’ll stop at a park in some little town and start pitching, and soon, he says, others will hear that ringing and suddenly appear as if out of thin air. In this poem, X.J. Kennedy captures the fellowship of horseshoe pitchers.

    Old Men Pitching Horseshoes

    Back in a yard where ringers groove a ditch,
    These four in shirtsleeves congregate to pitch
    Dirt-burnished iron. With appraising eye,
    One sizes up a peg, hoists and lets fly—
    A clang resounds as though a smith had struck
    Fire from a forge. His first blow, out of luck,
    Rattles in circles. Hitching up his face,
    He swings, and weight once more inhabits space,
    Tumbles as gently as a new-laid egg.
    Extended iron arms surround their peg
    Like one come home to greet a long-lost brother.
    Shouts from one outpost. Mutters from the other.

    Now changing sides, each withered pitcher moves
    As his considered dignity behooves
    Down the worn path of earth where August flies
    And sheaves of air in warm distortions rise,
    To stand ground, fling, kick dust with all the force
    Of shoes still hammered to a living horse.

    American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2007 by X.J. Kennedy. Poem reprinted from In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus: New and Selected Poems, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007, by permission of X.J. Kennedy and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2013 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

    ******************************

    American Life in Poetry provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry: American Life in Poetry seeks to create a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture. There are no costs for reprinting the columns; we do require that you register your publication here and that the text of the column be reproduced without alteration.


    July 3, 2013

  • "A moment later my first poem began…" Vladimir Nabokov

    “A moment later my first poem began. What touched it off? I think I know. Without any wind blowing, the sheer weight of a raindrop, shining in parasitic luxury on a cordate leaf, caused its tip to dip, and what looked like a globule of quicksilver performed a sudden glissando down the center vein, and then, having shed its bright load, the relieved leaf unbent. Tip, leaf, dip, relief- the instant it all took to happen seemed to me not so much a fraction of time as a fissure in it, a missed heartbeat, which was refunded at once by a patter of rhymes: I say ‘patter’ intentionally, for when a gust of wind did come, the trees would briskly start to drip all together in as crude an imitation of the recent downpour as the stanza I was already muttering resembled the shock of wonder I had experienced when for a moment heart and leaf had been one.”

    ~ Vladimir Nabokov “Speak, Memory”
    “Everyman’s Library” | Alfred A. Knopf | New York 1999

    In this author’s opinion, one of the most beautiful paragraphs ever written to describe that first amazing poetic moment.

    June 28, 2013

  • "Little Girl" by Tami Haaland

    another lovely pick from Ted Kooser … enjoy!

    ******************************

    American Life in Poetry: Column 430

    BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
    There are many fine poems in which the poet looks deeply into a photograph and tries to touch the lives caught there. Here’s one by Tami Haaland, who lives in Montana.

    Little Girl

    She’s with Grandma in front
    of Grandma’s house, backed
    by a willow tree, gladiola and roses.

    Who did she ever want
    to please? But Grandma
    seems half-pleased and annoyed.

    No doubt Mother frowns
    behind the lens, wants
    to straighten this sassy face.

    Maybe laughs, too.
    Little girl with her mouth wide,
    tongue out, yelling
    at the camera. See her little
    white purse full of treasure,
    her white sandals?
    She has things to do,
    you can tell. Places to explore
    beyond the frame,
    and these women picking flowers
    and taking pictures.
    Why won’t they let her go?

    American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. “Little Girl” from When We Wake in the Night, by Tami Haaland, ©2012 WordTech Editions, Cincinnati, Ohio. Poem reprinted by permission of Tami Haaland and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2013 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

    ******************************

    American Life in Poetry provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry: American Life in Poetry seeks to create a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture. There are no costs for reprinting the columns; we do require that you register your publication here and that the text of the column be reproduced without alteration.

    June 18, 2013

  • chipped nails (in Fells Point)

    Saturday red nails,
    smell of rain moving in. but not now.
    not on us, chosen
    ones who crawl our way through
    cobbles chipping nails
    looking in the late night
    always,
    constantly,
    looking.
    what we want is here – but we are not
    to make a sound
    while we circle it
    scratching nails in the dirt. we are not
    to make a sound.

    June 14, 2013

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