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April is Poetry Month
In honor of poetry month, we are going to try and put one poem up each day. Do you have a favorite poem, if so, email it to us and we'll put it up for you. Here's one from Sharon Olds, whom I believe still teaches at NYU's graduate program, to kick it off:
rites of passage
As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.
from The Dead and the Living [poem found here]
Posted by Chris at April 1, 2005 01:00 AM
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