Connecting

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

February 13th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

  The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: …


Sinners Welcome by Mary Karr

February 13th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

I opened up my shirt to show this man the flaming heart he lit in me, and I was scooped up like a lamb and carried to the dim warm. I who should have been kneeling was knelt to by one whose face should be emblazoned on every coin and diadem:   That the world …


Silence by Edgar Lee Masters

February 13th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

(excerpted—full poem here)   “I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room. And I ask: For the depths, Of what …


Poems by Pablo Neurda and W. H. Auden

February 13th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

(These two poems were read together)  And it was at that age … Poetry arrived in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don’t know how or when, no, (it was) not voices, (it was) not words, (or) silence, but from a street …


Forgiving our Fathers by Dick Lourie

February 13th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or for making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for …


When Death Comes by Mary Oliver

February 13th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

  When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse   to buy me, and snaps his purse shut; when death comes like the measle pox;   when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,   I want to step through …


First Lesson by Philip Booth

February 12th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

  Lie back, daughter, let your head be tipped back in the cup of my hand. Gently, and I will hold you. Spread your arms wide, lie out on the stream and look high at the gulls. A dead- man’s float is face down. You will dive and swim soon enough where this tidewater ebbs …


On the Death of a Colleague by Stephen Dunn

February 12th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

  She taught theater, so we gathered in the theater. We praised her voice, her knowledge, how good she was with Godot and just four months later with Gigi. She was fifty. The problem in the liver. Each of us recalled an incident in which she’d been kind or witty. I told about being unable …


The Way it Is by William Stafford

February 12th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

  There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you can’t get lost. Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you …


Ask Me by William Stafford

February 12th, 2013 / Denise Crawford

  Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made.   …