A Poet's Anthology

Several years ago I participated as a student and a teaching assistant in a poetry MOOC (massive open online course) taught by former US poet laureate Robert Pinsky. At the completion of "The Art of Poetry," each participant compiled an anthology of favorite poems. Over the next few weeks I'll post excerpts from my anthology. Some of the poems are very well-known as in this first post about "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry. Other selected poems are fairly obscure. The link to each poem follows my response to it. Occasionally, an entire poem appears by permission of the poet, or because it is in the public domain.

I hope you will enjoy reading the poems I chose for my anthology and my shared thoughts.

Warmly,
Barbara

“The Peace of Wild Things”

Wendell Berry

In this one stanza free verse poem Wendell Berry speaks in the first person and he is speaking about the healing power of nature. Several years ago, I had a terrifying nightmare that left me nervous and upset. The following day I took my little dog for a walk in a nearby park. Suddenly, I heard the sound of pounding hooves so close I felt the vibrations in the ground caused by their power. Four beautiful white-tail deer galloped by! Awestruck, I stood very still and watched them till they disappeared in the woods. My dog was also still. No longer startled, I felt calm but not an ordinary calmness, something deeper and not easily described. The last line of “The Peace of Wild Things” came to me – “I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.” I don’t remember the nightmare. I do remember the deer and Wendell Berry’s poem.

To read the poem click here.

The Uses of Enchantment

My poem "The Uses of Enchantment" was published today. To read the poem, scroll down a bit after you open this link The Greensilk Journal.

Note: The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales was written by the brilliant child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim. 






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Afterlife

My poem "Afterlife" appears in the October edition of Front Porch Review. Click here to read the poem.

Sleigh Bed and Before Dark

My poems "Sleigh Bed" and "Before Dark" appear online in Quail Bell Magazine. To read the poems click here. 

April 26th Poem - The Ridiculous Woman

THE RIDICULOUS WOMAN

I’m a ridiculous woman

in a ridiculous body

wearing ridiculous clothes.

My eyes are two buttons,

my nose a clothespin,

my mouth, half a crayon,

ears, shells of odd size,

hands, empty mittens.

My feet I refuse to describe.

My dreams are of noodles,

my hair, spinach green.

I’m the most ridiculous woman

I’ve ever seen.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro

April 25th Poem - Heart

HEART

I sold my heart today,

the gold locket I seldom wore &

my grandfather’s cufflinks,

in a mall jewelry store.

The gold locket I seldom wore &

purchased at Christmas,

my grandfather’s cufflinks,

melting after the teller’s remark.

Purchased at Christmas,

these shining things,

melting after the teller’s remark,

“Good for you, you’ve made

yourself a little money.”

My grandfather’s cufflinks,

shining, engraved.

I sold my heart today.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 24th Poem - Afterlife

AFTERLIFE

People do odd things

after the death of a parent –

lose their faith,

end a marriage,

travel somewhere

they read of long ago,

as if, as if…

the faces they owned

before they saw

the things no one tells,

would somehow return,

certain and vaguely young.

The last time I saw my mother

she winked at me when encouraged

to attend a sing-along.

I understood that wink to mean

there wasn’t much to sing about

stationed by the large window

in a locked wheelchair so the nursing

home staff could move freely.

That window waits for me.

It does no one good

to cry in the dark,

“I was wrong.”  You need

to go on in the way

almost sleeping children

pull bedcovers and sigh

into the breadth of night. 

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro

April 23rd Poem - Untitled

UNTITLED

Ethel Lang was the most beautiful girl

in Saint Anastasia Grammar School.

Tall and graceful, she usually wore

a sprig of tiny flowers in her hair,

lilies-of-the-valley or violets, fastened

with a tortoise shell barrette.  Winters,

a jeweled butterfly took their resting place.

When Ethel entered a classroom,

a message for the teacher in her hand,

even second-graders knew to look.

Some never saw her eyes or heard

her voice and so she seemed to them

almost an apparition of some catholic sort.

It would be terrible to think she

met some sad and wholly unfair fate,

     beheaded like Anastasia for her faith

─the terrorists would have taped the murder─

   or, a bad marriage to a man who hits.

Eerie hells await even the beautiful.

Rather, imagine her arranging flowers,

loosely, so they breathe.  She is

laughing easily at a friend’s remark.

In another room of the house

guests from other countries gather,

the scent of jasmine everywhere.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 22nd Poem - First Kiss

FIRST KISS

Teddy O’Connor, I dreamed of you last night.

You were the age you would be now

and still handsome in your quiet way.

Remember us, in our Easter Sunday best,

beside my father’s mint green Chevrolet,

holding torch-shaped ice cream cones.

Ten years later, I’m wearing a prom dress.

You are Cary Grant in a rented tux.

You broke my heart that night,

being too attentive to another.

Somewhere between the Carvels

and senior prom, probably

when we were twelve, we paused

in a Long Island woods and

sat beside each other on a fallen tree.

You surprised me with a kiss

and I fell silent as a log.

In the dream, you said you live in Delaware.

I wonder how you are now.

The fool part of me is tempted to see

how many Theodore O’Connors

live in Wilmington but if I found you,

what could I say?

Teddy O’Connor, I dreamed of you last night. 

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro

April 21st Poem - Bedtime Stories

BEDTIME STORIES

Long ago and far away,

you are the sleepy boy, listening

to stories of girls and ghosts.

Dark shirts hang on doorknobs

while outside, trees tremble

in the vast, unforgiving night.

Somewhere there are people burning books.

Seven and wearing ski pajamas,

weary and sincere, you ask

for just one more story.

Remember

walking in the woods,

like fairy tale children,

pausing by a pond

to watch mallards glide,

scooping toads in our hands,

laughing as they jump aside.

Somewhere there are people burning books.

In the morning, a list that begins

“Bottled water, peanut butter, duct tape”

changes to the first draft of a poem.

Here, in a suburb of Washington,

I sleep and wake to the great grumbling

sound of fighter aircraft as if the skies are hungry.

Brother,

Once upon a time America…

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 19th Poem - In the Poem

IN THE POEM

for Victor

I remember you in your red robe,

standing in a triangle of sunlight

as you feed our cats, put coffee on,

and break bread into pieces

for the birds outside in the snow.

You give me a poem you have written.

In the poem, what is best in me is

exaggerated the way truths are in dreams

and reading it, I see I am loved.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 16th Poem - A Child's Poem

A CHILD’S POEM

In second grade, I wrote a poem about God.

I compared Him to an old sea captain

who looked not surprisingly like Santa Claus.

I put the words in bunches of four lines.

The next day my teacher read the poem,

told me she knew very well I had not written it.

I was in my twenties before I wrote another,

locked in a marriage to a man who loved sailing.

We lived in a house by the bay but even the grey

water and orange sun could not calm our union.

I would sit in a gold chair and write poems

till there was nothing in me but the desire

for sleep.  A cat that I loved very much

befriended a chubby, speckled rabbit.

The two would walk along the water’s edge

unaware that they were natural enemies.

Once in a restaurant I heard a man describe deer hunting.

“You choose the one you want most and then kill it.”

I repeated the line as if it contained some secret.

I repeated the line so I would not forget it.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 15th Poem - Jewels on Her Hat

JEWELS ON HER HAT

Emeralds, rubies,

amethysts, all glass, the size

of quarters on her felt hat,

sprinkled like blessings.

Round and proud, the old

woman took the seat

reserved for seniors

and those with disabilities.

Brass buttons nestled

near the gems, humble

and unlike the large

jewels that announced

their peculiar grace.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 10th Poem - K Street

K STREET

On K Street, in Washington,

a woman in a designer suit

adjusts a hat selected

from a table of many hats.

The street peddler holds

a mirror before her

as demonstrators chant

“Long Live Freedom!”

Some people, on their lunch hour,

pause to watch the marchers

while the woman considering

the purchase of a hat,

pinches the wool of another hat

with her perfectly manicured hand.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 9th Poem - Slippers

SLIPPERS

for Sheridan Smith

My father’s bedroom slippers had labels

that glowed in the dark, rectangles

in the instep of each slipper.  At night

he placed his slippers beside the double bed

shared with my mother.  As a child,

suffering from nightmares,

I’d wake in the middle of the night,

tiptoe like a burglar through the house,

to see those two glowing patches guiding

me to my father’s side of the bed where

I’d curl on the floor, a furtive thing.

We stayed overnight at the house of new friends.

I heard my mother wonder

if I would be able to find them

in this strange house.  After

I woke from the bad dream, I fell

before I found the room with the glowing

slippers and my parents breathing

strongly in the dark.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 8th Poem - The Breakfast Club

THE BREAKFAST CLUB

Like three lovely loons

my mother, my brother and I

hold hands, sing a song, and

dance around the breakfast table,

listening to a radio show called

Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club.

To make us laugh, our mother

makes funny faces, rubbery,

twisted, distorted faces.

Later, on a blue carpet,

we eat potato chips, read comics,

and listen to soaps – “Our Gal

Sunday” and “Helen Trent.”

A male voice inquires

“Can a woman over thirty

find true romance?”

The phone never rings

in my childhood house

but the radio is always on.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 5th Poem - Also

ALSO

“And when he has found it, he lays it upon his shoulders rejoicing.”    St. Luke 15:5

Trembling

when the shepherd found you,

touched you, calmed you,

made your breath like music,

lifting you to his shoulders

you nuzzled his face,

a laugh spurted from him

and he said, “I am glad also.”

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 3rd Poem - Tough Guy

TOUGH GUY

for Henry Brautigan

The Brooklyn apartment on Fenimore Street

had high ceilings and arched doorways.

My brother Bob was the apple of your eye

but I was the one you taught how to draw

pictures of a tree, a man’s face,

a rowboat near a lake.

After supper, in her favorite chair,

Mama read the comics to Bob.

I was at the dining table with you,

a sketchbook, charcoals and pastels.

Quiet as a lamb, I almost never spoke

when near you.  Seven, skinny,

and sinless as a jellyfish,

I was silly with the mystery of childhood.

Still, Papa, somehow you conveyed to me

quiet is where you go to get soul things out.

There is a photograph of you, looking serious

in your soldier’s uniform.  My mother said

you were a “tough guy.”  You came home “sailing”

and told my grandmother, “I was gonna knock

his block off but I’d see your face, Annie.”

This seems odd to me as I only knew

the old gentleman – impeccably dressed,

manicured nails, a perfectly tended mustache.

Once, at Thanksgiving time, you won a live turkey,

came home, put it in the bathtub, and went to bed.

Eighty-two now, my mother laughs when she tells

how that turkey nearly scared her to death.

Coney Island night noises, crowds and rides

surround you as you survey the boardwalk,

the rollercoaster, a giant doodle against the sky.

Couples walk along the edge of the water,

barefoot and hungry but too moonstruck

to leave the beach and eat hot dogs at Nathan’s.

Summer just beginning and only a tough guy

could let the memory of that winter morning

come full force again like a punch in the heart.

There was a blizzard and the doctor was drunk

so you delivered your own and only son.

Stillborn, you placed his silent body

on a pillow and wept while your Annie

whispered your name as if it were a prayer.

Today, at church, the children put on a pageant

celebrating the Three Kings and the Epiphany.

Baby Jesus was a girl.  No one seemed to mind.

Last year a Guatemalan baby named Juan,

in this country for surgery, played Jesus.

Several months after his return to Guatemala,

he died of cholera.  This Guatemalan Jesus

is in some way connected to my dead infant uncle.

How quiet it was fishing from the rowboat with Papa,

Early in the morning, how quiet and how green.

How quiet it was, after supper, at the table,

watching Papa place his pastels gently in their box 

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro

A Poem a Day for National Poetry Month

In honor of National Poetry Month I am going to post one of my poems each day of April. All the poems will be excerpts from the paperback edition of my poetry called Singing Magic. The poems will appear in almost the same order as they do in the book. Today's poem is a a free verse poem about one afternoon in New York's Central Park.

Why not take a poetry break with your morning coffee and visit my blog often this month.

RILEY & LULU

What’s your dog’s name asked a boy of a woman and not waiting her reply continued My dog’s name is Riley  My dog’s name is Lulu said the woman just then Riley a red dog reminiscent of Irish setters and German shepherds and other miscellaneous breeds and Lulu a beige dog of even more dubious lineage than Riley interrupted their afternoon swim in the model boat pond to shakesplash their owners a portable radio a pair of shoes and me  They swam again then galloped and chased on the wet concrete Lulu doing most of the chasing with the grassy abandon city dogs on park days know making strangers laugh out loud and now intimidated by the sailors who were not laughing these handmade or purchased boats cost four hundred dollars baby and the pond is after all for them not Riley and Lulu the older brother of the boy attaches a leash to Riley’s collar and the woman bribes Lulu into a semblance of quietude with pets and scratches but mind you Lulu and Riley are eyeing each other all this time they’re approximately five feet away from one another and What’s this Oh no a beagle well a partial beagle bouncing into the pond a stick between his teeth guarded as though it were the golden fleece and Lulu that hussy swimming after his neat patched little body as though absolutely nothing has happened between Riley and her for God’s sake chained and barking in pain while a bumble bee is bugging pun intended me and a little girl lopes by announcing Now my other front tooth is crooked!

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro

 © Barbara Alfaro

Two Poems

TREE LIFE

Trees amaze me most in winter when

stark against slate skies

slim, long branches bend.  In December

snow somehow gently clings.

Pagans danced around oaks, in awe.

Trees were holy things.

Squirrels hurry as sparrows startle

through large, breathing limbs,

squeaking speckled, noisy hymns.

Pale, crisp leaves lay soft nearby,

in winter when trees amaze me most.

AFTERLIFE

People do odd things

after the death of a parent –

lose their faith,

end a marriage,

travel somewhere

they read of long ago,

as if, as if…

the faces they owned

before they saw

the things no one tells,

would somehow return,

certain and vaguely young.

The last time I saw my mother

she winked at me when encouraged

to attend a sing-along.

I understood that wink to mean

there wasn’t much to sing about

stationed by the large window

in a locked wheelchair so the nursing

home staff could move freely.

That window waits for me.

It does no one good

to cry in the dark,

“I was wrong.”  You need

to go on in the way

almost sleeping children

pull bedcovers and sigh

into the breadth of night.


from First Kiss by Barbara Alfaro

 © Barbara Alfaro

“Afterlife” first appeared in The Chesapeake Reader.