Poems for Life (9 page)

makes it beautiful and warm. First

Bunny died, then John Latouche,

then Jackson Pollock. But is the

earth as full as life was full, of them?

And one has eaten and one walks,

past the magazines with nudes

and the posters for BULLFIGHT and

the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,

which they'll soon tear down. I

used to think they had the Armory

Show there.

A glass of papaya juice

and back to work. My heart is in my

pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.

— Frank O'Hara

H
AROLD
P
RINCE

Dear Maggie Steele:

This is a poem written by Thomas Wolfe for his posthumously published novel You Can't Go Home Again.

E
XCERPT FROM
“C
REDO
”

Something has spoken to me in the night,

burning the tapers of the waning year;

something has spoken in the night,

and told me I shall die, I know not where.

Saying:

“To lose the earth you know, for greater

knowing; to lose the life you have, for

greater life; to leave the friends you loved,

for greater loving; to find a land more kind

than home, more large than earth —

“— Whereon the pillars of this earth are

founded, toward which the conscience of the

world is tending — a wind is rising, and the

rivers flow.”

Best wishes to you and your publication.

Sincerely,

A
NNA
Q
UINDLEN

Dear Zoe,

When I first received your letter, I wondered if trying to choose a favorite poem, even a favorite poet, was not a little like choosing your favorite child. Poetry has stoked my soul on so many occasions, over so many years, that the assignment seems impossible. And my answer may be dependent on the seasons or my mood. On certain days I swear by the black visions of Dylan Thomas, on others the quiet sensibility of Emily Dickinson. I've learned so much from Robert Lowell and Howard Nemerov, and I never cease to marvel at John Donne and Ezra Pound. In fact, one of my favorite ways to pass an afternoon is paging through a thick two-volume set I've owned for years called
Chief Modern Poets of Britain and America
. It's filled with marginalia and comments.

Looking over it, I come reluctantly to a favorite. The poetry of W. B. Yeats is so filled with quiet passion, not only in the emotional content but in the choice of language in his poems, that I come back to his work over and over again. And my favorite is the poem I used to dedicate my last book to my three children. It seems to me the perfect expression of our wish to give to our loved ones all that is in our hearts and minds:

H
E
W
ISHES FOR THE
C
LOTHS OF
H
EAVEN

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Say this one aloud. It is magic, pure music in the way it lifts, falls, and illuminates.

My very best,

D
AVID
R
EAD

Dear Molly,

I like your idea of the book of poems. If it's not too late I would like to contribute one of my favorites. It's John Donne's sonnet beginning, “Batter my heart, three-personed God.” I love its powerful expression of God's grace — so different from so much sloppy, religious verse!

I am spending the summer in Mallorca where we have an old farm house. I'm also adrift for lack of good correspondence — no sarcasm, nor many reference books, etc. We are near the town where George Sand entertained Chopin. I hope this finally reaches you and with it send best wishes for the success of the poetry book.

H
OLY
S
ONNET
XIV

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurped town, to another due,

Labor to admit You, but Oh, to no end!

Reason, Your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love You, and would be loved fain.

But am betrothed unto Your enemy:

Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,

Take me to You, imprison me, for I,

Except You enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except You ravish me.

— John Donne

R
ICHARD
W. R
ILEY

THE SECRETARY OF EDUCATION WASHINGTON

Dear Celene,

Thank you for your letter of June 15. I am pleased to have an opportunity to help with the project to benefit refugee children by sharing my favorite poem with your class.

It is a poem entitled “Duty Was Joy,” written by an Indian poet named Tagore:

I slept and dreamt

That life was joy —

I awoke and found

That life was duty —

I acted and behold

Duty was joy.

Very simply, it is meaningful to me because it ties responsibility and action to happiness in life. I share this view, and find that my duties and responsibilities give me great joy.

Sincerely,

I
SABELLA
R
OSSELLINI

Dear Chloe,

Here is my latest favorite poem. I cannot tell you, in fact, which is my favorite one. I love too many. But the one I am enclosing in this note to you is my latest love.

Dustin Hoffman gave it to me. I don't know who wrote it. He was going to read it at an AIDS benefit. I am worried about sending you a poem which begs people to “Always be drunk,” but note the last verse: “Go get yourselves drunk and don't stop. With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, with whatever works best.”
Please
be drunk with virtue or poetry!!!!
Forget wine!!!
This is meant to be a poem to encourage passion. My recommendation is to have passion — but not wine. On this point I have to disagree with the writer — so be good!