For April — A Poem a Day

April Come She Will
By: Simon & Garfunkel

April come she will!
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May she will stay
Resting in my arms again
June she’ll change her tune
In restless walks she’ll prowl the night

July she will fly
And give no warning to her flight
August die she must
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold
September I remember
A love once new has now grown old

Poetry & Prose 
By: Lang Leav

Sometimes I am caught between
poetry and prose, like two lovers
I can’t decide between.

Prose says to me, let’s build
something long and lasting.
Poetry takes me by the hand,
and whispers, come with me,
let’s get lost for awhile.

She Was Fed Turtle Soup
By: Lois Red Elk

The willows were turning green, slips of leafs
pointing to one another in a slow tempo soothing
the air with whispers of coming water. Her feet
were bare and the earth cool while a loose hem
feathered her ankles for her walk. Bracing on
stems for the gradual pace to not disturb all the
sleeping turtles, she wished for sunlight in a
shade of green to hurry growth and to keep her
hidden. How close could she lean into the
memory of relatives who lived this life of damp
shells and slow demeanor without alerting them
of her intent. All of grandma’s voices were now
shaking her sleepy mind and begging her return
to answer the details of her dream. It was the
call of tradition that signaled the next step to
seal the new experience into her life basket.
She will be served turtle’s energy for her growth.
Off of grandma’s favorite tree a knot was cut and
shaped into a bowl. Handles in the shape of
young turtles were carved into the sides. Into
the cottonwood bowl was poured the prepared
soup with essence of memory from a life once
lived. Thanking all that came before this earth
life, was her detailed prayer. A calling of all
water animals to witness the taking of one
energy to give to the energy of another, a child
who passed the test of recalling ancient blood.
Her heart will live with turtle strength. Her
life will be long and purposefully directed. Her
song will be like the cool breeze moving tall
willows above eddies remembering motion.

A Hymn to the Evening
By: Phyllis Wheatley

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

The Rainbow 
By: Christina Rossetti

Boats sail on the rivers,
And ships sail on the seas;
But clouds that sail across the sky
Are prettier than these.
There are bridges on the rivers,
As pretty as you please;
But the bow that bridges heaven,
And overtops the trees,
And builds a road from earth to sky,
Is prettier far than these.

A Body 
By: Jeff Gately ’19

The Past is a series of memories
and patterned, cognizant
electrical currents your brain
took note of like,
“whoa that was nuts,” as
a smell arced so high
and blue and white,
when you smelled her sage
that calmed your nerves and
reminded you of your aunt Karen
and her hugs that made you feel
sweetly and safe.

When you smell this sage
your brain goes “Hell yes,
this again!”
reminded of the past but
clearly in the present here,
in your adult skin with scars
and irritations and dry flakes
on elbows and hair on shoulders.
When she hugs you, you are sweetly
and safe and strong. Acutely aware
of size, and your care for body and space.

Smell your own safe and Camelia Sinsensis
on your adult skin, which contains billions
of creatures that keep you upright and clean.
And you feel sweetly and safe in this skin
that contains all the parts of you
keeping you to here to smell sage,
cedar, smoke and rain, and the perfume
that is too much like an aunt
who’s not Karen in CVS
and the way a taste becomes
a smell becomes a taste, back
to a smelling you’re in Texas
eating brisket in a fucking prairie
but so sad.
Or so your’re singing quiet in your brother’s
car, 2002. Or you’re in her car, smelling
sage on her wrist and thinking
about Aunt Karen who was always
Sure to show you how sweetly and safe
You are.

I’m From
By: Rachael Kuper ’20

Am I from my birthplace?
Nearby farms in the garden state more known for oil and petrochemical refinery.
From boardwalks down at The Shore? Carnival rides and lost toenails.
Where the firefighters dress as Santa each year to deliver candy canes.
Waiting outside my elementary school during bomb threats.
Where our neighborhood gang, mainly boys, spent
summers in an above ground pool, on a recycled-material deck,
playing tether ball, and catching tadpoles in our man made pond.
From loud talkers who move their hands violently, like me,
or maybe the Jersey mobsters next door rebuilding the kitchen- all cash.
Perhaps the pink house whose bricks I picked out at age three.

Am I from where I moved to and remember learning to know?
Remember being an outsider, before becoming part of the place.
The land of ten thousand lakes, but really many more,
with summers tubing behind a boat and walking to the marina for candy.
Lakes that freeze so thick eighteen-wheelers drive across all winter.
The snow piles taller than cars and fills parking lots
because they accumulate for months, never melting.
Could I be from flooded fields zambonied smooth for pick-up hockey games?
Where game night is a dinner to eat all the animals they hunted that year.
Where people never invite non-family to holiday dinner.
From politeness and helpfulness and chipperness to boot,
but not niceness. I learned about Minnesota (n)ice.

Am I from my family? The Jewish half? Or French-Canadian eighth? The Welsh eighth then?
From the aunt with a PhD or the uncle who dropped out of high school?
From never drinking around the kids or pouring a too big glass for the fifteen-year-old?
Coffee decaf after eleven am or caffeinated late at night?
Maybe the side with cheesy family reunions each year
or the side where people don’t recognize each other after a decade apart?
Am I from anywhere at all? Am I from nowhere at all? Am I from anyone?
I’m made of a patchwork of people and places and identities and cultures and none are where I’m from.

Maybe I’m from wandering and wondering and being stuck for two minutes.

Global Warming
By: Jane Hirshfield

When his ship first came to Australia,
Cook wrote, the natives
continued fishing, without looking up.
Unable, it seems, to fear what was too large to be comprehended.

The Easter Flower
By: Claude McKay

Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly
My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily
Soft-scented in the air for yards around;

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!
Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief
In the young pregnant year at Eastertime;

And many thought it was a sacred sign,
And some called it the resurrection flower;
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine,
Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.

Nothing Gold Can Stay
By:  Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Sonnet 34 
By:  William Shakespeare

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke?
‘Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face.
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace.
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.
The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offense’s cross.
Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.

The Real Monsters
By:  Nikita Gill

Our mothers tell us that
there are no monsters
under our beds,
or hidden inside our closets
but they don’t warn us
that sometimes monsters
come dressed as people
that claim to love you
more than the sun
loves the moon.

Out of Body Experience, Please Hear Me Out
By:  Christine Read ’20

Thoughts clouding my memory on love
I am distracted by the true facts of our connection
I constantly ask myself in the mirror
Who will I become? and why am  I stuck thinking
of the image you and I painted so long ago, all alone
with no one but the emptiness in my   heart

Still I go on, cuz this hearts
all I got and with the love
I give I know I won’t end up alone-
in my dreams, we have something real, a connection
so true I can’t help this thinking,
the back and forth thoughts that replay as I stare in the mirror

Why must I hate this mirror?
I can feel her pumping, my heart
won’t break through this chest- I have to stop this thinking,
my hands keep shaking, why won’t you love
me? It’s like no matter the connection
your body still glides through those doors, leaving me cold and alone

You think I want to be alone?
Even when isolated, the reflection in the mirror
reminds me of our connection
how could you? How could you bruise my heart
like that? After all I have done for you and the love
I tried to give you, now I’m out here thinking-

Why can’t I stop this thinking-
and who am I to think I can’t be satisfied being alone?
I have it somewhere, stored inside of me, self-love
But it keeps staring back that mirror-
deep down, somewhere in my heart
I know between us there is a connection

But if there just so happens to be no connection
I hope all this thinking-
out loud meant something, cuz my heart
means something, and I don’t like to be alone
but when I look at myself in the mirror
I want it, I want to love.

(Outro)

You were standing behind me glancing at the mirror, and it got me thinking-
of this connection.   Why does my heart
refuse to feel whole and why is this love making me feel so alone?

Pulled Over in Short Hills, NJ, 8:00 AM
By:  Ross Gay

It’s the shivering. When rage grows
hot as an army of red ants and forces
the mind to quiet the body, the quakes
emerge, sometimes just the knees,
but, at worst, through the hips, chest, neck
until, like a virus, slipping inside the lungs
and pulse, every ounce of strength tapped
to squeeze words from my taut lips,
his eyes scanning my car’s insides, my eyes,
my license, and as I answer the questions
3, 4, 5 times, my jaw tight as a vice,
his hand massaging the gun butt, I
imagine things I don’t want to
and inside beg this to end
before the shiver catches my
hands, and he sees,
and something happens.

Paul Revere’s Ride 
By:  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, —
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,–
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,–
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep? 
By:  Antonio Machado

Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shallow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.

How I Learned Bliss 
By:  Oliver de la Paz

I spied everything. The North Dakota license,
the “Baby on Board” signs, dead raccoons, and deer carcasses.
The Garfields clinging to car windows—the musky traces of old coffee.
I was single-minded in the buzz saw tour I took through
the flatlands of the country to get home. I just wanted to get there.
Never mind the antecedent. I had lost stations miles ago
and was living on cassettes and caffeine. Ahead, brushstrokes
of smoke from annual fires. Only ahead to the last days of summer
and to the dying theme of youth. How pitch-perfect
the tire-on-shoulder sound was to mask the hiss of the tape deck ribbons.
Everything. Perfect. As Wyoming collapses over the car
like a wave. And then another mile marker. Another.
How can I say this more clearly? It was like opening a heavy book,
letting the pages feather themselves and finding a dried flower.

A Work in Progress   
By:  Noor Unnahar

i was suppose to be a city
with busy streets and twinkling lights
but I wanted to be a house
full of warm sunlight
and dried flowers gracing its vases
i’m neither today but
a hollow skeleton of progress
where everyday something builds and collapse
i am happier in this

To Love  
By:  Rupi Kaur

To hate
is an easy lazy thing
but to love
takes strength
everyone has
but not all are
willing to practice

Ducks on the River 
By: Pamela Leavey ’19

The line moves
Drawn and driven
By a finely feathered force

It fans outwards
Creating a palpable pattern
Of disruption.

They look like small children
Scampering about
On a green lawn—

They flap their wings
Suddenly, they lift off
Splashing the still water.

They spiral downward
Then swoop and swirl
On the wafting wind

They sweep, swerve
Swivel and dive
And then they diverge

Back into the motionless drink,
Creating fresh, fluid
Lines of movement.

Suddenly, the lines begin to dwindle
While they intermingle
Amidst the still steel blue water

Motion becomes
Barely perceptible—
Reflection resonates

As the still water
No longer replicates
The movement of mallards.

Lone
By: Shannon Stimpson ’21

Her hands, dexterous as ever,
now untethered,
grasped at anything within reach-
fallen leaves,
budding branches,
pits of cherries long since discarded and dried.
Her fingers pricked, palms bled,
and she reveled in each sensation
as they were hers
and hers alone.

LISTEN TO THE MUSTN’TS 
By:  Shel Silverstein

Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT’S
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me—
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.

How Would You Paint Me? 
By:  Christy Ann Martine

If you were an artist
how would you paint me?
With deep solid strokes
or your brush sweeping softly?
Would you paint me by number,
quickly fill in the lines
or sketch me first,
taking your time?
Would you use vibrant colors
or plain shades of gray?
Would you change me in any way?
Would you hang me proudly
and gaze at me often
or tuck me away
until I’m forgotten?

You Fit Into Me 
By:  Margaret Atwood

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

The Rose That Grew From Concrete 
By:  Tupac Shakur

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

Caged Bird
By:  Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

From Walt to Emily (Dedicated to Emily Dickinson’s Poem 39)
By:  Natasha Murray ’20

I have gained more than I have lost.
Two brothers buried in the soil, their faces unseen and voices unheard,
but my brothers come in many forms:
Two blue jays harmonizing outside my window, the sea breeze tickling my neck, a white feather appearing on my bedroom floor, God’s land sprouting where they lay
I smile and look to the clouds
Two angels open the gates of Heaven
My entire being lights up with up joy!
Giver! Supporter! Lord!
I am richer than I have ever been!

An April Day
By:  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
‘T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-in of storms.

From the earth’s loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song
Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is gone,
In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.

Sweet April! — many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life’s golden fruit is shed.

April Rain Song
By:  Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.