National Poetry Day
Hilda Doolittle (or H.D.). "Heat,"
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut through the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
"Heat," Archibald Lampman,
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
...
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessèd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessèd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land"
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
Liam Rector's Poem "Fat Southern Men in Summer Suits"
Fat Southern men in their summer suits,
Usually with suspenders, love to sweat
Into and even through their coats,
Taking it as a matter of honor to do so,
Especially when the humidity gets as close
As it does each Southern summer.
Some think men could do better
By just going ahead and taking the damned
Coats off, but the summer code stays
Because summer is the time
For many men, no matter what their class,
To be Southern Gentlemen by keeping
Those coats on. So late in life here I am
Down here again, having run to fat
(As Southern men tend), visiting the farm
Where my grandfather deposited
So much of his own working sweat,
Where Granddaddy never bought into any
Of "that Southern Gentleman crap."
Up north where I landed in the urban
Middle class I am seldom caught
Not wearing a coat of some kind. I love
The coats, and though I love them most
In the fall I still enact the summer code,
I suppose, because my father and I did buy
That code, even though I organized students
To strike down any dress code whatsoever
In the high school I attended (it was a matter
Of honor). And it still puts me in good humor
To abide with the many pockets, including
One for a flask. So whether it's New York,
Vermont, or Virginia, the spectacle
Of the summer seersucker proceeds,
Suspenders and all, and I lean into the sweat
(Right down to where the weather really is)
Until it has entirely soaked through my jacket.
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