Poetry for April 21

Willits Library National Poetry Month Poem of the Day for April 21, 2007 for EARTH DAY

P. K. Page

Planet Earth

It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,

has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness;

and the hands keep on moving,

smoothing the holy surfaces.

‘In Praise of Ironing’, PABLO NERUDA

It has to be loved the way a laundress loves her linens,

the way she moves her hands caressing the fine muslins

knowing their warp and woof,

like a lover coaxing, or a mother praising.

It has to be loved as if it were embroidered

with flowers and birds and two joined hearts upon it.

It has to be stretched and stroked.

It has to be celebrated.

O this great beloved world and all the creatures in it.

It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet.

The trees must be washed, and the grasses and mosses.

They have to be polished as if made of green brass.

The rivers and little streams with their hidden cresses

and pale-coloured pebbles

and their fool’s gold

must be washed and starched or shined into brightness,

the sheets of lake water

smoothed with the hand

and the foam of the oceans pressed into neatness.

It has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness

and pleated and goffered, the flower-blue sea

the protean, wine-dark, grey, green, sea

with its metres of satin and bolts of brocade.

And sky – such an O! overhead – night and day

must be burnished and rubbed

by hands that are loving

so the blue blazons forth

and the stars keep on shining

within and above

and the hands keep on moving.

It has to be made bright, the skin of this planet

till it shines in the sun like gold leaf.

Archangels then will attend to its metals

and polish the rods of its rain.

Seraphim will stop singing hosannas

to shower it with blessings and blisses and praises

and, newly in love,

we must draw it and paint it

our pencils and brushes and loving caresses

smoothing the holy surfaces.

Ukiah’s Choice for April 21

Dog by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The dog trots freely in the street

and sees realizty

and the things she sees

are bigger than herself

and the things she sees

are her reality.

Drunks in doorways

Moons on trees

The dog trots freely thru the street

and the things she sees

are smaller than herself

Fish on newsprint

Ants in holes

Chickens in Chinatown windows

their heads a block away

The dog trots freely in the street

and the things she smells

smell something like herself

The dog trots freely in the street

past puddles and babies

cats and cigars

poolrooms and policement

She doesn’t hate cops

she merely has no use for them

and she goes past

and past dead cows hung up whole

in front of the San Francisco Meat Market

She would rather eat a tender cow

than a tough policeman

though either might do

And she goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory

and past Coit’s Tower

and past Congressman Doyle

She’s afraid of Coit’s Tower

but she’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle

although what she hears is very discouraging

very depressing

very absurd

to a sad young dog like herself

But she has her own free world to live in

Her own fleas to eat

She will not be muzzled

Congressman Doyle is just another

fire hydrant

to her

The dog trots freely in the street

and has her own dog’s life to live

and to think about

and to reflect upon

touching and tasting and testing everything

without benefit of perjury

a real realist

with a real tale to tell

with a real tail to tell it with

a real live

barking

democratic dog

engaged in real

free enterprise

with something to say

about totology

something to say

about reality

and how to see it

how to hear it

with her head cocked sideways

at streetcorners

as if she is just about to have

her picture taken

for Victor Records

listening for

her Mistress’s Voice

and looking

like a living questionmark

into the

great gramaphone

of puzzling existence

with its wondrous hollow horn

which always seems

just about to spout forth

some Victorious answer

to everything