Category Archives: Poetry

How do I love cheese? Let me count the ways.

How do I love cheese? Let me count the ways.
Co-written with Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love cheese? Let me count the ways.
I love feta and gouda and fried mozzarella,
My soul can feel the gooey cheese with marinara
For this dairy product is what I chase.

I love cheese to the level of every day’s
Most urgent need, by breakfast grumbles and lunchtime hunger pangs.
I love cheese freely, as men love football;
I love cheese purely, as they turn from the stove.
I’ll love cheese with the passion put to use
In my old age, and with my childhood love of Kraft American slices.
I love cheese with a love I seemed to lose
As I down the last bite. I love all cheese—
The mild cheddar, sharp cheddar, all the cheddars of my life; and, if God choose,
I’ll have cheese in heaven after death.

a poem.

early morning, wore pantyhose and heels
observed a 10th grade class reading julius caesar
explained to class why people back then committed suicide all the time
chick fil a spicy chicken biscuit and large sweet tea
i hate this cold, damp weather, even though it reminds me of Twilight
back in bed
in pajamas
contemplating mid-morning nap

“Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

“Song of Myself” Section 52 by Walt Whitman

52

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

“Helen” by H.D.

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees unmoved,
God’s daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

 

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), “Helen” from Collected Poems 1912-1944. Copyright © 1982 by The Estate of Hilda Doolittle. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Source: Collected Poems 1912-1944 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1982)

Helen of Troy by Evelyn De Morgan (1898)