Forgetfulness
Billy Collins, one of my favorite poets, reciting one of my favorite poems; forgetfulness.
A Sonnet To Cold Feet
On Valentine's Day a formal sonnet for my sweetheart and her cold feet.
Can feet as ice be so chilled that I beneath the coverlet recoil?
And deny the small gift of warmth she seeks by her touch?
My only love seeks little yet gives me beauty, love and all else beyond
Should I melt the ice of the world and all winter with my own warmth repay
I a debtor still would be for her gifts mine far outweigh.
She graces my every day with a smile warm as the very sun
In winter's dark unforgiving thrall of frost full more bright she shines
Outshines even the stars when frozen night shrouds the land
She shrouded in cloak goes at night more than from cold to defend
But lest the jealous stars should fall in dismay and she ascend
Her warmth indeed, lies not in hands or feet when winter is abroad
But within her precious breast lies heart so warm as heady spring
So my love your hands I take, and feet also to warm by my touch
And gladly the warmth of love I return to one who loves so much
The Emigrant Irish
The Emigrant Irish
by Eavan Boland
Like oil lamps, we put them out the back —
of our houses, of our minds. We had lights
better than, newer than and then
a time came, this time and now
we need them. Their dread, makeshift example:
they would have thrived on our necessities.
What they survived we could not even live.
By their lights now it is time to
imagine how they stood there, what they stood with,
that their possessions may become our power:
Cardboard. Iron. Their hardships parceled in them.
Patience. Fortitude. Long-suffering
in the bruise-colored dusk of the New World.
And all the old songs. And nothing to lose.
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