Late

A month ago Time ran an article about the Poetry Foundation's President, John Barr, a Morgan Stanley banker turned poetry missionary. Barr is a controversial figure-- his determination to bring poetry back to the masses has some members of the literary elite throwing (very articulate) hissy fits. But with a recent gift of $200 million to play with, Barr has actioned some neat initiatives, including creating a post for a Children's Poet Laureate. I've posted links to the online collections of Barr's other projects below.

American Life in Poetry provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems. According to the article, a century ago, every newspaper in the U.S. used to print poetry. I'll post them in the entirety if they strike a chord.

Poetry Out Loud is a national recitation contest for highschoolers. Video of the highschoolers performing and text of the featured poems linked here and here.

And finally, the Writer's Almanac. This radio program has been my nightcap for more than a month now. A quick mention of their sponsers at the close of a recent program inspired this blog post, and since I'm mentioning them again, this is my favorite poem so far, may the copyright law gods forgive me.

After drinks last Friday a bunch of us were out til 6:30 in the morning talking about life, Milton, and traveling in China, the lateness of the hour, coupled with a word in Carver's poem inspired the title of this post. The Italian deli on Caine Road is selling artichoke hearts with stems again and life is good.


Cherish

From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes

given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish—
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling—scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried
petal
can still find her.


Posted on the The Writer's Almanac, from All of Us by Raymond Carver. © Knopf.
Photo by Wei from her blog.