Poem 7: The Day the Saucers Came by Neil Gaiman

That Day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and
stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find out what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold,
and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods
day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true
brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across
the land and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day, the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day,
the day the great winds came
And snows and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling
us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of
the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.

Poem 6: Instructions by Neil Gaiman


Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.
Say “please” before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter’s realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December’s frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to
leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one’s lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
And rest.

Poem 5: Inventing Aladdin by Neil Gaiman

In bed with him that night, like every night,
her sister at their feet, she ends her tale,
then waits. Her sister quickly takes her cue,
and says, “I cannot sleep. Another, please?”
Scheherazade takes one small nervous
     breath
and she begins. “In faraway Peking
there lived a lazy youth with his mama.
His name? Aladdin. His papa was dead…”
She tells them how a dark magician came,
claiming to be his uncle, with a plan:
He took the boy out to a lonely place,
gave him a ring he said would keep him safe,
dropped him in a cavern filled with precious stones,
“Bring me the lamp!” and when Aladdin won’t,
in darkness he’s abandoned and entombed…

There now.

Aladdin locked beneath the earth,
she stops, her husband hooked for one
     more night.

Next day
she cooks
she feeds her kids
she dreams…
Knowing Aladdin’s trapped,
and that her tale
has bought her just one day.
What happens now?
She wishes that she knew.

It’s only when that evening comes around
and husband says, just as he always says,
“Tomorrow morning, I shall have your head,”
when Dunyazade, her sister, asks, “But please,
what of Aladdin?” only then, she knows…

And in a cavern hung about with jewels
Aladdin rubs his lamp. The Genie comes.
The story tumbles on. Aladdin gets
the princess and a palace made of pearls.
Watch now, the dark magician’s coming back:
“New lamps for old,” he’s singing in the street.
Just when Aladdin has lost everything,
she stops.

He’ll let her live another night.

Her sister and her husband fall asleep.
She lies awake and stares up in the dark
Playing the variations in her mind:
the ways to give Aladdin back his world,
his palace, his princess, his everything.

And then she sleeps. The tale will need an end,
but now it melts to dreams inside her head.

She wakes,
She feeds the kids
She combs her hair
She goes down to the market
Buys some oil
The oil seller pours it out for her,
decanting it
from an enormous jar.
She thinks,
What if you hid a man in there?
She buys some sesame as well, that day.

Her sister says, “He hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Not yet.” Unspoken waits the phrase, “he will.”

In bed she tells them of the magic ring
Aladdin rubs. Slave of the Ring appears…
Magician dead, Aladdin saved, she stops.
But once the story’s done, the teller’s dead,
her only hope’s to start another tale.
Scheherazade inspects her store of words,
half-built, half-baked ideas and dreams combine
with jars just big enough to hide a man,
and she thinks, Open Sesame, and smiles.
“Now, Ali Baba was a righteous man,
but he was poor…” she starts, and she’s away,
and so her life is safe for one more night,
until she bores him, or invention fails.

She does not know where any tale waits
before it’s told. (No more do I.)
But forty thieves sounds good, so forty
thieves it is. She prays she’s bought
     another clutch of days.

We save our lives in such unlikely ways.

Poem(s) 4: Poetry by Marianne Moore

A quick introduction on this poem. Marianne Moore constantly revised this poem throughout her career. Here are three of the most prominent versions.

1.

I, too dislike it:
There are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
The bat, upside down; the elephant pushing,
a tireless wolf under a tree,
The base-ball fan, the statistician–
“business documents and schoolbooks”–
These phenomena are pleasing,
but when they have been fashioned
Onto that which is unknowable,
we are not entertained.
It may be said of all of us
that we do not admire what we cannot understand;
enigmas are not poetry.

2.

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
*****Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
*****it, after all, a place for the genuine.
***********Hands that can grasp, eyes
***********that can dilate, hair that can rise
*****************if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
*****useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible
*****the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
***********do not admire what
***********we cannot understand: the bat
*****************holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
*****a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea
*******************************************************the base-
*****ball fan, the statistician—
***********nor is it valid
*****************to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a *******************************************distinction
*****however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not
*************************************************poetry,
*****nor till the poets among us can be
***********“literalists of
***********the imagination”—above
*****************insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,” shall we have
*****it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
*****the raw material of poetry in
***********all its rawness and
***********that which is on the other hand
*****************genuine, you are interested in poetry.

*******************************************
3.

I, too, dislike it.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
it, after all, a place for the genuine.

Poem 3: Deor, translated by Seamus Heaney

Weland the blade-winder     suffered woe.
That steadfast man     knew misery.
Sorrow and longing     walked beside him,
wintered in him,     kept wearing him down
after Nithad     hampered and restrained him,
lithe sinew-bonds     on the better man.
That passed over,     this can too.

For Beadohilde     her brother’s death
weighed less heavily     than her own heartsoreness
once it was clearly     understood
she was bearing a child.     Her ability
to think and decide     deserted her then.
That passed over,     this can too.

We have heard tell     of Mathilde’s laments,
the grief that afflicted     Geat’s wife.
Her love was her bane,     it banished sleep.
That passed over,     this can too.

For thirty winters–     it was common knowledge–
Theodric held     the Maerings’ fort.
That passed over,     this can too.

Earmonric     had the mind of a wolf,
by all accounts     a cruel king,
lord of the far flung     Gothic outlands.
Everywhere men sat     shackled in sorrow,
expecting the worst,     wishing often
he and his kingdom     would be conquered.
That passed over,     this can too.

A man sits mournful,     his mind in darkness,
so daunted in spirit     he deems himself
ever after     fated to endure.
He may think then     how throughout this world
the Lord in his wisdom     often works change–
meting out honor,     ongoing fame
to many, to others     only their distress.
Of myself, this much     I have to say:
for a time I was poet     of the Heoden people,
dear to my lord.     Deor was my name.
For years I enjoyed     my duties as minstrel
and that lord’s favor,     but now the freehold
and land titles     he bestowed upon me once
he has vested in Heorrenda,     master of verse-craft.
That passed over,     this can too.


Welund him be wurman      wræces cunnade,
anhydig eorl     earfoþa dreag,
hæfde him to gesiþþe     sorge and longaþ,
wintercealde wræce,     wean oft onfond
siþþan hine Niðhad on     nede legde,
swoncre seonobende     on syllan monn.
Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

Beadohilde ne wæs     hyre broþra deaþ
on sefan swa sar     swa hyre sylfre þing,
þæt heo gearolice     ongietan hæfde
þæt heo eacen wæs;     æfre ne meahte
þriste geþencan     hu ymb þæt sceolde.
Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

We þæt Mæðhilde      mone gefrugnon
wurdon grundlease     Geates frige,
þæt hi seo sorglufu     slæp ealle binom.
Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

Ðeodric ahte      þritig wintra
Mæringa burg;     þæt wæs monegum cuþ.
Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

We geascodan     Eormanrices
wylfenne geþoht;     ahte wide folc
Gotena rices;     þæt wæs grim cyning.
Sæt secg monig     sorgum gebunden,
wean on wenan,     wyscte geneahhe
þæt þæs cynerices     ofercumen wære.
Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

Siteð sorgcearig,     sælum bidæled,
on sefan sweorceð,     sylfum þinceð
þæt sy endeleas     earfoða dæl,
mæg þonne geþencan     þæt geond þas woruld
witig Dryhten     wendeþ geneahhe,
eorle monegum     are gesceawað,
wislicne blæd,     sumum weana dæl.

Þæt ic bi me sylfum     secgan wille,
þæt ic hwile wæs     Heodeninga scop,
dryhtne dyre;     me wæs Deor noma.
Ahte ic fela wintra     folgað tilne,
holdne hlaford,     oþ þæt Heorrenda nu,
leoðcræftig monn,     londryht geþah
þæt me eorla hleo     ær gesealde.
Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

Poem 2: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Test Poem: Marginalia by Billy Collins

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive—
“Nonsense.” “Please!” “HA!!”—
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
who wrote “Don’t be a ninny”
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls “Metaphor” next to a stanza of Eliot’s.
Another notes the presence of “Irony”
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
“Absolutely,” they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
“Yes.” “Bull’s-eye.” “My man!”
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written “Man vs. Nature”
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird singing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page—
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake’s furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents’ living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil—
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet—
“Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.”

Poem 45: Nothing is Lost by Noel Coward

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent,
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.