Fox

by Mary Oliver

You don’t ever know where
a sentence will take you, depending
on its roll and fold. I was walking
over the dunes when I saw
the red fox asleep under the green
branches of the pine. It flared up
in the sweet order of its being,
the tail that was over the muzzle
lifting in airy amazement
and the fire of the eyes followed
and the pricked ears and the thin
barrel body and the four
athletic legs in their black stockings and it
came to me how the polish of the world changes
everything. I was hot I was cold I was almost
dead of delight. Of course the mind keeps
cool in its hidden palace—yes, the mind takes
a long time, is otherwise occupied than by
happiness, and deep breathing. Still,
at last, it comes too, running
like a wild thing, to be taken
with its twin sister, breath. So I stood
on the pale, peach-colored sand, watching the fox
as it opened like a flower, and I began
softly, to pick among the vast assortment of words
that it should run again and again across the page
that you again and again should shiver with praise.

from West Wind, Mariner Books, ©1997

Most Poetry will post a poem on the theme of joy and celebration, selected by our members, each day through the month of September.

The Waking (1948)

by Theodore Roethke

I strolled across 
An open field; 
The sun was out; 
Heat was happy.

This way! This way! 
The wren’s throat shimmered,
Either to other, 
The blossoms sang.

The stones sang,
The little ones did, 
And flowers jumped 
Like small goats.

A ragged fringe 
Of daisies waved; 
I wasn’t alone
In a grove of apples.

Far in the wood 
A nestling sighed; 
The dew loosened 
Its morning smells.

I came where the river 
Ran over stones: 
My ears knew 
An early joy.

And all the waters 
Of all the streams 
Sang in my veins 
That summer day.

Most Poetry will post a poem on the theme of joy and celebration, selected by our members, each day through the month of September.

Dafa Rafet

by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

Yaay, Baay, and Goonay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1756

When the mother and child
walk from the village
to gather fruit, faces
recite quotidian love.
                         Do you have peace
                        (Waw, waw, diam rek)
Then, they are alone, and the toddler
points out the fat-bottomed
baobab, the mango
with its frustrating reach.
Mother pierces a low-hanging
jewel, and her small
shadow trills gratitude.
                         Yaay, you are so nice
                          (Waw, waw)
                          Yaay, I love you so
                          (Waw, waw)
No demonstration, but a hand
touching the tender head
that was braided over cries.
Later that night,
the father must listen, too.
                           Baay, I ate a mango
                          (Waw, waw)
                          Baay, I saw a bug
                          (Waw, waw)
The child sits closer
to his mat,
whispers ambiguous lights:
                           I know all the things—
and he does not answer,
but smiles at his wife:
their daughter is a marvel
and they must pray for humility.

from The Age of Phillis, Wesleyan, ©2020

Most Poetry will post a poem on the theme of joy and celebration, selected by our members, each day through the month of September.

Yes, we know there are only 31 days in August, but we just had to continue posting poems through the end of this week!

Breathe. As in. (shadow)

by Rosamund S. King

Breathe

. As in what if

the shadow is gold

en? Breathe. As in

hale assuming

exhale. Imagine

that.      As in first

person singular. Homonym

:. As in subject. As

in centeroftheworld as in

mundane. The opposite of spectacle

spectacular. This is just us

breathing. Imagine

normalized respite

gold in shadows

. You have the

right to breathe and remain

. Imagine

that

.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.

Yes, we know there are only 31 days in August, but we just had to continue posting poems through the end of this week!

Daedalus, After Icarus

by Saeed Jones

Boys begin to gather around the man like seagulls.

He ignores them entirely, but they follow him

from one end of the beach to the other.

Their footprints burn holes in the sand.

It’s quite a sight, a strange parade:

a man with a pair of wings strapped to his arms

followed by a flock of rowdy boys.

Some squawk and flap their bony limbs.

Others try to leap now and then, stumbling

as the sand tugs at their feet. One boy pretends to fly

in a circle around the man, cawing in his face.

We don’t know his name or why he walks

along our beach, talking to the wind.

To say nothing of those wings. A woman yells

to her son, Ask him if he’ll make me a pair.

Maybe I’ll finally leave your father.

He answers our cackles with a sudden stop,

turns, and runs toward the water.

The children jump into the waves after him.

Over the sound of their thrashes and giggles,

we hear a boy say, We don’t want wings.

We want to be fish now.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.