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poem of the day

December 4, 2008

Actually this is yesterday’s poem from the Writer’s Almanac, but I opened on a whim late in the day and was completely blown away. I don’t know if it was the imagery, the prose-like voice or the incredible final stanza, but this reminds me of all the reasons poetry is sublime.

Touched by your goodness, I am like
that grand piano we found one night on Willoughby
that someone had smashed and somehow
heaved through an open window.

And you might think by this I mean I’m broken
or abandoned, or unloved. Truth is, I don’t
know exactly what I am, any more
than the wreckage in the alley knows
it’s a piano, filling with trash and yellow leaves.

Maybe I’m all that’s left of what I was.
But touching me, I know, you are the good
breeze blowing across its rusted strings.

What would you call that feeling when the wood,
even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?

Piano” by Patrick Phillips, from Boy. (c) The University of Georgia Press, 2008.

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One comment

  1. […] I just need a place to post random links and poems I find around the […]



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