Just before the end of 2011, I determined that I needed more exposure to contemporary poetry and to poetry, in general, for that matter. I realized that my experience was limited to anthologies and the kind of work that teachers use in classrooms. Not that there is anything wrong with that except maybe my desire to better acquaint myself with the contemporary poetry environment. And so I decided to subscribe to a poetry journal and actually THE poetry journal by The Poetry Foundation. This is a new adventure for me. And while I still consider myself a poetry amateur, this is good learning ground.
So right from the very beginning I was introduced to a poet by the name of Stephen Dunn. I did a little (very little) research to find that he was born in NY in 1939 (same year as my mom) and attended Hofstra, where he got his B.A. and then Syracuse Universuty for his Master's. His book entitled Different Hours won him the 2001 Pulitzer Prize for poetry.
Without further adieu I give you the very first poem I read of his (and consequently fell in love with) titled, In Love, His Grammar Grew.
Please note: It is not my intention to benefit monetarily by sharing this poem and I, in no way am wanting to infringe on copyright laws of any kind. This is merely a sharing of the good word. (I'm just not sure how that all works with living poets and so I am a little nervous... however since all three of you that read this blog have probably already been acquainted with the works of Stephen Dunn, I shouldn't be at all worried.)
In Love, His Grammar Grew
In love, his grammar grew
rich with intensifiers, and adverbs fell
madly from the sky like pheasants
for the peasantry, and he, as sated
as they were, lolled under shade trees
until roused by moonlight
and the beautiful fraternal twins
and and but. Oh that was when
he knew he couldn’t resist
a conjunction of any kind.
One said accumulate, the other
was a doubter who loved the wind
and the mind that cleans up after it.
For love
he wanted to break all the rules,
light a candle behind a sentence
named Sheila, always running on
and wishing to be stopped
by the hard button of a period.
Sometimes, in desperation, he’d look
toward a mannequin or a window dresser
with a penchant for parsing.
But mostly he wanted you, Sheila,
and the adjectives that could precede
and change you: bluesy, fly-by-night,
queen of all that is and might be.
Source: Poetry (January 2012).
