This is one where I post something that I didn't write

I will say this as an intro. I believe that writers of poetry should first and foremost be readers of poetry. I think it's important on this blog to acknowledge the work of published, notable poets in addition to adding our own personal flair, which is why am posting the following by one of my favorite poets/authors. Sherman Alexie is the author of one of my favorite young adult novels and one that every author and reader of this blog should read, in my humble opinion.

I found this poem while browsing the Internet tonight, on this website. It reminds me of a city I love to visit and would hate to live.

Subway Song, Interrupted

Ascending
From
Subway
To
Street,
I’m
Always
Confused—

I don’t live in New York. I use the subway when I visit, so I keep a stack of partially used MetroCards on my desk in Seattle. When I first traveled to New York, I used subway tokens. Those are useless now, but I still keep a dish filled with those eccentric coins. Today, I counted my MetroCards. There are fifty-three. For years, I’ve tried to remember to bring them when I travel to NYC. But what’s the use? I will always forget. So what should I do with these cards? Maybe I’ll mail one each to fifty-three friends who live in NYC. I’ll write them a note: “I love you, dear friend. I love you inside and in between the boroughs. These MetroCards are a mystery. Use them. Unmask them. Interrogate them. Be thorough.” Or maybe I should send all fifty-three to the visiting poet who met her future husband on the F Train. “Really?” New Yorkers ask (surprised by their city) when I repeat that story. “Yes,” I say. “She met him on the subway when she asked him for directions.” Is that a miracle? Maybe. But, hell, I know a guy—a lifelong New Yorker—who lost his virginity as he was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Is that a miracle? He says, “Effing A, it was a miracle, all thirty-three seconds of it.”

—Descending
From
Street
To
Subway,
I’m
Always
Confused.

I hope that the authors of this blog will use this as a springboard to post their favorite poems from their favorite poets as well. Happy New Year, and happy writing.

Yours with all my heart,

RecyceledArtGuru

the identity crisis poem is late

...due to a recent identity crisis. life imitates art.

song for the identity crisis

            --best to read while listening to this.

on the day of my identity crisis, none of the downtown

traffic lights were working

the parking ramp was filled with horns perpetually

honking

in a chorus of monoxide panic

trapped animals confused and frantic

on the day of your identity crisis

it’s not going to be much different

on the day that i lost all sense of self and continuity

couples were rollerblading down the greenway

and scattered along the route were bronze boots

inexplicably fused to benches

were they meant to be creative expression

or a function to give bums some hesitation

on the day you lose all sense of self and continuity,

you might need a place to sleep

and when the spring melts the frost from this blood

things will get positively manic

like jets of contaminated water

pouring from dozens of hydrants cleaved in two

filling the gutters with sweat and retch

moving at a speed few could ever catch

on the day of your identity crisis,

we’ll see just how fast it comes.