Okay, so now we have to do a recitation of a poem. Not a big deal. The only catch is that the poet had to have been born on or after 1945 for some reason that only my professor knows. I've found a lot, but I was wondering if anyone had any recommendations.

Thank you!

Rita Dove. If you care to do some research, look up Pulitzer prize winning authors in Google. That should give you a few names to research.


Les

How about Sharon Olds- I'm thinking of the one where she's seducing her husband. That ought to wake the class up.

pam

A great choice, but Sharon's birthday is November 19, 1942. Rita Dove appeared in 1952, so she might work.

Preston Mark Stone is interesting (see Speech Therapy: Week Two, for example):

[www.newtonsbaby.com]

How about Pat Boran?

[www.patboran.com]

The University of Toronto website lists dozens of contemporary Canadian poets, some of them must be under 60.


Les

Dorianne Laux - she was born in 1952. So, maybe:

The Shipfitter's Wife

I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat
and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I would go to him where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles,
his calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I'd open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me-the ship's
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the first man clanging
off the hull's silver ribs, spark of lead
kissing metal, the clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle
and the long drive home.


Or maybe:

GIRL IN THE DOORWAY

She is twelve now, the door to her room
closed, telephone cord trailing the hallway
in tight curls. I stand at the dryer, listening
through the thin wall between us, her voice
rising and falling as she describes her new life.
Static flies in brief blue stars from her socks,
her hairbrush in the morning. Her silver braces
shine inside the velvet case of her mouth.
Her grades rise and fall, her friends call
or they don't, her dog chews her new shoes
to a canvas pulp. Some days she opens her door
and musk rises from the long crease in her bed,
fills the dim hall. She grabs a denim coat
and drags the floor. Dust swirls in gold eddies
behind her. She walks through the house, a goddess,
each window pulsing with summer. Outside,
the boys wait for her teeth to straighten.
They have a vibrant patience.
When she steps onto the front porch, sun shimmies
through the tips of her hair, the V of her legs,
fans out like wings under her arms
as she raises them and waves. Goodbye, Goodbye.
Then she turns to go, folds up
all that light in her arms like a blanket
and takes it with her.

Or, maybe:

The Thief

What is it when your man sits on the floor
in sweatpants, his latest project
set out in front of him like a small world, maps
and photographs, diagrams and plans, everything
he hopes to build, invent or create,
and you believe in him as you always have,
even after you set your coffee down
and move toward him, to where he sits
oblivious of you, concentrating
in a square of sun --
you step over the rulers and blue graph-paper
to squat behind him, and he barely notices,
though you're still in your robe
which falls open a little as you reach
around his chest, feel for the pink
wheel of each nipple, the slow beat
of his heart, your ear pressed to his back
to listen -- and you are torn,
not wanting to interrupt his work
but unable to keep your fingers
from dipping into the ditch in his pants,
torn again with tenderness
to the way his flesh grows unwillingly
toward your curved palm, toward the light,
as if you planted it, this sweet root,
your mouth already an echo of is shape --
you slip your tongue in his ear
and he hears you call him away
from his work, the angled lines of his thoughts,
into the shapeless place you are bound
to take him, over the bridges of bone, beyond
borders of skin, climbing over him
into the world of the body, its labyrinth
of ladders and stairs -- and you love him,
with equal measures of expectancy
and fear and awe, taking him with you
into the soft geometry of the flesh, the earth
before its sidewalks and cities,
its glistening spires,
stealing him back from the world he loves
into this other world he cannot build without you.

Me, I'd go the last one, wake e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y up.

Oh my, I don't think I'm quite that close to my class yet... maybe later in the semester. I think I may have found one I want to do, but thanks everybody for your suggestions!

For future reference, there are several listed here with examples of their work: [www.poetrysociety.org.uk]


Les

Well, I guess all of this wasn't for a whole lot. She changed the assignment today to poems written in 1945 or after, so now it's a lot easier.

I swear this professor is going to drive me nuts, lol.