Sassy Succulents

Snow

By Louis Macneice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes—
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands—
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

~With this poem I think it’s about how there is more to the world than we think and we can sell it short sometimes. How there are more events going on than we may think. I like how they compare the snow and pink roses together and I think they came together really well. I also like the imagery they used to convey their message.

BY W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

I think that this one is talking about how after someone has left this persons life it’s really affected how they can live, because it was all consuming. And this separation or absence has taken over their actions and it’s gone hand in hand with what they’ve done in their daily life. I like how this poem compares absence like thread through a needle because I can see that comparison because when you stitch something it stays there, always showing.

By Pat Mora

I remember
the first day,
how I looked down,
hoping you wouldn’t see
me,
and when I glanced up,
I saw your smile
shining like a soft light
from deep inside you.

“I’m listening,” you encourage us.
“Come on!
Join our conversation,
let us hear your neon certainties,
thorny doubts, tangled angers,”
but for weeks I hid inside.

I read and reread your notes
praising
my writing,
and you whispered,
“We need you
and your stories
and questions
that like a fresh path
will take us to new vistas.”

Slowly, your faith grew
into my courage
and for you—
instead of handing you
a note or apple or flowers—
I raised my hand.

I carry your smile
and faith inside like I carry
my dog’s face,
my sister’s laugh,
creamy melodies,
the softness of sunrise,
steady blessings of stars,
autumn smell of gingerbread,
the security of a sweater on a chilly day.

On the surface this poem appears to just be about a teacher who cares about the author and his learning. But also it’s about someone finally appreciating and seeing the author for who they are, when nobody else did. I especially like the line “instead of handing you
a note or apple or flowers— I raised my hand.” Which really demonstrates what teachers want, just for a student to learn and be able to grow.

BY DENISE LEVERTOV

As the stores close, a winter light
    opens air to iris blue,
    glint of frost through the smoke
    grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk.
As the buildings close, released autonomous   
    feet pattern the streets
    in hurry and stroll; balloon heads
    drift and dive above them; the bodies   
    aren’t really there.
As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens,
    a woman with crooked heels says to another woman   
    while they step along at a fair pace,
“You know, I’m telling you, what I love best   
    is life. I love life! Even if I ever get
    to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know?   
    Limping along?—I’d still … “ Out of hearing.   
To the multiple disordered tones
    of gears changing, a dance
    to the compass points, out, four-way river.   
    Prospect of sky
    wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets,   
    west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range   
    of open time at winter’s outskirts.

I think this poem is about the subtle beauties and observations, available in the world around you. It’s a celebration of life and what you can see on a daily basis in the homwtown around you

BY MARGARITA ENGLE

Two sets

of family stories,

one long and detailed,

about many centuries

of island ancestors, all living

on the same tropical farm…

The other side of the family tells stories

that are brief and vague, about violence

in the Ukraine, which Dad’s parents

had to flee forever, leaving all their

loved ones

behind.

They don’t even know if anyone

survived.

When Mami tells her flowery tales of Cuba,

she fills the twining words with relatives.

But when I ask my

Ukrainian-Jewish-American grandma

about her childhood in a village

near snowy Kiev,

all she reveals is a single

memory

of ice-skating

on a frozen pond.

Apparently, the length

of a grown-up’s

growing-up story

is determined

by the difference

between immigration

and escape.

I believe that the poem Kinship talks about this person who’s sides of the family had different histories. One side of the family had a harsher upbringing because of World War II in Europe. Their grandma was Jewish which means that most likely her, or at least her parents were affected by WW II and the attacks on Jewish people during that time. Which affected the way their grandmother was able to grow up in a war torn country. But on their moms side of the family she can tell many stories about Cuba and the environment because her experience might’ve been more positive in comparision to the grandmother’s. And the last line “Apparently, the length of a grown-up’s growing-up story is determined by the difference between immigration and escape” really paints a picture of the difference between a family who had to leave by necessity and WWII and didn’t have many positive memories of her homeland vs a family who left for perhaps a better life and was able to have, remember and cherish, those memories.

By Monica Martinez

She fills the twining words with relatives

Both living and dead, a testament to her

old age. I sit and listen to what she has

to say before old age takes her away.

Eventually, the stories become broken

up and wrinkled like paper cast aside

but you’re not giving up and neither can I

By Claudia Emerson

“It was fifty cents a game

Beneath exhausted ceiling fans,

The smoke’s old spiral. Hooded lights

Burned distant, dull. I was tired, but you

Insisted on one more, so I chalked 

the cue—the bored blue—broke, 

      scratched.

   It was always possible

for you to run the table, leave me

Nothing. But I recall the easy,

shot you missed, and then the way

We both studied, circling— keeping 

what you had left me between us”

I think that eight ball on the surface is talking about a game of pool in maybe a bar or something like that. And from what I can tell the person that the author is playing against is better than them but they missed an easy shot that could’ve been made and they both questioned that decision. And the final line “what you had left me between us” makes me think that the opponent missed the easy shot on purpose. 

Something I noticed was the language the author used in describing the location gave off a feeling of dreariness. Like exhausted, hooded, dull, bored gives the reader a feeling that the location is old and the lights flicker gives imagery of an old place and with that dreariness, it also gives the poem a similar feeling of drag.