10. Randall Jarrell, 1956-58

Next Day

Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All,
I take a box
And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens.
The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical
Food-gathering flocks
Are selves I overlook. Wisdom, said William James,


Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise
If that is wisdom.
Yet somehow, as I buy All from these shelves
And the boy takes it to my station wagon,
What I've become
Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.


When I was young and miserable and pretty
And poor, I'd wish
What all girls wish: to have a husband,
A house and children. Now that I'm old, my wish
Is womanish:
That the boy putting groceries in my car


See me. It bewilders me he doesn't see me.
For so many years
I was good enough to eat: the world looked at me
And its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me,
The eyes of strangers!
And, holding their flesh within my flesh, their vile

Imaginings within my imagining,
I too have taken
The chance of life. Now the boy pats my dog
And we start home. Now I am good.
The last mistaken,
Ecstatic, accidental bliss, the blind

Happiness that, bursting, leaves upon the palm
Some soap and water--
It was so long ago, back in some Gay
Twenties, Nineties, I don't know . . . Today I miss
My lovely daughter
Away at school, my sons away at school,

My husband away at work--I wish for them.
The dog, the maid,
And I go through the sure unvarying days
At home in them. As I look at my life,
I am afraid
Only that it will change, as I am changing:

I am afraid, this morning, of my face.
It looks at me
From the rear-view mirror, with the eyes I hate,
The smile I hate. Its plain, lined look
Of gray discovery
Repeats to me: "You're old." That's all, I'm old.

And yet I'm afraid, as I was at the funeral
I went to yesterday.
My friend's cold made-up face, granite among its flowers,
Her undressed, operated-on, dressed body
Were my face and body.
As I think of her I hear her telling me

How young I seem; I am exceptional;
I think of all I have.
But really no one is exceptional,
No one has anything, I'm anybody,
I stand beside my grave
Confused with my life, that is commonplace and solitary.

8. Elizabeth Bishop, 1949–1950

Visits to St. Elizabeths

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

3. Robert Penn Warren, 1944-45

True Love

In silence the heart raves. It utters words
Meaningless, that never had
A meaning. I was ten, skinny, red-headed,

Freckled. In a big black Buick,
Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat
In front of the drugstore, sipping something

Through a straw. There is nothing like
Beauty. It stops your heart. It
Thickens your blood. It stops your breath. It

Makes you feel dirty. You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.

How could I exist in the same world with that brightness?
Two years later she smiled at me. She
Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead.

Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee
Swagger of horsemen. They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop. Did no work.

Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor
Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.

He never came down. They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.

When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing
An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him. I saw the wedding. There were

Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable. I thought
I would cry. I lay in bed that night
And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.

The mortgage was foreclosed. That last word was whispered.
She never came back. The family
Sort of drifted off. Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.

But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives
In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once. I didn't even know she knew it.

Poet Laureate of the United States Series

I have decided, mostly for my own enlightenment, to start a poetry series.
These poets will be the Poet Laureates of the United States. There have been 43 to date. The actual title is Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress. Since 1937 many of my favorite American poets have been appointed this honor, and many poets that I am not as familiar with have also held this post.
Enjoy, and perhaps you may find a new favorite American poet.

1. 1937–1941 Joseph Auslander
2. 1943–1944 Allen Tate
3. 1944–1945, 1986-1987 Robert Penn Warren (first called PL Consultant in Poetry to the LofC)
4. 1945–1946 Louise Bogan
5. 1946–1947 Karl Shapiro
6. 1947–1948 Robert Lowell
7. 1948–1949 Leonie Adams
8. 1949–1950 Elizabeth Bishop
9. 1950–1952 Conrad Aiken (first to serve two terms, 2 years)
10. 1956–1958 Randall Jarrell
11. 1958–1959 Robert Frost
12. 1959–1961 Richard Eberhart
13. 1961–1963 Louis Untermeyer
14. 1963–1964 Howard Nemerov
15. 1964–1965, 1984–1985 Reed Whittemore
16. 1965–1966 Stephen Spender
17. 1968–1970 William Jay Smith
18. 1966–1968 James Dickey
19. 1970–1971 William Stafford
20. 1971–1973 Josephine Jacobsen
21. 1973–1974 Daniel Hoffman
22. 1974–1976, 2000-2001 Stanley Kunitz
23. 1976–1978 Robert Hayden
24. 1978–1980 William Meredith
25. 1981–1982 Maxine Kumin
26. 1982–1984 Anthony Hecht
27. 1984–1985 Robert Fitzgerald (appointed and served in a health-limited capacity)
28. 1985–1986 Gwendolyn Brooks
29. 1987–1988 Richard Wilbur
30. 1988–1990 Howard Nemerov
31. 1990–1991 Mark Strand
32. 1991–1992 Joseph Brodsky
33. 1992–1993 Mona Van Duyn
34. 1993–1995, 1999-2000 Rita Dove (joint Special Bicentennial Consultant 1999-2000)
35. 1995–1997 Robert Hass
36. 1997–2000 Robert Pinsky
37. 1999–2000 W.S. Merwin (joint Special Bicentennial Consultant)
38. 2001–2003 Billy Collins
39. 2003–2004, 1999-2000 Louise Glück (joint Special Bicentennial Consultant 1999-2000)
40. 2004–2006 Ted Kooser
41. 2006–2007 Donald Hall
42. 2007–2008 Charles Simic
43. 2008–2009 Kay Ryan