Each Defeat

by Eileen Myles

Please! Keep
reading me
Blake
because you’re going to make
me the greatest
poet of
all time

Keep smoothing
the stones in the
driveway
let me fry an egg
on your ass
& I’ll pick up
the mail.

I feel your
absence in
the morning
& imagine your
instant mouth
let me move
in with you—
Travelling
wrapping your limbs
on my back
I grow man woman
Child
I see wild wild wild

Keep letting the
day be massive
Unlicensed
Oh please have
my child
      I’m a little
      controlling
      Prose has some
      Magic. Morgan
had a
whore in
her lap. You
Big fisherman
I love my
Friends.

I want to lean
my everything
with you
make home for your hubris
I want to read the words you circld over and over again
A slow skunk walking across the road
Yellow, just kind
of pausing
picked up the warm
laundry. I just saw a coyote
tippy tippy tippy
I didn’t tell you about the creature with hair
long hair, it was hit by cars on the highway
Again and again. It had long grey hair
It must’ve been a dog; it could’ve been
Ours. Everyone loses their friends.

I couldn’t tell anyone about this sight.
Each defeat
Is sweet.


Eileen Myles, “Each Defeat” from Sorry, Tree. Copyright © 2007 by Eileen Myles. From poetryfoundation.org

This has always been one of my favorites ever since we read it in my early Brit lit class in college.

I hope you enjoy it!

Astrophel and Stella

Sonnet 1

by Philip Sidney

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain:
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite--
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."