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Love poems in quarantine
- Author / Creator
- Available as
- Physical
- Summary
-
"A collection of poems written by Sarah Ruhl"-- "An award-winning, multi-genre writer grapples with the pandemic, death of George Floyd, and other crises of our times in gnomic poems written from i...
"A collection of poems written by Sarah Ruhl"--
"An award-winning, multi-genre writer grapples with the pandemic, death of George Floyd, and other crises of our times in gnomic poems written from inside the purgatory (and sudden revelations) of quarantine."--Amazon.com
Details
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- Creator
- Sarah Ruhl
- Format
- Books
- Language
- English
- Publication
-
- Port Townsend, Washington : Copper Canyon Press, [2022]
- ©2022
- Physical Details
-
- xvii, 163 pages ; 20 cm
- ISBNs
- 9781556596308, 1556596308
- OCLC
- on1267686698
- One. Early days of quarantine -- What are we folding when we are folding laundry in quarantine? -- Easter poem during plague time (because there is no fake grass to put in your baskets this year, but there is real grass instead) -- Menopause in quarantine -- On homesickness, back when we traveled -- Behold and be-held -- March -- The sun in quarantine -- Regeneration -- Poems and dreams are free -- To Max Ritvo, who once said to me: -- A spider in our bed -- Differences between me and my dog -- Poems are good company -- Three kinds of light -- Two. Poems written after May 25, the day George Floyd was murdered -- White backup singers, June 1 -- Fire sermon -- Separating the laundry, June 6 -- Weekapaug -- For Robyn Tamura -- Whiteness near the Fourth of July 2020 -- Prom, 1989 -- A white lady at a theater cocktail party -- Fires -- Mothers' Day -- An end to apartheid in America -- Three. Haiku, tanta and senryū in quarantine -- Spring -- Crossing -- Love poem to my husband, who fixed the Scotch tape dispenser today -- Poppy anemone -- Was my poetry party a super-spreader? -- Haiku written with my son in March -- When in doubt, count -- Nonessential workers -- Yard -- Sleeping very late -- When I was a child I loved to watch soap bubbles pop in the evening air -- "I lose socks in the" -- Teaching on Zoom -- For Kathleen -- Ambiguity of red -- What day is it? -- Koan -- Sisyphus -- For Elvis Costello, who said to me: -- "I will teach you how" -- Quarantine, day 20 -- "Look out your window:" -- Dog mind -- The woman who was bagging my groceries, when I asked how she was, said: -- A riddle, the answer: live theater -- Trio on Zoom -- I am running out of things to cook -- For my oldest daughter -- And that is enough for now -- "In the city I noticed" -- Swallow -- I read that people who groom more during quarantine are happier and it seems like a chicken-or-egg situation but my friend tells me about foot masks so I buy one -- "When will we ever" -- Midday, and the children come out of their rooms where they have been learning on screens -- Watching the food lines grow in New Jersey -- Quarantine, day 90 -- Remembered poem of a second grader named Patrick, Queens, twenty-five years ago -- Another reason dogs are wise -- The shortest story -- "How holy, that day" -- It used to be very impolite -- Summer -- On a Zoom call, watching my in-laws throw my father-in-law's ashes into the sea -- Remembering a time we could eat oysters together -- While I am on a work Zoom call, my son -- White people make bread while Black and Brown people die in America -- A negative test while the moon rises -- Birthday haiku for Uncle Joe written on Zoom -- This summer -- How white am I? -- My daughter asked me when she was three: -- On time zones -- "My dog rubbed herself" -- Love and mess -- Equal taste -- Coral -- Mediation, day 121 of quarantine -- Polish the stone or the mind -- Walking in the dark -- In Tibet it is said that when -- Watching the bird fly standing still -- Shelter -- Move your pants before the tide comes in -- Time decides -- For Anne's seventy-sixth birthday -- Sunset -- For Tony -- And today all that happened was -- Communion wafer in the night sky -- For Anne -- Night-blooming cereus -- On entitled Brooklyn parents -- For John Cage, who said: -- My dog tries to walk into our old house -- Lawn mowers and Bashō's grass pillow -- You ask me to look in your eyes, and the familiar and unfamiliar rhyme -- If a dead butterfly can still fly, what does that signify? -- Can sea cucumbers be instructive? -- My children are baking bread again -- It was not a day for singing -- Large waves and children -- Immortality through property -- On a walk I saw a snake, a rabbit, and a dead rat -- I am a messy cook and this annoys my husband who is an orderly cook -- I think about patience while I chop mushrooms -- To my children -- This morning -- Today -- What is a child's duty? -- Quarantine in August, the overripe month -- Fall -- Cause and effect -- Meditation, day 207 -- Your body, a temple -- Attempt at holding opposing truths in the mind -- "Don't store your anger" -- A photo from when I was sick -- Waiting for a storm -- A shuttered business -- "There is no cure for" -- Bell's palsy, ten years out -- "Could I live in the" -- Books as food -- Tomorrow and tomorrow and time zones -- An argument -- I wear your sweater for extra warmth -- Is God a who or a what when the world falls apart? -- "Do you have grief to spare?" -- Books don't spread germs -- Block island -- Election day is windy in Rhode Island and the weather report says that -- "I thought it was a mist..." -- Alchemy -- "I was a child of" -- Hungry ghosts -- Winter -- As the days get shorter and shorter -- Today I learned that in kindergarten, a boy named -- "My first love came with" -- Snowstorm -- Again, snow -- Still life -- When I see you again -- "Computers can be" -- "The moon rises just" -- I made two false assumptions looking at a red cardinal -- Tanka, January 6 -- Boiling water isn't mad at the tea -- "This field. This snow. This" -- "Are you studying" -- Mediating outdoors -- Playing card games with others -- Meditation, January 18 -- Meditation, January 19 -- Nap -- Late afternoon -- Lesson from quarantine -- Upon walking -- Winter in Illinois -- A person can be pedantic about anything -- Counting the stars is impossible -- I'm scared of the desk today, so -- "The doors don't quite shut" -- And I was so happy -- "Why is my gaze so" -- Passage from one yard to another -- And all the frozen snow melted today -- I don't know anything about time -- Spring again -- And after all that -- A year since quarantine began -- "I am lucky: when" -- What of my eyes and their infallibility? -- "I no longer know" -- "There are things I must" -- "Instead of writing," -- My glasses sit on the rug -- Scrolling upon waking up -- I have brought my dog with me. Why? -- What is the holy name, you or the Lord? -- After the long winter -- "My dog writes for me" -- Freedom -- Horse racing -- The volunteers at the senior center vaccine parking lot, Six months without a barber and -- Equinox -- Seeing or showing -- Noon -- After all, it is irrational to be afraid of mold, which will come unless you eat the fruit -- Walking in a spring rain -- As in chess and other games... -- For three years I -- Sometimes God is when strangers touch -- Needs -- Changing the locks -- When my daughter heard the story of Oedipus -- "My dog sits zazen" -- I will try to -- There is a house somewhere -- I read somewhere that your cuts heal faster when you are in love and today -- "I want to be a" -- Morning dove -- Talking things over, we looked up and saw -- I, on top of you, looking at your face, and -- In the place where you were born -- Another storm -- "The window is shut" -- I learned that quarantine meant 40 days and now it's day 400 -- "What the earth does well" -- Poem catching -- "Where is the birdcall?"