“The
poetry that sustains me is when I feel that, for a minute, the clouds have
parted and I've seen ecstasy or something.” – Rita Dove
Born in August 1952, Dove is both a
poet and essayist who served as Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the
Library of Congress in the mid-1990s. A
native of Ohio, she now lives with her family in Charlottesville, VA. 
“I think one of the things that
people tend to forget is that poets do write out of life,” she said. “It isn't some set piece that then gets put
up on the shelf, but that the impetus, the real instigation for poetry is
everything that's happening around us.”
For Saturday’s Poem, here is Dove’s,
“I think one of the things that
people tend to forget is that poets do write out of life,” she said. “It isn't some set piece that then gets put
up on the shelf, but that the impetus, the real instigation for poetry is
everything that's happening around us.”
For Saturday’s Poem, here is Dove’s,
Golden
Oldie
I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway-swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?-a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.
stalled in the driveway-swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?-a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.
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