“There are still many tribal
cultures where poetry and song, there is just one word for them. There are
other cultures with literacy where poetry and song are distinguished. But
poetry always remembers that it has its origins in music.” – Edward Hirsch
Born in Chicago in January
of 1950, Hirsch is a multiple-award winning poet described as “elegant in both his
writing and reading of poetry." Among his many honors are a National Book Critics Circle Award; Guggenheim
and National Endowment for the Arts grants; and a MacArthur “Genius”
award. The author of 10 books of poetry and 9 nonfiction books, he also has edited at least a dozen other volumes. For
Saturday’s Poem, here is Hirsch’s,
Early
Sunday Morning
for getting up early on Sunday morning
and drinking coffee at a local spot
but now I’m one of those chumps.
No one cares about my old humiliations
but they go on dragging through my sleep
like a string of empty tin cans rattling
behind an abandoned car.
It’s like this: just when you think
you have forgotten that red-haired girl
who left you stranded in a parking lot
forty years ago, you wake up
early enough to see her disappearing
around the corner of your dream
on someone else’s motorcycle
roaring onto the highway at sunrise.
And so now I’m sitting in a dimly lit
café full of early morning risers
where the windows are covered with soot
and the coffee is warm and bitter.
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