In light of the Coronavirus crisis, please join Poetry Daily for an impromptu series, What Keeps Us For the rest of March we will post poems to sustain and uplift through trying times. We thank you for reading and hope that you will share poems with your friends and neighbors. Please be well.
William Meredith
reader my friend, is in the words here, somewhere.
Frankly, I'd like to make you smile.
Words addressing evil won't turn evil back
but they can give heart.
The cheer is hidden in right words.

A great deal isn't right, as they say,
as they are lately at some pains to tell us.
Words have to speak about that.
They would be the less words
for saying smile when they should say do.
If you ask them do what?
they turn serious quick enough, but never unlovely.
And they will tell you what to do,
if you listen, if you want that.

Certainly good cheer has never been what's wrong,
though solemn people mistrust it.
Against evil, between evils, lovely words are right.
How absurd it would be to spin these noises out,
so serious that we call them poems,
if they couldn't make a person smile.
Cheer or courage is what they were all born in.
It's what they're trying to tell us, miming like that.
It's native to the words,
and what they want us to always know,
even when it seems quite impossible to do.
from the book EFFORT AT SPEECH; NEW AND SELECTED POEMS / TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern University Press
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"Keats, almost 25, only had four more months to live and he already felt himself to be leading a posthumous existence. He invented puns; he read Byron. He was annoyed by a woman passenger, a fellow consumptive. Then he set down the events of his life in order to make sense of it."
 
via THE NEW YORK TIMES
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"As a poet, Plumly might be described as an elegist deeply attuned to the natural world. Formally varied, his work is both tender and apprehensive. Often drawing on memory, it attends to matters of isolation, strange beauty, resilience, and loss. 'Dutch Elm,' the opening poem in Plumly’s 2017 collection, Against Sunset, operates very much within this mode. It is in many ways a procession of grief, a sonnet haunted by longing."
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