{"id":158,"date":"2019-01-31T13:47:00","date_gmt":"2019-01-31T13:47:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2019\/01\/31\/a-poem-for-thursday-17\/"},"modified":"2020-10-26T22:53:24","modified_gmt":"2020-10-26T22:53:24","slug":"a-poem-for-thursday-17","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2019\/01\/31\/a-poem-for-thursday-17\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #17"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n
<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Photo by\u00a0Hello I’m Nik<\/a>\u00a0on\u00a0<\/span>Unsplash<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

Tony Hoagland was an American poet whose poems were heartfelt, wry, and sometimes humorous. The poems frequently don’t go in quite the direction you expect but they are all the better for that. He thought poetry should be read more, or at least read aloud more since that is when he thought poetry was at its best. Hoagland\u00a0died in October 2018.\u00a0 I had trouble picking just one poem. I seem to be feeling that way often lately. Maybe I like poetry more than I thought I did.<\/p>\n

Yes, the young mothers are beautiful,<\/i>
\nwith all the self-acceptance of exhaustion,<\/i>
\nstill dazed from their great outpouring,<\/i>
\npushing their strollers along the public river walk.<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i> And the day is also beautiful–the replica 19th-century paddle-wheeler<\/i>
\nperpetually moored at the city wharf\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0with its glassed-in bar and grill<\/i>
\nfor the lunch-and-cocktail-seekers<\/i>
\nwho come for the Mark Twain Happy Hour<\/i>
\nwhich lasts as long as the Mississippi.<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i> This is the kind of town where the rush hour<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0traffic halts<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to let three wild turkeys cross the<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0road,<\/i>
\nand when the high school music teacher retires<\/i>
\nafter thirty years<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i> the movie marquee says, “Thanks Mr. Biddleman!”<\/i>
\nand the whole town comes to hear<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0the tuba solos of old students.<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i> Summer, when the living is easy<\/i>
\nand we store up pleasure in our bodies<\/i>
\nlike fat, like Eskimos,<\/i>
\nfor the coming season of privation.<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i> All August the Ferris wheel will turn<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 in the little amusement park,<\/i>
\nand screaming teenage girls will jump into the river<\/i>
\nwith their clothes on,<\/i>
\nright next to the No Swimming sign.<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i> Trying to cool the heat inside the small towns\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0of their bodies,<\/i>
\nfor which they have no words;<\/i>
\nobedient to the voice inside which tells them,<\/i>
\n“Now. Steal Pleasure.”<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>\u00a0Summer in a Small Town<\/i>
\nTony Hoagland\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\n<\/i> If you would like to read another poem, visit Jennifer at Pastry & Purls<\/a>. She is doing a poem every Thursday as well. Also, Brona’s Books<\/a> has posted a poem this Thursday.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Photo by\u00a0Hello I’m Nik\u00a0on\u00a0Unsplash Tony Hoagland was an American poet whose poems were heartfelt, wry, and sometimes humorous. The poems frequently don’t go in quite the direction you expect but they are all the better for that. He thought poetry should be read more, or at least read aloud more since that is when he thought poetry was at its best. Hoagland\u00a0died in October 2018.\u00a0 I had trouble picking just one poem. I seem to be feeling that way often lately. Maybe I like poetry more than I thought I did. Yes, the young mothers are beautiful, with all the self-acceptance of exhaustion, still dazed from their great outpouring, pushing their strollers along the public river walk. And the day is also beautiful–the replica 19th-century paddle-wheeler perpetually moored at the city wharf\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0with its glassed-in bar and grill for the lunch-and-cocktail-seekers who come for the Mark Twain Happy Hour which lasts as long as the Mississippi. This is the kind of town where the rush hour \u00a0 \u00a0traffic halts \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to let three wild turkeys cross the \u00a0 \u00a0road, and when the high school music teacher retires after thirty years the movie marquee says, “Thanks Mr. Biddleman!” and the whole town comes to hear \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0the tuba solos of old students. Summer, when the living is easy and we store up pleasure in our bodies like fat, like Eskimos, for the coming season of privation. All August the Ferris wheel will turn \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 in the little amusement park, and screaming teenage girls will jump into the river with their clothes on, right next to the No Swimming sign. Trying to cool the heat inside the small towns\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0of their bodies, for which they have no words; obedient to the voice inside which tells them, “Now. Steal Pleasure.” \u00a0Summer in a Small Town Tony Hoagland\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 If you would like to read another poem, visit Jennifer at Pastry & Purls. She is doing a poem every Thursday as well. Also, Brona’s Books has posted a poem this Thursday.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1534,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-158","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem-for-a-thursday"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/158","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=158"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/158\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2620,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/158\/revisions\/2620"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1534"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=158"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=158"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=158"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}