How Many Ours

Stefania Heim

A Large Mirror Unloaded From a Truck in the Sun

by Stefania Heim

Participation relegated to sleeping near
the open window. My great failure

has always been not imagining the future
but in managing myself. Your thumbprint, please,

before we launch the new rhetoric. I know
when I grovel I am plain. I’ve actually had a dream

about this building, and it feels soon enough to me now.
For all the reasons we are short of breath, approximate.

Passion clusters as though circumstance. A terrible
child, I grow apart. According to the original

rules, burn everything. Who could have anticipated
what we are becoming—in constraint, in circumspection.

I’ll think of some experiment to move us,
focusing on the lenses learned.

So Torn by My Tides

by Stefania Heim

So torn by my tides, I do not I can read them.

Hour book, our book. “H” in Italian is a tool, not a sound. My mother slips the “h” in only where it doesn’t belong. Our book, our book. How events just accumulate in time. Who will we lose in the duration of this writing. The promise of future children names for our beloved dead. Whispered at caskets. An hour dead. How many hours.

In our village the streets empty at appointed times. If life were a time-lapse video, lingering would be more visible than slipping away. Invisible motions the more pronounced. Once I stood akimbo, 8PM mid-street, waiting for everyone to go. I am astonished, in memory, by the boldness of it. Did everyone go?

                      How many ours.

We Might Work Out

Springtime In Paradise

“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

– Henry David Thoreau

Bridled Vows

by Ian Duhig

I will be faithful to you, I do vow
but not until the seas have all run dry
et cetera: although I mean it now,
I’m not a prophet and I will not lie.

To be your perfect wife, I could not swear;
I’ll love, yes; honor (maybe); won’t obey,
but will co-operate if you will care
as much as you are seeming to today.

I’ll do my best to be your better half,
but I don’t have the patience of a saint;
not with you, at you I may sometimes laugh,
and snap too, though I’ll try to learn restraint.

We might work out: no blame if we do not.
With all my heart, I think it’s worth a shot.

The longer the pandemic goes, the more I hear about older couples retreating to one of two extremes in their marriages or partnerships; either the past year of social isolation has strengthened their commitment to each other and they have grown closer being cooped up together or they are in process of filing for divorce.   There are sure to be the vast majority that are somewhere in the middle, but they don’t make the headlines in the rumor mill.  

If you are considering first time nuptials,  late March or first week in April is a good time to get married in Minnesota, it doesn’t cut into your summer plans and it is warm enough the bride doesn’t freeze in her dress on the way from the ceremony to the reception.   It doesn’t tend to be terribly in demand so chapels and reception halls are generally a little more available than the summer months.   Obviously I speak from experience. 

I think we make too much of marriage as an event and not enough of it as a process of ongoing commitment ceremonies.  I have often felt marriage should be like the military.  You sign up for a 4 year tour of duty and at the end of four years, you either re-up for another 4 or give each other an honorable discharge and a bus ticket to a destination of your own choosing. 

If you’re looking to re-up, don’t make the mistake of thinking you have to invite guests or spend money on a spectacle; write out some vows that seem genuine or use one of these poems.  Try saying it over breakfast some Sunday morning.   Look each other in the eye and step over the broom lying on the kitchen floor; the first step towards another year of partnership. Then pick up the broom and the dust pan and help each other sweep up the mess and move on with your day. 


Carol Rumens
To be said by senior couples renewing their vows

1. (He and She, together)
Partner, partner, on the wall,
Nailed there so you’d never fall,
Hope you like this shade of blue
I’ve lightly painted over you.

2. (He and He, together)
Randy, dandy, twist and shout –
B-and-Bs once threw us out.
Now we’re poor old Zimmer-geezers,
Folk think we’re twin-brothers. Jesus!

3. (He)
When I’m toothless, bald and grumpy,
Dump me gently as you dump me.
Dumping you would be invidious:
You’re already old and hideous.

As I Used To Do


Robert Bly

Reclaiming the sacred in our lives naturally brings us once more to the wellspring of poetry.

Robert Bly

Women We Never See Again

by Robert Bly

There are women we love whom we never see again.
They are chestnuts shining in the rain.
Moths hatched in winter disappear behind books.
Sometimes when you put your hand into a hollow tree
you touch the dark places between the stars.
Human war has parted messengers from another planet,
who cross back to each other at night,
going through slippery valleys, farmyards where the rain
has washed out all the tracks,
and when we walk there, with no guide, saddened, in the dark
we see above us glowing the fortress made of ecstatic blue stone.


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,
Here’s ivy!–take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

I Shall Build Me A House


Robert Penn Warren (1905 – 1989)

The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

Robert Penn Warren

Grieve Not

by Walter Clyde Curry

Grieve not that winter masks the yet quick earth,
        Nor still that summer walks the hills no more;
        That fickle spring has doffed the plaid she wore

To swathe herself in napkins till rebirth.

These buddings, flowerings, are nothing worth;
  .      .  This ermine cloud stretched firm across the lakes
  .     .   Will presently be shattered into flakes;
Then, starveling world, be subject to my mirth.

I know that faithful swift mortality
.      .  Subscribes to nothing longer than a day;
 .        All beauty signals imminent decay;
And painted wreckage cumbers land and sea.

I laugh to hear a sniveling wise one say,
“Some winnowed self escapes this reckless way.”


by Robert Penn Warren (1905-1989)

I shall build me a house where the larkspur blooms
. . In a narrow glade in an alder wood,
Where the sunset shadows make violet gloom,
, . And a whip-poor-will calls in eerie mood.

I shall lie on a bed of river sedge,
. . And listen to the glassy dark,
With a guttered light on my window ledge,
. . While an owl stares in at me white and stark.

I shall burn my house with the rising dawn,
. . And leave but the ashes and smoke behind,
And again give the glade to the owl and the fawn,
. . When the grey wood smoke drifts away with the wind.

Then Doorway To Her Eyes


Still Life

by Annie Finch

A sunny afternoon; think of Vermeer.
Here is the apple, here the rounding side
of the blue pitcher. On the scrubbed wood just here,
she puts the pitcher down, so that the slide
of drops against its lip catches what light
there is for pitchers here this afternoon.
She does not really see the drops, or quite
attend the blue. A common thing. But soon
the tide will turn, and salty smells will rise
to circle in the street, and to her ears
will come the voices. Then doorways to her eyes,
then other days than this—afternoons, years.
She will stop to hold this moment near,
and drop the pitcher, and betray Vermeer.

A perk of writing this blog is the correspondence of strangers who graciously email me because of something that moved them on Fourteenlines.   I sincerely appreciate the feedback, the thoughtful criticism, encouragement and suggestions for poems readers would like to see included in the blog.  Recently, Annie Finch, a writer, poet, speaker, entertainer, teacher, translator and self proclaimed poetry witch, sent me several great suggestions, and in particular several of her own sonnets.  I highly recommend you check out her website, her work and her learning opportunities at the link below.  Finch offers several on-line writing classes that are easy to sign up for and affordable.    A good way to fight off the dull times during COVID!

I have been debating whether to hold the first annual Fourteenlines sonnet contest in 2021. I am leaning in the direction of kicking the new contest off in May and having deadlines early September with winners announced in December.   Three cash prizes for best rhymed or unrhymed sonnets.   My idea is to provide an additional outlet, albeit modest in scope, for writers of sonnets around the world to submit a poem. 

I am curious, those of you that are frequent readers of Fourteenlines, what you think of this idea of a sonnet contest?  Would you submit an entry?  Would you help network to encourage others on your blog to submit an entry?  What level of cash incentive do you think will motivate people as prizes?  Would any of you be willing to be part of a panel to determine the winners?  If any of these questions resonate, please contact me through and let me know your feedback?  

I really enjoyed Encounter by Finch.   I have fond memories of my many years of commuting by bus to the University of Minnesota and then to downtown to my restaurant job and then home late at night, most days 3 separate segments and bus changes per segment.  When you commute by city bus, for an extended period of years, you learn the denizens of your route; who has a similar schedule as your own, who are the interlopers who you see infrequently but repeatedly because they  are running late or headed in early, who are morning people, who are night people, who will look you in the eye, who won’t, who is suffering emotionally, who is having a blissful day. On a crowded bus where you are packed shoulder to shoulder, with strangers, you know about peoples hygiene, food preferences, all kinds of personal information is exchanged silently.  There are days commuting your closest contact of the entire day in terms of physical touch is with a total stranger who brushed up against your leg, or the kindly older person who put their hand on your shoulder to sit down on the cold hard plastic seat and smiled at you.   I have witnessed random acts of kindness, generosity, indifference and cruelty, between total strangers on buses,  sometimes over the course of only 12 city blocks.  I have watched lovers make out, have fights, talk and laugh and sit stoically.  A city bus is a living breathing thing. 

I think everyone should have the experience of riding the bus for a while, to learn the humbleness of having to explain to your boss why you are 30 minutes late because the bus didn’t show, to learn patience by having to wait in the rain or snow or cold or heat, to learn the art of communication, verbal and non-verbal that happens with strangers on public transportation, realizing we’re all on a journey together in this city, going somewhere at its own pace with someone else in control and you must just accept it. 


by Annie Finch

Then, in the bus where strange eyes are believed to burn
down into separate depths, ours mingled, lured
out of the crowd like wings–and as fast, as blurred.
We brushed past the others and rose. We had flight to learn,
single as wings, till we saw we could merge with a turn,
arching our gazing together. We formed one bird,
focused, attentive. Flying in silence, we heard
the air past our feathers, the wind through our feet, and the churn
of wheels in the dark. Now we have settled. We move
calmly, two balanced creatures. Opened child,
woman or man, companion with whom I’ve flown
through this remembering, lost, incarnate love,
turning away, we will land, growing more wild
with solitude, more alone, than we could have known.

Both included in Spells: New and Selected Poems (Wesleyan, 2013).

Is This What We Deserve

Karl Shapiro

Poetry is innocent, not wise.  It does not learn from experience because each poetic experience is unique.

Karl Shapiro

On Being Yanked From A Favorite Anthology

to Bob Wiggins

by Karl Shapiro (1913 – 2000)

Fame gave me a wrench and I cried Ouch!
That hurt!  who used to use a silky touch,
Called me illustrious, caressed my name,
Made me indispensable. Erato,
Patroness, who you fawned on me,
(Gave me the creeps sometimes) held me so high,
Incised me in the canon.  I was fixed,
Part of the permanent collection, brightest star
In my constallation of five.  Until
Some text-louse, pilpulistic Joycean cockroach,
Some antisemitic Jew reached for his rag
And zilched me out.  Bitch – goddess!
Is this what we deserve
Who put you on the American map, you whore!

I find the process of typing the poems in preparation for a blog post quite helpful in getting my head inside the poem in a way that is different from reading it.   I obviously select poems by reading them first, but the process of typing them up often reveals ideas that emerge more clearly as I experience the physical nature of a poem in the act of writing it that are different from reading it.  The reason is I desire that intimacy of being with the poet in that brief moment of creating the post, to literally feel what the poet felt in the act of writing,  knowing that countless edits probably occurred along the way, but at some point they wrote or typed it out in its current form.

Try it sometime if you have a poem that is bewitching you by being elusive in your understanding yet thought provoking in its murkiness.   Try writing it out and see if during that process of feeling what the poet felt in writing the words, do you find a new presence in your mind, whispering some unspoken truth that lies beneath the veneer of the voice in our minds when we read it.

It is said we each have three voices; the voice that we hear when speak out loud, that others hear, but we can not, the voice we speak out loud that we hear, but others can not and the silent voice that we hear when we read, a voice of our own creation, of our narrator who benevolently assists us with our understanding.  But maybe there is a fourth voice, the voice of writing that emerges from behind the veil, either from crafting our own story or in transcribing someone else’s.   How many voices of your own do you hear? Which one(s) do you answer to?


by Karl Shapiro

Lord, I have seen too much for one who sat
In quiet at his window’s luminous eye
And puzzled over house and street and sky,
Safe only in the narrowest habitat;
Who studies peace as if the world were flat,
The edge of nature linear and dry,
But faltered at each brilliant entity
Drawn like a prize from some magician’s hat.

Too suddenly this lightening is disclosed:
Lord, in a day the vacuum of Hell,
The mouth of blood, the ocean’s ragged jaw,
More than embittered Adam ever saw
When driven from Eden to the East to dwell,
The lust of godhead hideously exposed!

The Altar of Loneliness

Sherman Alexie (b. 1966 –

The Facebook Sonnet

by Sherman Alexie

Welcome to the endless high-school
Reunion. Welcome to past friends
And lovers, however, kind or cruel.
Let’s undervalue and unmend

The present. Why can’t we pretend
Every stage of life is the same?
Let’s exhume, resume, and extend
Childhood. Let’s all play the games

That occupy the young. Let fame
And shame intertwine. Let one’s search
For God become public domain.
Let become our church.

Let’s sign up, sign in, and confess
Here at the altar of loneliness.

This spring will be my 40th anniversary of graduating from high school.  I have only attended one reunion  in the intervening years, the 20th.  So there would be something symmetrical about attending again if some type of gathering actually occurs this fall.  I have several good friends that remain from growing up that I have stayed in frequent touch, but given that I left my home town the day I graduated from high school and never lived there ever again, its not like I have this incredible urge to reconnect.  

During COVID and the presidential election I abandoned Facebook.  I eliminated 3/4 of the people I was connected to simply because we weren’t really friends.  I cut it down to a very small group and I rarely if ever go and read it any more.  I don’t post anything and barely read anything. For me Facebook’s real value was a way to know about friends of mine upcoming gigs who play in a band.  Since live music temporarily doesn’t exist, I have no real motivation to go on the site. 

My mother graduated from the same high school my daughter graduated from 60 years later, the same town I live today.  When she was going to her 55th High School reunion she was still teaching Kindergarten full time in a private school.   On grandparents day in June, (the vast majority of them younger than her) she told all the kids that she was going to Minneapolis that summer to visit some of her childhood friends at a reunion, two of which she met in Kindergarten. There was an audible gasp by the children and then silence, as they looked wide eyed up at my Mother and then to their grandparents, who must have seemed ancient beyond understanding, and then around the circle of faces of their classmates on the floor.  My Mother watched their internal gears turning, deciphering which of their friends today might still be their friend 68 years hence, a sudden determination in their eyes that this business of friendship carries some serious long term obligations.  

The First Day of School

by Roger McGough (b. 1937 – 

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don’t let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don’t take sweets from?
Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

I Know My Soul

Terrance Hayes

“If you think a hammer is the only way to hammer / A nail, you ain’t thought of the nail correctly.”

Terrance Hayes

I See A Part And Not The Whole

by Claude McKay

I plucked my soul out of its secret place,
And held it to the mirror of my eye,
To see it like a star against the sky,
A twitching body quivering in space,
A spark of passion shining on my face.
And I explored it to determine why
This awful key to my infinity
Conspires to rob me of sweet joy and grace.
And if the sign may not be fully read,
If I can comprehend but not control,
I need not gloom my days with futile dread,
Because I see a part and not the whole.
Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted
By this narcotic thought: I know my soul.

American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin
[“Inside me is a black-eyed animal”]

by Terrance Hayes

Inside me is a black-eyed animal
Bracing in a small stall. As if a bird
Could grow without breaking its shell.
As if the clatter of a thousand black
Birds whipping in a storm could be held
In a shell. Inside me is a huge black
Bull balled small enough to fit inside
The bead of a nipple ring. I mean to leave
A record of my raptures. I was raised
By a beautiful man. I loved his grasp of time.
My mother shaped my grasp of space.
Would you rather spend the rest of eternity
With your wild wings bewildering a cage or
With your four good feet stuck in a plot of dirt?

That’s All That I Remember

El-hajj Malik El-shabazz (Malcolm X)

“You can’t separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.”

Malcolm X

El-hajj Malik El-shabazz (Malcolm X)

by Robert Hayden

O masks and metamorphoses of Ahab, Native Son


The icy evil that struck his father down
and ravished his mother into madness
trapped him in violence of a punished self
struggling to break free.

As Home Boy, as Dee-troit Red,
he fled his name, became the quarry of
his own obsessed pursuit.

He conked his hair and Lindy-hopped,
zoot-suited jiver, swinging those chicks
in the hot rose and reefer glow.

His injured childhood bullied him.
He skirmished in the Upas trees
and cannibal flowers of the American Dream–

but could not hurt the enemy
powered against him there.

As much as America is divided there is one thing that unites us currently in a troubling way – anger.  Anger seems to abound on all sides of the political spectrum in ways not seen since the 1960’s.  I think many of us that tread somewhere more centrist in the political realm are growing alarmed at the widening gap of hostility between the right and the left.  

I find it disturbing that wrapped within the current GOP rhetoric of absolving Trump of guilt in the impeachment trial for the insurrection at the Capitol is this tit for tat argument on the equivalency around the violence of the Black Lives Movement in cities across America this past summer.  It’s like GOP pundits believe one justifies the other.   I see no such equivalency, despite my community being directly impacted by the terrible violence last summer in the wake of George Floyd’s death.  There is a darker side to that violence that is getting very little press; the fact that numerous indictments have been handed down in Minneapolis to white supremacists from outside the local community, some from outside the state, who used the cover of the George Floyd protests in the days following his death to cause anarchy, increase the level of violence and damage, and steal with impunity. 

Embedded within the tragedy of what happened in Minneapolis, is the fact that there was a highly coordinated right wing anarchist component that only wanted to enhance the violence for their own purposes; to confuse, to radicalize the right and justify their actions, like the attack on the capitol in January.   It feels like there is a coordinated media response within right wing politics to incite their base by playing the fools game of who committed the greater wrong.  It’s a game no one wins.  

What continues to be so troubling for me around Trumpism, is the inability of the GOP mainstream to stand up to the racist attitudes that are fueling some members of their caucus with conspiracy theories that have no basis in reality.  Conspiracy theories that dehumanize their opposition to give credence to their hate.  It’s one of the reasons I think poetry can be an important tool in this discussion in America, particularly  angry poetry.  Poetry that speaks of perspectives that make white Americans uncomfortable may be an easier entry into a broader discussion on things that make all of us uncomfortable.  For equity to progress, we must move beyond conversations that dwell on the fringes of both sides, and  address the causes of the anger, without losing sight of each other’s humanity or what profoundly limiting lessons our children learn from hate. 


by Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
.   . Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
.    . Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
.     . And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
.     . His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore
.    . From May until December:
Of all the things that happened there
.    . That’s all that I remember.

If By Dull Rhymes

John Keats (1795 – 1821)

My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk

John Keats

If By Dull Rhymes

By John Keats

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.

Today is the 200th anniversary of John Keats death.  Keats died at the age of 25 from tuberculosis.  Keats did not die peacefully, he was in agony, denied opium for his pain by his doctors, fearing he would intentionally overdose,  they offered him no respite, forcing him to suffer at the end.  He had moved to Rome in his final months hoping the climate would help cure him, but his disease was too far progressed to prevent his death.  

Keats is a great example its not quantity but quality that is the lasting legacy of a poet.  He wrote poetry for only six years.   In his life time only about 200 copies of his three volumes of poetry were sold.   Yet, Keats has gone on to become immortalized as one of the great English poets because of the sheer beauty of his work.   

He himself doubted his poetry’s staying power, in part because of his limited publishing success.  In a letter to Fanny Brawne a year before his death he wrote “I have left no immortal work behind me – nothing to make my friends proud of my memory – but I have lov’d the principle of beauty of all things…”   Keats’ work became loved by generations of readers,  due in part to Shelly and Hunt’s admiration keeping his work in front of the public through their ongoing tributes and support after his death.  Keat’s poetry is an example that great lyric poetry never goes out of style.  Beauty remains beautiful when it is created for the pure artistic pleasure of the writer. 

Shelley penned and published Adonais in the year following Keats death and it brought a wider audience and interest to Keats work that would build and build throughout the remainder of the 19th century.   Keats wrote sonnets in a style and at a time when lyric poetry was revered. 

I  believe that if Keats were alive today, his sonnets would garner attention for their sheer beauty, but he might find his publishing success might not be that dissimilar to what he experienced 200 years ago.  So it is ironic that modern tastes have moved wide of his mark, and yet it would be interesting to estimate how much money publishers have made publishing Keats poetry while it has been in the public domain?  I’d wager its a very large sum.  There’s something that feels like a tear in the cosmic universe about publishers benefiting handsomely from poets long dead. 

In a recent trip to my Barnes and Noble I stopped by the poetry section and was disappointed that I could not find a single new book of poetry that interested me, the current tastes of publishers running to one or two lines of free verse confessions with stick figure illustrations that look more like memes to my eyes and ears than poetry.  Is that the attention span of readers these days for poetry?   Maybe the pendulum will swing so far towards simplicity that it will start swinging back towards the beauty of more complex lyric poetry again.  Maybe the beauty of Keats will inspire a new generation of readers to reach further into their imaginations, to expect more of writers, publishers and of ourselves in the poetic vision of our modern world. 

Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats

(An Excerpt)

by Percy Bysshe Shelley
       Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,
       He hath awaken’d from the dream of life;
       ‘Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
       With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
       And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
       Invulnerable nothings. We decay
       Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
       Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
       He has outsoar’d the shadow of our night;
       Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
       And that unrest which men miscall delight,
       Can touch him not and torture not again;
       From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
       He is secure, and now can never mourn
       A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;
       Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceas’d to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.