Dana Gioia Poems
|4.||Emigre In Autumn||1/3/2003|
|5.||Guide To The Other Gallery||1/3/2003|
|7.||Do Not Expect||1/3/2003|
|8.||California Hills In August||1/3/2003|
|10.||The Lost Garden||12/20/2011|
|11.||The Sunday News||1/3/2003|
|12.||The Burning Ladder||12/20/2011|
|13.||Sunday Night In Santa Rosa||12/20/2011|
|15.||Planting A Sequoia||1/3/2003|
|17.||The Next Poem||1/3/2003|
|20.||The Country Wife||1/3/2003|
|21.||Thanks For Remembering Us||1/3/2003|
Comments about Dana Gioia
Money is a kind of poetry.
- Wallace Stevens
Money, the long green,
cash, stash, rhino, jack
or just plain dough.
Chock it up, fork it over,
shell it out. Watch it
burn holes through pockets.
To be made of it! To have it
to burn! Greenbacks, double eagles,
megabucks and Ginnie Maes.
It greases the palm, feathers a nest,
holds heads above water,
makes both ends meet.
Money breeds money.
Gathering interest, compounding daily.
Always in circulation.
Money. You don't know where it's been,
but you put it where your...
Now you hear what the house has to say.
Pipes clanking, water running in the dark,
the mortgaged walls shifting in discomfort,
and voices mounting in an endless drone
of small complaints like the sounds of a family
that year by year you've learned how to ignore.
But now you must listen to the things you own,
all that you've worked for these past years,