Ross Gay is a sincerely upbeat poet, optimistic but never smarmy. Here is his poem from Bringing the Shovel Down (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011).
Sorrow Is Not My Name
—after Gwendolyn Brooks
No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off. Continue reading “Monday Poem”