Signs of the Times
–Charles Simic
For a mind full of disquiet
A trembling roadside weed is Cassandra,
And so is the right
Of a boarded up public library,
The rows of books beyond its windows
Unopened for years,
The sickly old dog on its steps,
And a man slumped next to him,
His mouth working mutely
Like an actor unable to recall his lines
At the end of some tragic farce.
Adultery at Forty
–Donald HallAt shower’s head, high over the porcelain moonscape,
a waterdrop gathers itself darkly, with hesitation-
hangs, swells, shakes, looms,
as if uncertain in which direction to hurl itself-
and plunges
_________to come apart at its only destination.
That Elusive Something
–Charles Simic
Was it in the smell of freshly baked bread
That came out to meet me in the street?
The face of a girl carrying a white dress
From the cleaners with her eyes half closed?The sight of a building blackened by fire
Where once I went to look for work?
The toothless old man passing out leaflets
For a clothing store going out of business?Or was it the woman pushing a baby carriage
About to turn the corner? I ran after,
As if the little one lying in it was known to me,
And found myself alone on a busy streetI didn’t recognize, feeling like someone
Out for the first time after a long illness,
Who sees the world with his heart,
Then hurries home to forget how it felt.
Vocabulary of Dearness
–Naomi Shihab NyeHow a single word
may shimmer and rise
off the page, a wafer of
syllabic light, a bulb
of glowing meaning,
whatever the word,
try “tempestuous” or “suffer,”
any word you have held
or traded so it lives a new life
the size of two worlds.
Say you carried it
up a hill and it helped you
move. Without this
the days would be thin sticks
thrown down in a clutter of leaves,
and where is the rake?
Photo by Ronaldo de Oliveira on Unsplash
A Woman Painted on a Leaf
–Eavan BolandI found it among curios and silver
in the pureness of wintry light.A woman painted on a leaf.
Fine lines drawn on a veined surface
in a hand-made frame.This is not my face. Neither did I draw it.
A leaf falls in the garden.
The moon cools its aftermath of sap.
The pith of summer dries out in starlight.A woman is inscribed there.
This is not death. It is the terrible
suspension of life.I want a poem
I can grow old in. I want a poem I can die in.I want to take
this dried-out face,
as you take a starling from behind iron,
and return it to its elements of air, of ending-so that Autumn
which was once
the hard look of stars,
the frown on a gardener’s face,
a gradual bronzing of the distance,will be,
from now on,
a crisp tinder underfoot. Cheekbones. Eyes. Will be
a mouth crying out. Let me.Let me die.
Because I love Anne.
The Solitary
–Sara TeasdaleMy heart has grown rich with the passing of years,
I have less need now than when I was young
To share myself with every comer
Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue.
It is one to me that they come or go
If I have myself and the drive of my will,
And strength to climb on a summer night
And watch the stars swarm over the hill.
Let them think I love them more than I do,
Let them think I care, though I go alone;
If it lifts their pride, what is it to me
Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone.
untitled
–rupi kaur
you
have been
taught your legs
are a pit stop for men
that need a place to rest
a vacant body empty enough
for guests but no one
ever comes and is
willing to
stay.
Summer Solstice
–Jorie GrahamHere it is now, emergent, as if an eagerness, a desire to say there this is
done this is
concluded I have given all I have the store
is full the
crop is
in the counsel has decided the head and shoulders of the invisible have been re-
configured sewn back together melded—the extra
seconds of light like
hearing steps come running towards me, then here you
are, you came all this
distance,
you could call it matrimony it is not an illusion it can be calculated to the last position
consider no further think no longer all
art of
persuasion ends here, the head has been put back on the body, it stands before us
entire—it has been proven—all the pieces have
been found—the broken thing for an instant entire—oh strange
addition and sum, here is no other further step
to be taken, we have arrived, all the rest now a falling
back—but not yet not now now is all now and
here—the end of the day will not end—will stay with us
this fraction longer—
the hands of it all extending—
& where they would have turned away they wait,
there is nothing for now after this we shall wait,
shall wait that it reach us, this inch of finishing,
in what do you believe it leans out to suggest, slant,
as if to mend it the rip, the longest day of this one year,
not early and not late, un-
earned, unearnable—accruing to nothing, also to no one—how many more will I
see—no—wrong question—old question—how
strange that it be in
truth not now
conceivable, not as a thing-as-such, the personal death of
an I—& the extra millisecond adds itself to this day,
& learns, it too, to interline the cheek of light
given to the widening face
that stares at us holds us excels at
being—stands, dwells, purrs, allows—what can we say to it—standing in it—
quickly it arrives at full, no, not quickly, it
arrives, at fullest, then there it is, the
brim, where the fullness
stocks, pools, feeds, in-
dwells, is a
yes, I look up, I see your face through the window looking up,
see you bend to the
horizon-line,
do not myself look out at it, no, look at you,
at the long life of having-looked as a way of believing
now in your
thinking
face, & how natural the passage of time, and death, had felt to us, & how you
cannot
comprehend the thing you are meant
to be looking
for
now, & you are weighing something, you are out under the sky
trying to feel
the
future, there it is now in your almost invisible
squinting to the visible, & how I feel your heart beat slowly out there in the garden
as we both see the
dove
in the
youngest acacia
& how it is making its nest again this year, how it chose the second ranking
offshoot
again, how the young tree strains at the stake in the wind, & within,
the still head of the mother sitting as if all time
came down to
this, the ringed neck, the
mate’s call from the
roof, & how we both know not to move—me inside at the window, deep summer, dusk,
you in the line of sight of the
bird, & also of the
hawk changing sides of the field as
usual,
& the swallows riding the lowest currents, reddish, seeking their feed.
Independence Day for America the hypocritical, America the tangled mess…
The History of America
–Alicia Ostriker-for Paul Metcalf
A linear projection: a route. It crosses
The ocean in many ships. Arriving in the new
Land, it cuts through and down forests and it
Keeps moving. Terrain: Rock, weaponry.
Dark trees, mastery. Grass, to yield. Earth,
Reproachful. Fox, bear, coon, wildcat
Prowl gloomily, it kills them, it skins them,
Its language alters, no account varmint, its
Teeth set, nothing defeats its obsession, it becomes
A snake in the reedy river. Spits and prays,
Keeps moving. Behind it, a steel track. Cold,
Permanent. Not permanent. It will decay. This
Does not matter, it does not actually care,
Murdering the buffalo, driving the laggard regiments,
The caring was a necessary myth, an eagle like
A speck in heaven dives. The line believes
That the entire wrinkled mountain range is the
Eagle’s nest, and everything tumbles in place.
It buries its balls at Wounded Knee, it rushes
Gold, it gambles. It buys plastics. Another
Ocean stops it. Soon, soon, up by its roots,
Severed, irrecoverably torn, that does not matter,
It decides, perpendicular from here: escape.A prior circle: a mouth. It is nowhere,
Everywhere, swollen, warm. Expanding and contracting
It absorbs and projects children, jungles,
Black shoes, pennies, blood. It speaks
Too many dark, suffering languages. Reaching a hand
Toward its throat, you disappear entirely. No
Wonder you fear this bleeding pulse, no wonder.
Fourth of July
–John BrehmFreedom is a rocket,
isn’t it, bursting
orgasmically over
parkloads of hot
dog devouring
human beings
or into the cities
of our enemies
without whom we
would surely
kill ourselves
though they are
ourselves and
America I see now
is the soldier
who said I saw
something
burning on my
chest and tried
to brush it off with
my right hand
but my arm
wasn’t there—
America is no
other than this
moment, the
burning ribcage,
the hand gone
that might have
put it out, the skies
afire with our history.