Stranger By Night
–Edward HirschAfter I lost
my peripheral vision
I started getting sideswiped
by pedestrians cutting
in front of me
almost randomly
like memories
I couldn’t see coming
as I left the building
at twilight
or stepped gingerly
off the curb
or even just crossed
the wet pavement
to the stairs descending
precipitously
into the subway station
and I apologized
to every one
of those strangers
jostling me
in a world that had grown
stranger by night.
“ready for the exile we call a home”….
Leaving the Island
–David WhyteIt must have been
the slant of the light,
the sheer cross-grain of rain
against a summer sun,
the way the island appeared
gifted, out of the gleam
and depth of distance,
so that when you turned
to look again,
the scend of the sea
has carried you on,
under the headland
and into the waiting harbour.And after the pilgrim lanes,
and the ruined chapel,
the lads singing beneath the window,
and the Corn-Crake calling from
a corner of a field,
after the gull cries and the sea-hush
at the back of the island,
it was the way, standing still
or looking out,
walking or even talking
with others in the evening bar,
holding your drink
and laughing with the rest,
that you realized-part of you
had already dropped to its knees,
to pray, to sing, to look-
to fall in love with everything
and everyone again, that someone
from deep inside you had come out
into the sea-light to raise its hands
and forgive everyone in your short life
you thought you hadn’t, and that all along
you had been singing your quiet way
through the rosary of silence
that held their names.Above all, the way afterwards,
you thought you had left the island
but hadn’t, the way you knew
you had gone somewhere
into the shimmering light
and come out again on the tide
as you knew you had to,
as someone who would return
and live in the world again,
a man granted just a glimpse,
a woman granted just a glimpse,
someone half a shade braver,
a standing silhouette in the stern,
holding the rail,
riding the long waves back,
ready for the exile we call a home.
Some Things I Wanted to Say to You
–Stephen Dunn
If the horse that you ride
is blind it’s good
that it also be slow,
and please stroke it
a hundred more times than you would
the powerful dazzling one.To be generous is one thing,
but there’s a clerk in some of us,
quick to say yes.
Worry about the command
in the suggestion.
Worry about smiles, and those men
whose business is business.There are joys and enigmas
of an evening alone
to appreciate.
There are always the simple events
of your life
that you might try to convert
into legend.Did you know
a good dog in your house
can make you more thoughtful,
even more moral?
And sex without conversation,
sex that’s erotic or sleepy…
oh don’t let anybody tell you
there’s a wrong way to have it.Tell your lovers the world
robs us in so many ways
that a caress is your way
of taking something back.
Tell the dogs and the horses
you love them more than cars.
speak to everythingwould be my advice.
The Way In
–Linda HoganSometimes the way to milk and honey is through the body.Sometimes the way in is a song.But there are three ways in the world: dangerous, wounding,and beauty.To enter stone, be water.To rise through hard earth, be plantdesiring sunlight, believing in water.To enter fire, be dry.To enter life, be food.
The Heron
–Linda HoganI am always watching the single heron at its place alone at water, its open eye, one leg lifted or wading without seeming to move. It is a mystery seen but never touched until this morning when I lift it from its side where it lays breathing. I know the beak that could attack, that unwavering golden eye seeing me, my own saying I am harmless, but if I had that eye, nothing would be safe. The claws hold tight my hand, its dun-brown feathers, and the gray so perfectly laid down. The bird is more beautiful than my hand, skin more graceful than my foot, my own dark eye so much more vulnerable, the heart beating quickly, its own language speaking, You could kill me or help me. I know you and I have no choice but to give myself up and in whatever supremacy of this moment, hold your human hand with my bent claws.
The Ritual
–Olivia Gatwood
you agree to do it if he lets you lie on your side.
you tell him it hurts less this way.
you tell him you will close your eyes.
you tell him it feels nice. like spooning.
you place your hand on the wall in front of you. when he pushes,
your hand against the wall acts as a cushion for your face.
you have grown accustomed to discovering all of the ways
you can make the pain intangible. unrecognizable.
for instance, preventing a nosebleed.
and so, you are between him and your hand, against the wall
window-shopping for the next room, the front door,
outside, where it is lunchtime and your father is repairing something
on the car you ruined. the boy goes fast and apologizes.
you do not tell him everything you’ve learned.
that this, your body, a small knot and his, in combat, is what you know.
he pulls your hair back from your face
says thank you, i needed that. i’m hungry, let’s eat.
Studying English
–Naomi Shihab NyeCOURAGE
has age
in it
but I say
age is not required.A man from Scotland came to visit,
brought us square, buttery cookies,
repeated Steady at the tiller,
when he wandered our streets.
I had to search for the
meaning. Keeping control
of a situation, staying firm,
phrase often used in seafaring context,
though we have no boats, no rudders,
but originally the phrase connected to
a felled tree, of which we have plenty.
