poetry

doubled mirrors

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Doubled Mirrors
–Kenneth Rexroth

It is the dark of the moon.
Late at night, the end of summer,
The autumn constellations
Glow in the arid heaven.
The air smells of cattle, hay,
And dust. In the old orchard
The pears are ripe. The trees
Have sprouted from old rootstocks
And the fruit is inedible.
As I pass them I hear something
Rustling and grunting and turn
My light into the branches.
Two raccoons with acrid pear
Juice and saliva drooling
From their mouths stare back at me,
Their eyes deep sponges of light.
They know me and do not run
Away. Coming up the road
Through the black oak shadows, I
See ahead of me, glinting
Everywhere from the dusty
Gravel, tiny points of cold
Blue light, like the sparkle of
Iron snow. I suspect what it is,
And kneel to see. Under each
Pebble and oak leaf is a
Spider, her eyes shining at
Me with my reflected light
Across immeasurable distance.
Photo by Pete Nuij on Unsplash

condemned

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The Condemned
–P.K. Page

cottonmouth country

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Cottonmouth Country
–Louise Glück

Fish bones walked the waves off Hatteras. And there were other signs That Death wooed us, by water, wooed us By land: among the pines An uncurled cottonmouth that rolled on moss Reared in the polluted air. Birth, not death, is the hard loss. I know. I also left a skin there.

Photo by Meg Jerrard on Unsplash

field of flowers

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Field of Flowers
–Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Translation

Campo de Flores

Photo by Darlene Lu on Unsplash

a study of forgiveness as a piñata

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A Study of Forgiveness as a Piñata
–Sierra DeMulder
It is definitely an animal, but nobody can tell
which kind. Half donkey, half rodeo clown.

Part cow, part hummingbird. People

only care what’s inside, and how eventually
it will be violent(ly) drawn out — the wild

staggers of the blindfolded, how the body

acts as a volume knob: the closer the swing,
the louder the shrieks. That satisfying thud,

aluminum against papier-mâché, dull

and electric. In these years after you, I too
have thrashed in the dark, have swung madly

at sounds, have prayed for impact, or at least

purpose. I confess I have noosed your memory,
waved my bat like a shameful finger, waited

beneath it, ready to collect my lump of closure.

Thump. I forgive you. Thump. I forgive you.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Nothing ever falls out.

argument to love as a person

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Argument to Love as a Person
–Alan Dugan

The cut rhododendron branches
flowered in our sunless flat.
Don’t complain to me, dear,
that I waste your life in poverty:
you and the cuttings prove: Those
that have it in them to be beautiful
flower wherever they are!, although
they are, like everything else, ephemeral.
Freedom is as mortal as tyranny.

death is too easy

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Death is Too Easy
–Robert M. Drake

Death is too easy
and too simple.

We all know
how it goes,
but believe me,

the hardest thing
in the world is to live

and to live for something.

Something that burns

the soul,

something hard

to forget.

Photo by Jakub Kriz on Unsplash

i will have to begin

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I Will Have to Begin
–Yehuda Amichai

I will have to begin to remember you
When someone else begins to discover you, the inside
Of your soft thighs above the stockings and when you laugh,
Developing the first pictures for his future dreams.

And I will have to forget you.
When someone else begins to remember you
When some other elses begin to discover you.

And my life is empty like a flower when they plucked
All its petals: yes, no, yes, no, yes.

And to be alone is to be in a place
Where we were never together, and to be alone is
To forget you are like this: to want to pay for two
In a bus and travel alone.

Now I shall cover the mirror like your pictures
And lie down to sleep. The birds of the sky will eat
The flesh of my sleep. The dogs will lick
My blood inside. You won’t see a thing outside.

prose poem

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Prose Poem
–Aleš Debeljak

Your story’s simple. You won’t see many loved ones when
you return, like an otter surfacing in a lake to catch its
breath. You won’t find words for short greetings, the seasons,
unsuccessful missions, white phosphorous lighting the
passion in soldiers’ eyes, a distant whistle on steep hillsides
you never climbed, children’s cane baskets floating silently
across a river basin, the way you have a constant burning
pain, the constellations discovered in a premonition,
Oriental love songs, the disappointment of everything we
were and will be. Believe me: this is your story. Later, I’ll tell
it again — only better.

Photo by Daniel Tong on Unsplash

midsummer, tobago

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Midsummer, Tobago
–Derek Walcott

Broad sun-stoned beaches.

White heat.
A green river.

A bridge,
scorched yellow palms

from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.

Days I have held,
days I have lost,

days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.