poet

grey century

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Grey Century
–Éireann Lorsung
On the first grey morning of the grey century
spiders have put webs on the windows.

By the time you wake up the morning procedures
are going on. A tiny forest of cyclamens

in the backyard. You can’t say, Did I sleep
for a hundred years? You know that’s ludicrous.

The milkman looks at you funny.
The century wants you to enjoy the little plants

that flower in the shape of ghosts. It hates
to remind you everyone you used to love is dead.

Photo by Nicolas Picard on Unsplash

 

airports

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MSP PHI LGA ALB PHI MSP
–Neil Hilborn

How miraculous that we all
keep our shit together. How miraculous
that no one has a premonition of flames
and tries to open the cabin door. The airline
pilot next to me keeps his eyes closed
during takeoff and landing. He does not
drink anything. I have an orange juice
with no ice. I want to watch the horizon
as it gets farther away. This man
might just be smarter than me, but he is also
flying coach and reading the sports section
while I do crosswords, so he is probably
still smarter than me. Pretension
can look like intelligence if you squint
hard enough or wear glasses. There are,
for some reason, always Buddhist monks
in the Philadelphia airport. Buddhist monks
rewrapping their robes. This is my sixth time
in this airport. My sixth time because of two
different women. I have paid probably
a couple thousand dollars for the privilege.
Five cheesesteaks. Surprisingly good caramel
popcorn. Maybe thirty hours, five just trying
to find outlets. How miraculous that I can go
basically anywhere. How miraculous, the doors,
the wings, the recycled air. How miraculous,
flight is just a fall that never finds the ground.

Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

april snow

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Clouds
–Jared Carter
I would like to rise within one
as though unbound –
Bodiless, but not withdrawn from
the endless round

Of circumambient winds. I would
be vaporous, yet
Show textures clear, as in driftwood
or empty net.

My shadow, far below, would seem
content to go
Across the green fields like a dream
of April snow.

Photo by Maksym Kaharlytskyi on Unsplash

Gubbinal

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Gubbinal
–Wallace Stevens

That strange flower, the sun,
Is just what you say.
Have it your way.

The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.

That tuft of jungle feathers,
That animal eye,
Is just what you say.

That savage of fire,
That seed,
Have it your way.

The world is ugly,
and the people are sad.

Photo by Luis Graterol on Unsplash