Monday, October 21, 2013

Cruel Cogito

How joyous!,
passing this time alone
with your father, how bright his golden laugh
which drew you to laugh yourself uncontrolled,
how sweet the happy hour oysters you two pry and eat,
piling wobbling shells that glisten on the table
while the pianist plays by the kitchen doors.
You find yourself reminded of what you wrote
in the eulogy: that you two would still possess
a relationship even though
he was dead, that you could still
go and speak with him
when you dreamed

and so you see the seat opposite from you seats no one.



by Ken Chen

Sunday, October 20, 2013

I Give a Convincing Sermon

I give a convincing sermon. I say The body

is a coat. It is a very dark and heavy coat

but worthless. Mother Mary nods from the pews.

If I give Mary all my atoms she will plant them

in a garden where ripened women relinquish

their bones to make room for littler women.

It is dangerous to grow accustomed to a garden.

Just when the flowers soften you, they disappear.

Then you are a weepy fern among skyscrapers.

I don't want my soul exposed like that.

Neither can you make a garden stay. Don't even try.

Every plot becomes a dark city over time.

I have collected many dark ideas over time.

I have so many ideas they are a second coat.


by Melissa Broder

Friday, October 18, 2013

Now it is fall

 
when all the golden birds
fly home across the blue deep water;
On shore I sit rapt in its scattering
                                                       glitter;
departure rustles through the trees.
This farewell is vast and separation draws close,
but reunion, that also is certain.

My head on my arm I fall asleep easily.
On my eyes a mother’s breath,
from her mouth to my heart:
sleep, child, and dream now the sun is gone.—


 
By Edith Södergran 1892–1923 Edith Sodergran
Translated from the Swedish by Averill Curdy Read the translator's notes

An Eternity


There is no dusk to be,

There is no dawn that was,

Only there's now, and now,

And the wind in the grass.


Days I remember of

Now in my heart, are now;

Days that I dream will bloom

White peach bough.



Dying shall never be

Now in the windy grass;

Now under shooken leaves

Death never was.


by Archibald MacLeish

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

The Present

The Present

I wanted to give you something —
no stone, clay, bracelet,
no edible leaf could pass through.
Even a molecule's fragrance by then too large.
Giving had been taken, as you soon would be.
Still, I offered the puffs of air shaped to meaning.
They remained air.
I offered memory on memory,
but what is memory that dies with the fallible inks?
I offered apology, sorrow, longing. I offered anger.
How fine is the mesh of death. You can almost see through it.
I stood on one side of the present, you stood on the other.

--Jane Hirshfield

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.

-- Jack Gilbert