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Octubre 24, 2010
Besides the Autumn poets sing (131)
Besides the Autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze -
A few incisive mornings -
A few Ascetic eves -
Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" -
And Mr Thomson's "sheaves."
Still, is the bustle in the brook -
Sealed are the spicy valves -
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many Elves -
Perhaps a squirrel may remain -
My sentiments to share -
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind -
Thy windy will to bear!
Emily Dickinson
Posted by sarita at 6:37 AM
Drench
You sleep with a dream of summer weather,
wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain.
Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass
and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace
has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence.
The mountains have had the sense to disappear.
It's the Celtic temperament—wind, then torrents, then remorse.
Glory rising like a curtain over distant water.
Old stonehouse, having steered us through the dark,
docks in a pool of shadow all its own.
That widening crack in the gloom is like good luck.
Luck, which neither you nor tomorrow can depend on.
by Anne Stevenson
Posted by sarita at 6:36 AM
Octubre 10, 2010
Aubade
A vacant hour
before the sun—
and with it a valve's
pneumatic hush,
the deep and nautical
clunk of wood,
chanson du ricochet
of rivet gun,
trowel tap,
and bolt drawn—
the moon sets
and water breaks.
Curled within
a warm pleroma,
playing for time,
you finally turn
and push your face
toward November's
glint of frost,
grains of salt,
weak clarities
of dawn.
by Devin Johnston
Posted by sarita at 2:06 PM
Recuerdo
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Posted by sarita at 2:04 PM
Octubre 4, 2010
NINE, 40
Take a good look, she says about her inventory.
Palatially housed, her inflammatory and multifaceted
set of selves.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
The exact velocity of quantum particles cannot be known.
Like wave equations in the space of certain dimensions.
I never thought that things would go this far.
Angular momentum of closely-knit and sexually
adventurous people.
Any piece of matter, when heated, starts to glow.
It's that kind of relationship that's built on friction.
by Anne Tardos
Posted by sarita at 4:03 PM
Testy Pony
I am given a pony for my birthday, but it is the wrong kind of pony. It is the kind of pony that won’t listen. It is testy. When I ask it to go left, it goes right. When I ask it to run, it sleeps on its side in the tall grass. So when I ask it to jump us over the river into the field I have never before been, I have every reason to believe it will fail, that we will be swept down the river to our deaths. It is a fate for which I am prepared. The blame of our death will rest with the testy pony, and with that, I will be remembered with reverence, and the pony will be remembered with great anger. But with me on its back, the testy pony rears and approaches the river with unfettered bravery. Its leap is glorious. It clears the river with ease, not even getting its pony hooves wet. And then there we are on the other side of the river, the sun going down, the pony circling, looking for something to eat in the dirt. Real trust is to do so in the face of clear doubt, and to trust is to love. This is my failure, and for that I cannot be forgiven.
by Zachary Schomburg
Posted by sarita at 3:55 PM