tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118950557082067722012-01-11T16:38:39.968-07:00danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.comBlogger5841100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-81255291343489636792011-05-20T21:48:00.002-06:002011-05-20T21:48:52.038-06:00

Jane Hirshfield (2011) In daylight, I turned on the lights, in darkness, I pulled closed the curtains. And the god of More, whom nothing surprises, softly agreed— each day, year after year, the dead were dead one day more completely. In the places where morels were found, I looked for morels. In the house where love was found, I looked for love. If she vanished, what then was different? If he is

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-42341312406334310792011-03-12T08:22:00.007-07:002011-03-12T08:31:23.058-07:00

Stephen Dunn (2011)If the imagined woman makes the real womanseem bare-boned, hardly existent, lacking ingracefullness and intellect and pulchritude,and if you come to realize the imagined womancan only satisfy your imagination, whereasthe real woman with all her limitationscan often make you feel good, how, in spiteof knowing this, does the imagined womankeep getting into your bedroom, and

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-66340960926029935982011-01-19T19:41:00.004-07:002011-01-19T19:49:03.924-07:00

Nick Laird (2011)You're beeswax and I'm bird shit.I'm mostly harmless. You're irrational.If I'm iniquity then you're theft.One of us is supercalifragilistic.If I'm the most insane disgusting filthyou're hardly curiosa.You're bubble wrap to my fingertips.You're winter sleep and I'm the bee dance.And I am menthol and you are eggshell.When you're atrocious I am Spellcheck.You're the yen. I'm the

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-61595396499507500552010-09-16T20:31:00.005-06:002010-09-16T20:42:50.350-06:00

Brenda Shaughnessy (2010)I wish I had more sisters,enough to fight with and stillhave plenty more to confess to,embellishing the fight so that Ilook like I'm right and then turnall my sisters, one by one, againstmy sister. One sister will be so badthe rest of us will have a purposein bringing her back to whereit's good (with us) and we'll feeluseful, and she will feel loved.Then another

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-80745021793062428602010-09-01T04:57:00.000-06:002010-09-01T04:57:00.323-06:00

Geoffrey Hillborn 19.6.32 - deported 24.9.42Undesirable you may have been, untouchableyou were not. Not forgottenor passed over at the proper time.As estimated, you died. Things marched,sufficient, to that end.Just so much Zyklon and leather, patentedterror, so many routine cries.(I have madean elegy for myself itis true)September fattens on vines. Rosesflake from the wall. The smokeof harmless

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-30745736203662053562010-08-08T05:13:00.002-06:002010-08-08T05:13:00.478-06:00

Justin Quinn (2010)At twenty, you hold this street’s attentionbetter than the Bolshoi could—the boots, the perfume, not to mentionthe bling and ermine on your hood. The way you walk is slash and burn.Like understatement’s now a crime.You leave a wake of men who turnto make sure they were right first time. They’re like small countries who betraytheir old allegiances awhile.Bound over as your

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-12667556510026509832010-08-07T11:03:00.002-06:002010-08-07T11:04:10.749-06:00

Louise GlückLong ago, I was wounded. I livedto revenge myselfagainst my father, notfor what he was—for what I was: from the beginning of time,in childhood, I thoughtthat pain meantI was not loved.It meant I loved.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-86986722079148291402010-08-01T00:42:00.003-06:002010-08-01T00:46:30.639-06:00

Robert P. Baird (2010)Torn turned and tatteredBowed burned and batteredI took untensed time by the teethAnd bade it bear me bankingOut over the walled weltercities and the seaThrough the lightsmocked birdpocked cloudcocked skyTo leave me light on the lilting planetesimal.The stone walls wailed and whimperedThe bold stars paled and dimpledGodgone time gathered to a gruntAnd bore me bled and

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-58241657683912971422010-07-27T08:27:00.000-06:002010-07-27T08:28:44.057-06:00

Jonathan Wells (2010)With one he wrote a number so beautifulit lasted forever in the legends of numbers. With another he described the martyrs’ feet as they marchedpast the weeping stones and cypresses, watched by their fathers. He used one as a silver wand to lifta trout from its spawning bed to more fruitful waters and set it back down, its mouth facing upstream.He wrote Time has no other river

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-24345577377646648512010-07-04T10:37:00.000-06:002010-07-04T10:37:00.284-06:00

Frederick Seidel (2010)July 4th fireworks exhale over the Hudson sadly.It is beautiful that they have to disappear.It’s like the time you said I love you madly.That was an hour ago. It’s been a fervent year.I don’t really love fireworks, not really, the flavorful floating shroudIn the nighttime sky above the river and the crowd.This time, because of the distance upriver perhaps, they’re not loud,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-60205970901393145192010-07-02T08:05:00.001-06:002010-07-02T08:07:19.680-06:00

W.S. MerwinListen with the night falling we are saying thank you we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings we are running out of the glass rooms with our mouths full of food to look at the sky and say thank you we are standing by the water thanking it smiling by the windows looking out in our directions back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging after funerals we are saying

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-81667082572248052652010-06-28T10:50:00.002-06:002010-06-28T10:51:34.143-06:00

Vikram SethWhat can I say to you? How can I retractAll that that fool my voice has spoken—Now that the facts are plain, the placid surface cracked,The protocols of friendship broken? I cannot walk by day as now I walk at dawnPast the still house where you lie sleeping.May the sun burn these footprints on the lawnAnd hold you in its warmth and keeping.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-9990496369704770702010-06-02T22:00:00.000-06:002010-06-02T22:01:21.248-06:00

Carl Dennis (2010)To live each day as if it might be the lastIs an injunction that Marcus AureliusInscribes in his journal to remind himselfThat he, too, however privileged, is mortal,That whatever bounty is destined to reach himHas reached him already, many times.But if you take his maxim too literallyAnd devote your mornings to tinkering with your will,Your afternoons and evenings to saying

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-26291544423450829332010-05-18T18:26:00.004-06:002010-05-18T18:39:47.389-06:00

Eleanor Ross Taylor (2010)The fork lived with the knife     and found it hard—for yearstook nicks and scratches,     not to mention cuts.She who took tedium by the ears:     nonforthcoming pickles,defiant stretched out lettuce,     sauce-gooed particles.He who came down whack,his conversation, even, edged.Lying beside him in the drawer     she formed a crazy patina,the seasons stacked—     melons

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-78283030897951210972010-05-10T21:16:00.003-06:002010-05-10T21:17:47.125-06:00

Sophie Cabot Black (2010)To put one and one together makingTwo and so on. A house appears, roomWith a bed in it. To configure anyway, Even without enough information.We work into it, the chosen. To measureEverything out until the one who takes over Becomes taken. This as strategy, the artOf how we build until managementIn turn builds us, elegant the logic Used. To draw out more than what is put

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-59031158046157762742010-05-05T15:10:00.002-06:002010-05-05T15:15:59.987-06:00

Allen Edwin Butt (2009)Words without much usenow. Unable to remakethe thing. And I thoughtwhat should I think—followed by: spring light lookslike feathers. (Birdsseemed convenientlydecorous.) What thendoes this leave I asked& was surprised to knowso quickly—that my understandingof what the light & birdscould not be made to meanwould not detractfrom them as theywere. Bound by feathers(a thought, I

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-82121533036622244562010-05-04T15:30:00.004-06:002010-05-05T15:10:07.349-06:00

Ilya Kaminsky (2010)16.Yet I am. I exists. I hasa body,when I seemy wife's slender boyish legsthe roofof my mouth goes dry.She takes my toein her mouthBites lightly.How do we live on earth, Mosquito?If I could hearyou what would you say?Your answer, Mosquito!Above all, bewareof sadnesson earth, we can do—can't we—what we want.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-71493897009385792572010-05-03T06:25:00.003-06:002010-05-05T15:09:09.179-06:00

Ilya Kaminsky (2010)10.I kissed a womanwhose frecklesaroused our neighbors.Her trembling lipsmeant come to bed.Her hair falling down in the middleof the conversationmeant come to bed.I walked into my hospital of thoughts.Yes, I carried her off to bedon the chair of myhairy arms. But parted lipsmeant kiss my parted lips,I read those lipswithout understandingsoft lips meantkiss my soft lips.Such is

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-57622022781416606752010-05-02T15:23:00.008-06:002010-05-02T15:39:02.139-06:00

Ilya Kaminsky (2010)8.I look at you, Alfonso,and sayto the latecaterpillarsgood morning, Senators,this is a battleworthyor our weapons.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-54635342109500468112010-04-25T05:17:00.001-06:002010-04-25T05:17:00.708-06:00

Edgar Lee MastersTake note, passers-by, of the sharp erosionsEaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain —Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatredWere marking scores against me,But to destroy, and not preserve, my memory.I in life was the Circuit Judge, a maker of notches,Deciding cases on the points the lawyers scored,Not on the right of the matter.O wind and rain, leave my head-stone alone!

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-8402662024986713162010-04-24T12:10:00.004-06:002010-04-24T12:15:10.442-06:00

Rae Armantrout (2010)1We like to thinkthat the mindcontrols the body.We send the body on a mission.We don't feel the body,but we receive conflicting reports.The body is catching flakor flies.The body is sprouting grapefruit.The body is under-performing in heavytrading.2Reception is spotty.Someone "just like me"is bornin the futureand I don't feel a thing?Like only goes so far.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-20482426145655768862010-04-20T09:22:00.001-06:002010-04-20T09:22:00.165-06:00

Jon Montague (2010)In my grandfather’s librarythere were many volumes, Bibles massive as flagstones;heavy print my eye could trawl along: the thunder of the Old Testament. I climbed the Mount with Moses,stood in the presence of the Lord,or listened as he spake from a cloud. For, lo, I had suffered the long exodusfrom Brooklyn, and New York, wherethey worshipped the Golden Calf which now staggers,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-82426611654059351832010-04-19T21:08:00.005-06:002010-04-19T21:13:19.932-06:00

David Wagoner (2010)Don’t do it, the guidebook says,if you’re lost. Then it goes on to talk about something else, taking the easy way out,which of course is what water doesas a matter of course always taking whatever turn the earth has told it towhile and since it was born,including flowing over the edge of a waterfall or simply disappearingunderground for a long dark timebefore it

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-79378344217346750792010-03-20T08:50:00.000-06:002010-03-20T08:50:00.259-06:00

Adrienne Rich (2002)There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphilland the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadowsnear a meeting-house abandoned by the persecutedwho disappeared into those shadows.I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooledthis isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,our country moving closer to

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-90451926384519639702010-03-19T08:38:00.001-06:002010-03-19T16:00:13.648-06:00

Dorothea Grossman (2010)I have to tell you,there are times whenthe sun strikes melike a gong,and I remember everything,even your ears.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-72957981242363277412010-03-18T20:31:00.004-06:002010-03-18T22:16:55.424-06:00

A.E. Stallings (2010)Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks:Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat,Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat,Select the prince from a row of identical masks,Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basksAnd snatch its bones; count dust specks, mote by mote,Or learn the phone directory by rote.Always it's impossible what someone asks—You have to fight magic with magic.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-38243605011573363162010-01-17T20:57:00.006-07:002010-04-24T12:23:09.166-06:00

21 years agoyesterdaywhen I was 21I read a poemWhen I was 21written in 1896.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-9381934451929535512009-11-25T15:01:00.002-07:002009-11-25T15:03:05.530-07:00

Dave Smith (2009)You see them everywhere and hardly notice the onecranking past as you pass on the sidewalk,that mewling, watery eye, partly bloodshot, partlyfocused on you, or some apprehension of you,or, shrunken, one in the Giant self-checkout line,foul as a just risen pig, in slippers, and nowthe puzzled, warty face turns to you, and you’rehelpless, stunned, the routine ordinary signals

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-73499982211382037012009-10-31T09:41:00.000-06:002009-10-31T09:41:00.296-06:00

Kay Ryan (2005)The chickensare circling andblotting out the day. The sun is bright, but the chickens are in the way. Yes,the sky is darkwith chickens, dense with them.They turn and then they turn again. These are the chickensyou let looseone at a timeand small—various breeds.Now they have come hometo roost—allthe same kindat the same speed.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-74011112650497636762009-10-30T09:31:00.003-06:002009-10-30T09:46:00.591-06:00

John HainesIn the quiet housea lamp is burningwhere the book of autumnlies open on a table.There is tea with milkin heavy mugs,brown raisin cake, and thoughtsthat stir the heartwith the promises of death.We sit without words,gazing past the limitof fire, into the toweringdarkness...There are silences so deepyou can hearthe journeys of the soul,enormous footstepsdownward in a freezing earth.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-6699544410609777992009-10-12T15:39:00.002-06:002009-10-12T15:41:41.804-06:00

Mary Jo Bang (2009)At a book of detailsOf all the moments when knowledge is acquiredA sort of expanded balloonSighs and says, "We are what came before.""The storm in the window of the mind,"The sleepy sister says while she's walking aroundWonderland watchingA cat touching down and talking.Not a car in sight. A cemetery seen from the air.All the obelisks you could ever ask for.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-12216803184501478052009-09-26T23:27:00.002-06:002009-09-26T23:30:56.210-06:00

Jane Miller (1996)I love these hours alone I do                         not                               like them. Like them, I amslow to divine                               meaning from change, meaningI love you & remembering                                                 waking nextto you like a white gull against a white sky                               become blueI feel detached,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-76465930649338473072009-09-02T19:34:00.000-06:002009-09-02T19:35:18.959-06:00

Alison DemingEinstein didn't speak as a childwaiting till a sentence formed andemerged full-blown from his head.I do the thing, he later wrote, whichnature drives me to do. Does a fishknow the water in which he swims?This came up in conversationwith a man I met by chance,friend of a friend of a friend,who passed through town carryingthree specimen boxes of insectshe'd collected in the Grand

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-57028284713035899132009-08-28T10:26:00.001-06:002009-08-28T10:29:17.848-06:00

Richard Wilbur (2009)Treetops are not so highNot I so lowThat I don't instinctively knowHow it would be to flyThrough gaps that the wind makes, ehnThe leaves arouseAnd there is a lifting of boughsThat settle and lift again.Whatever my kind may be,It is not absurdTo confuse myself with a birdFor the space of a reverie:My species never flew,But I somehow knowIt is something that long agoI almost

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-5839945615361635392009-08-05T21:35:00.002-06:002009-08-05T21:41:16.493-06:00

Rita DoveI proved a theorem and the house expands:the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,the ceiling floats away with a sigh.As the walls clear themselves of everythingbut transparency, the scent of carnationsleaves with them. I am out in the openand above the windows have hinged into butterflies,sunlight glinting where they've intersected.They are going to some point true and unproven.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-3566564319302237292009-07-22T18:11:00.001-06:002009-07-22T18:13:14.692-06:00

Troy Jollimore (2009)1.Where what I see comes to rest,at the edge of the lake,against what I think I see and, up on the bank, who I ammaintains an uneasy trucewith who I fear I am, while in the cabin’s shade the gap betweenthe words I saidand those I remember saying is just wide enough to containthe remains that remainof what I assumed I knew. 2.Out in the canoe, the person I thought you

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-62714881667008219802009-07-20T15:29:00.003-06:002009-07-20T15:31:59.022-06:00

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)I made my song a coatCovered with embroideriesOut of old mythologiesFrom heel to throat;But the fools caught it,Wore it in the world's eyesAs though they'd wrought it.Song, let them take it,For there's more enterpriseIn walking naked.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-76091790474675915062009-07-11T08:46:00.001-06:002009-07-11T08:48:31.664-06:00

E.B. WhiteThe spider, dropping down from twig,Unwinds a thread of her devising:A thin, premeditated rigTo use in rising.And all the journey down through space,In cool descent, and loyal-hearted,She builds a ladder to the placeFrom which she started.Thus I, gone forth, as spiders do,In spider's web a truth discerning,Attach one silken strand to youFor my returning.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-12229915420989873532009-07-10T07:53:00.003-06:002009-07-10T07:56:13.236-06:00

Stanley KunitzIt darted across the pondtoward our sunset perch,weaving in, up, and arounda spindle of air,this delicate enginefired by impulse and glitter,swift darning-needle,gossamer dragon,less image than thought,and the thought come alive.Swoosh went the netwith a practiced hand."Da-da, may I look too?"You may look, child,all you want.This prize belongs to no one.But you will pay allyour life

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-69789444519021835292009-07-08T19:00:00.002-06:002009-07-08T19:03:48.090-06:00

Lucille Clifton (b.1936)at last we killed the roaches.mama and me. she sprayed,i swept the ceiling and they felldying onto our shoulders, in our haircovering us with red. the tribe was broken,the cooking pots were ours againand we were glad, such cleanliness was gracewhen i was twelve. only for a few nights,and then not much, my dreams were bloodmy hands were blades and it was murder murderall

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-4528100892384326212009-07-03T13:40:00.000-06:002009-07-03T13:41:33.176-06:00

Carol Muske-Dukes (2009)It was the river that made them two—The mills on one side,The cathedral on the other. We watched its swift currents:If we stared long enough, maybeIt would stop cold and let us Skate across to the other side.It never froze in place—thoughI once knew a kid, a wild funny Girl who built a raft from branches(Which promptly sank a few feet outFrom the elbow bend off Dayton’s

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-9839843918944533662009-07-02T06:01:00.001-06:002009-07-02T06:01:03.530-06:00

D. NurkseThey were driving into the mountains, suddenly married,sometimes touching each other’s cheek with a fingernailgingerly: the radio played ecstatic static: certain roadsmarked with blue enamel numbers led to cloud banks,or basalt screes, or dim hotels with padlocked verandas.Sometimes they quarreled, sometimes they grew old,the wind was constant in their eyes, it was their own wind,they

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-23708975607209316282009-07-01T07:56:00.000-06:002009-07-01T07:57:17.654-06:00

D. NurkseThe child’s assignment:“What is a city?”All dusk she sucks her pencilwhile cars swish bylike ghosts, neighbors’ radiosforecast rain, high clouds,diminishing winds: at lastshe writes: “The city is everyone.”    Now it’s timefor math, borrowing and exchanging,the long discipleshipto zero, the stranger,the force that makes uswhat we study: father and child,writing in separate books,infinite

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-11453315678291813322009-06-30T05:44:00.001-06:002009-06-30T05:44:00.432-06:00

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,There must be one (which, I am not sure)That I by now have walked for the last timeWithout guessing it, the pawn of that SomeoneWho fixes in advance omnipotent laws,Sets up a secret and unwavering scalefor all the shadows, dreams, and formsWoven into the texture of this life.If there is a limit to all things and a

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-71808149513305714072009-06-29T09:32:00.001-06:002009-06-29T09:34:46.102-06:00

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)(Translated, from the Spanish, by Suzanne Jill Levine.)In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden table and a bench. In that circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing in letters I cannot understand a long poem about a man who

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-18230972915076467932009-06-15T06:22:00.000-06:002009-06-15T06:23:40.634-06:00

Rodney JonesNearly sunset, and time on the waterof 1984. Language its tracer.No image like the image of language. I had waded out about thigh deep.Then a shout from the beach.I held in my hand half a coconut shell of coconut milk and 150-proof rumand dumped it white into the waveswhen it came on me how sweet it had been, then the idea I was not finished,then the act of reaching downwith the idea

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Stephen Dunn (2009)It was bring-your-own if you wanted anythinghard, so I brought Johnnie Walker Redalong with some resentment I’d held infor a few weeks, which was not helpedby the sight of little nameless thingspierced with toothpicks on the tables,or by talk that promised to be nothingif not small. But I’d consented to come,and I knew what part of the housetheir animals would be sequestered,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-41664563264725051002009-05-25T20:20:00.000-06:002009-05-25T20:21:53.964-06:00

Jennifer Michael Hecht (2009)It’s O.K. to keep hearing your worries, so long as youstop talking to them. Shun them like a double-crossed Quaker. Imagine how quiet it would be, like shutting off the droning ocean.That’s how our parasites must feel about our hearts.What a racket, all that pumping. Shut up shut up. Cicero said Chrysippus said that the life in a pig is a preservative,keeping it fresh

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-24553300591466565552009-05-13T18:01:00.002-06:002009-05-13T18:03:36.803-06:00

Carol Ann Duffy (2003)She woke up old at last, alone,bones in a bed, not a toothin her head, half dead, shuffledand limped downstairsin the rag of her nightdress,smelling of pee. Slurped tea, staredat her hand--twigs, stained gloves--wheezed and coughed, pulled onthe coat that hung from a hookon the door, lay on the sofa,dozed, snored.She was History.She'd seen them ease him downfrom the Cross,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-76401951858813653612009-05-04T17:31:00.000-06:002009-05-04T17:32:43.957-06:00

C. D. WrightThe hand without the glove screws down the lidon the jar of caterpillars, but the apple treesare already infested. The sun mottlesthe ground. The leaves are half-dead.A shoe stomps the larvae streamingonto the lawn as if putting out a cigarette on a rug.It was a stupid idea. It was a stupid thing to saythe thought belonging to the body says to its sourcestomping on the bright-green

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-69270263150124446032009-05-03T07:27:00.003-06:002009-05-03T07:36:06.419-06:00

by Koraku (d.1837)The joy of dewdropsIn the grass as theyTurn back to vapour.by Dokyo Etan (d. 1721)Here in the shadow of death it is hardTo utter a final word.I'll only say, then,"Without saying."Nothing more.Nothing more.by Mabutsu (d. 1874)Moon in a barrel:You never know just whenThe bottom will fall out.by KyorikuTill now I thoughtThat death befellThe untalented alone.If those with talent,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-22921378768245817862009-04-30T10:57:00.000-06:002009-04-30T10:58:15.738-06:00

Wallace StevensAs the immense dew of FloridaBrings forthThe big-finned palmAnd green vine angering for life,As the immense dew of FloridaBrings forth hymn and hymnFrom the beholder,Beholding all these green sidesAnd gold sides of green sides,And blessed mornings,Meet for the eye of the young alligator,And lightning colorsSo, in me, comes flingingForms, flames, and the flakes of flames.

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Ange Mlinko (2009) It’s a little spa for the mind—seeing butterfliesset themselves down by the dozen like easels on bromeliads, when out on the street the boutiquesare dilapidated, construction can’t be told from ruin.A single taste bud magnified resembles an orchidbut what that one’s drinking from is a woman’s eye which must be brineless. I wonder what she consumesthat her tears taste like

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-45753068635640091532009-04-28T15:56:00.003-06:002009-04-28T15:59:54.926-06:00

John Updike (1969)The spirit has infinite facets, but the bodyconfiningly few sides.There is the left,the right, the back, the belly, and temptingin-betweens, northeasts and northwests,that tip the heart and soon pinch circulationin one or another arm. Yet we turn each timewith fresh hope, believing that sleepwill visit us here, descending like an angeldown the

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Octavio PazA woman whose movements are a river'sTransparent gesturing that water hasA girl made of waterWhere may be read the irreversible presentA little water where the eyes may drinkThe lips swallow in a long single drinkThe tree the cloud the lampMyself and that girl

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Dora MalechI spent the morning trying to rememberthe joke about the peanut and the assault.People dropped bombs on each other elsewhere.I knew that many of them were at faultand many blameless. I kept my office lockedand the lights off. The phone just kept ringing.I didn't answer. Nor when someone knocked.I was supposed to be doing something.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-85976277474547150632009-04-21T21:28:00.001-06:002009-04-21T21:30:38.517-06:00

Octavio PazTwo bodies face to faceare at times two wavesand night is an ocean.Two bodies face to faceare at times two stonesand night a desert.Two bodies face to faceare at times two rootslaced into night.Two bodies face to faceare at times two knivesand night strikes sparks.Two bodies face to faceare two stars fallingin an empty sky.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-57490994567442645812009-04-20T17:43:00.002-06:002009-04-20T17:47:40.707-06:00

John Updike (1978)Always I wanted to do it myselfand envied the oily-handed boypaid by the station to liftthe gun from its tail tin holsterand squeeze. That was power,hi-octane or lo-, and now no-lead.What feminism has done for some sistersself-service has done for me.The pulsing hose is mine, the numbersrace—the cents, the liquid tenths—according to my pressure, mine!I squeeze. This is power:

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-8500296666835610372009-04-19T09:08:00.000-06:002009-04-18T14:09:31.579-06:00

Jonathan Galassi (2009)The dirty sunlight in the clerestorywindows of our faux-Parisian lairlends a streaky, half-forgiving glowto yet another summit with no purpose:duck and iron Pinot Noir and doubledecaf espresso, sheer necessitiesfor urban inmates who still keep the faithwith a wan cerise velvet banquetteand eye-level mirror lit with facesa John-the-Baptist puritan might judgecorrupt with too

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-31473152342487451102009-04-18T06:59:00.000-06:002009-04-18T06:59:00.676-06:00

Deborah Digges1 My mother always called it a nest, the multi-colored mass harvestedfrom her six daughters' brushes, and handed it to one of usafter she had shaped it, as we sat in front of the fire drying our hair.She said some birds steal anything, a strand of spider's web, or horse's mane,the residue of sheep's wool in the grasses near a foldwhere every summer of her girlhood hundreds

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John Updike (2007)Make no mistake: if He rose at allit was as His body;if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the moleculesreknit, the amino acids rekindle,the Church will fall.It was not as the flowers,each soft Spring recurrent;it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddledeyes of the eleven apostles;it was as His flesh: ours.The same hinged thumbs and toes,the same valved

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-45042238892524353832009-04-13T18:42:00.002-06:002009-04-13T18:46:35.729-06:00

Katha Pollitt (2009)Matthew 6:19 Come bumble-footed ones,dust squigglers, furry ripplers, inchers and squirmershumble in gray and brown, find out our secret places,devour our hearts, measure us, geometer, with your curved teeth!Leaves lick at the window, clouds stream away,yet we lie here, perfect,locked in our dark chambers when we could rise in youbrief, splendid twenty-plume, gold-spotted

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-6772441168944099782009-04-05T08:19:00.001-06:002009-04-05T08:21:21.614-06:00

W. H. AudenThis lunar beautyHas no historyIs complete and early;If beauty later Bear any featureIt had a loverAnd is another.This like a dreamKeeps other time,And daytime isThe loss of this;For time is inchesAnd the heart's changesWhere ghost has haunted,Lost and wanted.But this was neverA ghost's endeavourNor, finished this, Was ghost at ease;And till it passLove shall not nearThe sweetness

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-84752551628912913762009-03-27T11:57:00.001-06:002009-03-27T11:57:59.680-06:00

Len RobertsWalking the three tiers in first light, outhere so my two-year-old son won’t wake the house,I watch him pull and strip ragweed, chicory, yarrow,so many other weeds and wildflowersI don’t know the names for, him saying Big, and Mine,and Joshua—words, words, words. Thenit is the moment, that split-secondwhen he takes my hand, gives it a tug,and I feel his entire body-weight, his

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-12511816890916929422009-03-26T02:33:00.001-06:002009-03-26T02:33:00.067-06:00

John Hall Wheelock (1961)"A planet doesn't explode of itself," said drilyThe Martian astronomer, gazing off into the air—"That they were able to do it is proof that highlyIntelligent beings must have been living there."

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-89876911610516087192009-03-25T09:42:00.003-06:002009-03-25T09:46:07.361-06:00

Allen Ginsberg (1972)* mp3 *In nineteen hundred forty-nineChina was won by Mao Tse-tungChiang Kai Shek's army ran awayThey were waiting there in Thailand todaySupported by the CIAPushing junk down Thailand way ...

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-39249087480291832702009-03-23T09:14:00.001-06:002009-03-23T09:15:48.611-06:00

Garret Keizer (2009)1.When the snake became a man,he couldn’t stop swallowingone rat after another untilhe became so large he couldn’tconstrict his prey. He hireda number of smaller snakesnot men or barely so to stranglethe rats for him and a surgeonto make an opening in his tailover which he wore a velvet hatwhen not extruding his meals. 2.When the elk became a man,he found he wanted longer

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-56754315015269082812009-03-20T19:26:00.001-06:002009-03-20T19:26:43.628-06:00

Samuel Taylor ColeridgeWhat is an Epigram? A dwarfish whole,Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-482226579965873232009-03-18T19:21:00.001-06:002009-03-18T21:04:13.567-06:00

Rita Dove (1993)don't lower your eyesor stare straight ahead to whereyou think you ought to be goingdon't mutter oh nonot another oneget a job fly a kitego bury a bonewith her oldfashioned sandalswith her leaden skirtswith her stained cheeks and whiskers and heaped up trinketsshe has risen among us in blunt reproachshe has fitted her hair under a hand-me-down capand spruced it up with feathers

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Hayden CarruthScrambled eggs and whiskeyin the false-dawn light. Chicago,a sweet town, bleak, God knows,but sweet. Sometimes. Andweren’t we fine tonight?When Hank set up that limpingtreble roll behind memy horn just growled and Ithought my heart would burst.And Brad M. pressing with thesoft stick, and Joe-Annesinging low. Here we are nowin the White Tower, leaningon one another, too tiredto go

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-5988111745079523202009-03-15T17:14:00.001-06:002009-03-15T17:14:37.743-06:00

William Butler YeatsWe that have done and thought,That have thought and done,Must ramble, and thin outLike milk spilt on a stone.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-52158784866822462522009-03-14T17:08:00.002-06:002009-03-14T17:09:07.847-06:00

Connie Wanek Butter, like love, seems common enough yet has so many imitators. I held a brick of it, heavy and cool, and glimpsed what seemed like skin beneath a corner of its wrap; the decolletage revealed a most attractive fat! And most refined. Not milk, not cream, not even creme de la creme. It was a delicacy which assured me that bliss follows agitation, that even pasture daisies through the

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-6139037487533460882009-03-08T12:00:00.000-06:002009-03-07T12:02:20.242-07:00

Dan Chiasson (2007)It is impossible to state just how in love I amwith my own body, the white snows of me,the sudden involutions and crevasses of me,my muscles tensed or slack in anger or fear. This is why, wherever I go, I am in Lincoln’s dream.A sentry stands by, the stairway is eerily lit,light is a little milk splash on people’s faces,the faces of my Cabinet, grotesque and funny masks. Who is

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-51358233436115093122009-03-07T06:16:00.001-07:002009-03-07T06:16:00.180-07:00

Anna Akhmatova Translated by Max Hayward and Stanley KunitzAnd the just man trailed God's shining agent,over a black mountain, in his giant track,while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:"It's not too late, you can still look backat the red towers of your native Sodom,the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,at the empty windows set in the tall housewhere sons and daughters blessed

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-44178001431632553812009-03-06T17:46:00.000-07:002009-03-06T17:47:41.282-07:00

Rita DoveI made it home early, only to get stalled in the driveway-swaying at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune meant for more than two hands playing. The words were easy, crooned by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover a pain majestic enough to live by. I turned the air conditioning off, leaned back to float on a film of sweat, and listened to her sentiment: Baby, where

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-64156011832676000282009-03-04T06:58:00.004-07:002009-03-04T07:01:54.906-07:00

Rob Seitz (2009)If your son is not intimidatingOn the line of scrimmage,If your daughter’s report cardIs not the brightest image,If your children are not turning outAs healthy as you’d wished,Perhaps on your dinner tableYou might be missing fish.

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Charles Wright East of me, west of me, full summer.How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.Birds fly back and forth across the lawn looking for homeAs night drifts up like a little boat.Day after day, I become of less use to myself.Like this mockingbird, I flit from one thing to the next.What do I have to look forward to

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-51531600060761535822009-02-26T18:52:00.000-07:002009-02-26T18:54:08.812-07:00

Rita DoveIf I could just touch your ankle, he whispers, thereon the inside, above the bone—leans closer,breath of lime and pepper—I know I couldmake love to you. She considersthis, secretly thrilled, though she wasn’t quitesure what he meant. He was goodwith words, words that went straight to the liver.Was she falling for him out of sheer boredom—cooped up in this anything-but-humble dive,

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-18279237575171067532009-02-25T18:34:00.001-07:002009-02-25T18:36:09.555-07:00

Jack Gilbert (2009)While he was in kindergarten, everybody wanted to playthe tomtoms when it came time for that. You had torun in order to get there first, and he would not.So he always had a triangle. He does not rememberhow they played the tomtoms, but he sees clearlytheir Chinese look. Red with dragons front and backand gold studs around that held the drumhead tight.If you had a triangle, you

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-16417677079319088172009-02-16T21:05:00.002-07:002009-02-16T21:13:40.341-07:00

Marc Jaffee (2004)I am none but king of repetition.I am none but a soldier with naught but a mission.I am the hand with its fingers always touching REPEAT—I am the winding streetI am the windy street.I am none but king of repetition.I am none but king of supposition—I suppose, then, I must take a position.I suppose I must await battle boldly,and shun selfish pleading, turn away coldly,then sway

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-56119937414111922962009-02-14T19:04:00.015-07:002009-02-14T19:36:13.916-07:00

W. Bukisa (2009)Many peopleare not quite surehow to go aboutwritingValentine's Daypoems.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-39341794396025659492009-02-12T04:53:00.005-07:002009-02-12T05:05:17.238-07:00

Brian Kim Stefans (2004)Brian's new shoes. She asked me of his whereabouts. They'reputting a new door in.CCI. They're putting a new door in. Impersonating an officer.They're putting a new door in. Feliz Navidad. My watch continuesto stop: self-identity.I breakWFMUMargin time,the steaming metropoliswakesat 8 amwith dry lips.I couldn't take my eyes off the ball.Papers on her head. Like a crown of

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Carl Rakosi (2004)Liberate me,Muse,from this encirclementof categoriesYour themesare plein-air,endlesssad.Put some witand compassioninto this pen!

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-51297786108349121392009-02-09T12:05:00.000-07:002009-02-09T12:06:48.535-07:00

John McCrae (1915)In Flanders fields the poppies growBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead; short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from failing hands we throwThe torch;

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Cleopatra Mathis (2004)The body became a vessel, the rasping breathits proof, and before him nothingbut that ocean swamphe travelled over. His spiritlofted forth, his voicea long quaveringwhen the wind permitted, as ifout there somewhere some godheld the string.He was carried somewhere else, who knows?then fell back, foundthe diligent old body at his desk.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-67134721703154756292009-02-07T15:19:00.004-07:002009-02-07T15:24:56.431-07:00

W.S. Merwin (1997)Mayflies hover through the long eveningof their light and in the winding lanethe stream of sheep runs among the shadows callingthe old throats gargling again uphillalong known places once more and from the bellsborne by their predecessors the notesdull as wood clonk to the flutter of allthe small hooves over the worn stonewith the voices of the lambs rising through themover and

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Elton GlaserWhen love carries usto this altitudeof lean air, our headsclear, our heartsopen like parachutes.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-73867215207383756982009-02-03T20:27:00.003-07:002009-02-03T20:34:59.436-07:00

Rita Dove (2004)Starting up behind them,all the voices of those they had named:mink, gander, and marmoset,crow and cockatiel.Even the duck-billed platypus,of late so quiet in its bed,sent out a feeble cry signifyinggrief and confusion, et cetera.Of course the world had changedfor good. As it would from now onevery day, with every twitch and blink.Now that change was de rigueur,man would discover

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-62337518289378676602009-01-30T22:47:00.005-07:002009-01-30T22:56:47.265-07:00

Michael Davidson (2004)Suddenly all is / loathing—John Ashberyand there's plenty to be unhappy aboutif I can just get the reception area festoonedin time for their arrival, paper cupsand those little plastic whatsits so that,gorged on meaning,they troop through the glass doorsseeking interpretation, first floormildly historical, second floordesire matrix, parents accompanytheir indiscretions

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Barry Gifford (2009)Your sickness made mea little sick, it'strue—I stillfeel itMayakovsky got downon his kneesand declaredhis loveto his lastmistressa few hours afterhe'd met herRemember meat the hotelin Parison my kneesin the lift?We're all the samemen of too much passionand little talent—some a little morethan othersWe fool ourselvesinto thinkingwe're strongthen complainthe rest of our

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-50246234703685694602009-01-26T21:35:00.003-07:002009-01-26T21:44:21.246-07:00

Oni Buchanon (2004)The woman came toward me through the woods with a hatchet.She was coming through the woods with a shotgun.The trees bent and swayed around the path,a delicate canopy, the lake a dropped quarter behindthe brink. And the near-mute lap, tendril lick,was it the lake—or lacy winds of butterflies leapingfrom leaves? Oh, the least of these. She, briskwith bullet holes, carrying a

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Kim Addonizio (2004)Why did she cross the road?She should have stayed in her little cage,shat upon by her sisters above her,shitting on her sisters below her.God knows how she got out.God sees everything. God has his eyeon the chicken, making her breaklike the convict headed for the river,sloshing his way through the waterto throw off the dogs, raisinghis arms to starlight to praisewhatever isn't

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-82426747550788187152009-01-24T17:22:00.003-07:002009-01-24T17:40:43.976-07:00

Danielle Pafunda (2004)Don't invite me to your pity party.Don't call me up on your pity party lineand invite me over for punch and cookies.I won't come. I won't comewith a pretty pity present. I won'tput on my pity party dress and the specialribbon in my pity pony tail. I won't playpity pin the tail on the donkey,or dance to pity pop music. I don't careif the captain of the football teamand the

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-5239770500320722692009-01-23T11:31:00.000-07:002009-01-23T11:31:00.359-07:00

Thomas Lux Boil it down: feet, skin, gristle, bones, vertebrae, heart muscle, boil it down, skim, and boil again, dreams, history, add them and boil again, boil and skim in closed cauldrons, boil your horse, his hooves, the runned-over dog you loved, the girl by the pencil sharpener who looked at you, looked away, boil that for hours, render it down, take more from the top as

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Thomas LuxYour baby grows a tooth, then two,and four, and five, then she wants some meatdirectly from the bone. It's allover: she'll learn some words, she'll fallin love with cretins, dolts, a sweettalker on his way to jail. And you,your wife, get old, flyblown, and ruenothing. You did, you loved, your feetare sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.

danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273682325433426119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511895055708206772.post-85570416942407228632009-01-21T11:23:00.000-07:002009-01-21T11:24:29.900-07:00

Robert PinskyIn the skull kept on the desk.In the spider-pod in the dust.Or nowhere. In milkmaids, in loaves,Or nowhere. And if Socrates leavesHis house in the morning,When he returns in the eveningHe will find Socrates waitingOn the doorstep. Buddha the stickYou use to clear the path,And Buddha the dog-doo you flickAway with it, nowhere or in eachSeveral thing you touch:The dollar bill, the

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Robert Pinsky (2009)It was a little newborn godThat made the first instrument:Sweet vibration ofMind, mind, mindEnclosed in its orbit. He scooped out a turtle’s shellAnd strung it with a rabbit’s guts.O what a stroke to inventMusic from an empty caseStrung with bloody filaments— The wiry rabbitfleshPlucked or strummed,Pulled taut across the guttedResonant hull of the turtle:Music from strings

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Kay Ryan (1996)At high speedswe knowwhen an orbitstarts to gobackwards:on fair rideslike the Hammeror in airplane disasters,our brains areplastered toone wall of the skullor another;we comprehend reversethrough the sudden compressionof matter.In a way its worsewhen the turn's wider—say a boat on a soft tidein mild water*#8212;we hardly knewthat we were floating out.The sense of turning backseems

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Franz Wright (2009)If I had to look up every fifth or sixth word,so what. I looked them up.I had nowhere important to be. My father was unavailable, and my motherlooked like she was about to break,and not into blossom, every time I spoke. My favorite was the Iliad. True,I had trouble pronouncing the names,but when was I going to pronounce them, and to whom?My stepfather maybe?Number one, he could

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Nathalie Anderson (2009)Eh he said and shedreamed eh. It waslike that between them. Not that his lips dreamed,not that his dreamed lipsparted. Eh he’d say and her dream was eh,was all eh, all andonly. Sometimes a near kiss an almost tidedrawn back withdrawn withdrawing.Sometimes the hackled wave raised, drew back its lip, sheeredits teeth, coughed its rawguttural. Or she herself

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