three short poems

From a friend via Facebook.

three short poems
by Emily Remillard

1.

submerged in your deep gladness
your maple syrup joy
suspended like a slow-floating bubble
in your golden liquid presence

i marvel.

you have changed the whole conversation of my life.

2.

having just tossed something heavy and sacred into the river,
i find myself giggling.
you teach me how to make my feet light.

3.

when i wasn't looking
you replaced my rule book with our family photo album
you're telling me i looked like you all along
and didn't even know it.


(written October 2009)

Barter

Back to Sara Teasdale: flowery language on the surface, deeper underneath. I love the title and last lines of this poem. I know what it's like to barter necessities--sleep, food--for things that become more important in the moment.

Barter
by Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And childrens's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

What Was Told, That

From wherever spring arrives to heal the ground
From wherever searching comes, the look itself
A trace of what we're looking for
So be quiet now, and wait

And what was said to the rose to make it unfold
Was said to me here in my chest
So be quiet now, and rest
--David Crowder

What Was Told, That
by Jalalu'l-din Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks

What was said to the rose that made it open was said
to me here in my chest.

What was told the cypress that made it strong
and straight, what was

whispered the jasmine so it is what it is, whatever made
sugarcane sweet, whatever

was said to the inhabitants of the town of Chigil in
Turkestan that makes them

so handsome, whatever lets the pomegranate flower blush
like a human face, that is

being said to me now. I blush. Whatever put eloquence in
language, that's happening here.

The great warehouse doors open; I fill with gratitude,
chewing a piece of sugarcane,

in love with the one to whom every that belongs!

You Are The Absence

You Are The Absence

All this time I thought you’d be presence of mind,
a shocking electrical presence of mass
encroaching on my space.

I thought you’d be presence of feeling all this time,
a beating percussive presence of shape
invading my rhythm.

But you finally came,
and you are not so much a presence.

You are the quieting of my doubts,
the silence to my noise,
and the departure of the empty space at my side.

Everything good remains,
and I feel the exit of fear.
Even uncertainty whispers goodbye,
you don’t need me anymore.

To my surprise,
I lie down to sleep and realize:

you are the absence.

10.12.09
c.l.l.

The Suitor

The Suitor
by Jane Kenyon

We lie back to back. Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
Wind moves the leaves of the box elder;
they show their light undersides,
turning all at once
like a school of fish.
Suddenly I understand that I am happy.
For months this feeling
has been coming closer, stopping
for short visits, like a timid suitor.

A Blessing

I think I've forgotten to post this poem in the past, even though I love it and think its last three lines are some of the best I've ever read.



A Blessing
by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Butcher's Block

Butcher’s Block (A Song)

Orion, swing your shield down low
Cover me in this time of need
Big Dipper, swing your ladle down low
Give me water in this time of need

Butcher’s block, I’ll lie on your scars
Of the past and I’ll look at the stars
All I’d like is a candle bright
On the sill of someone I love

River, rush your waters over land
Sail me in this time of need
Crops, push through the soil over land
Feed me in this time of need

Butcher’s block, I’ll lie on your scars
Of the past and I’ll look at the stars
All I’d like is a candle bright
On the sill of someone I love

Branches, lift your leaves to the sky
Shade me in this time of need
Mountains, show off your strength to the sky
Shelter me in this time of need

Butcher’s block, I’ll lie on your scars
Of the past and look at the stars
All I’d like is a candle bright
On the sill of someone I love

9.7.09
c.l.l.

As I Walked Out One Evening

(photo courtesy of flickr user veer8)

As I Walked Out One Evening
by W.H. Auden

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

I Love You, Translated

I Love You, Translated

I’ll wait for you,
I’ll get it for you,
I’ll call you when I’m done,

safe travels,
God bless you,
okay fine, you won,

how are you,
have a good day,
I’m really not so fine,

I’m just kidding,
you make me laugh,
what’s yours is also mine,

you look nice,
have a good time,
let me help you with your coat,

whatever you wish,
this is really good,
that’s okay, you have my vote,

do you have your keys,
do you have enough cash,
do you need anything to eat,

I hope you sleep well,
I’ll get the bill,
take the comfortable seat,

I’ll hold the door,
I’ll hold the train,
let me play this song for you,

read this, you’ll like it,
I knew you’d laugh,
I know, I love it too.

8.3.09
c.l.l.

In Summer

(photo courtesy of Flickr user Rastko Radivojev)

In Summer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

The More Loving One

(photo courtesy of Flickr user c@rljones)

The More Loving One
by W.H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Bonfires (A Song)

My mission: write music for this. Maybe.

Bonfires (A Song)

This morning’s reheated coffee
and the dying sapling on our land
remind me unavoidably of you.
The fire smoldered through the night,
but now the coals are turning blue.

And yeah, it’s glowing and bright,
and we could stoke it if we tried.
But in the end it’s not big enough to warm the both of us,
so I’ll walk away if you’ll be the one
to put it out.

Because I want bonfires, baby,
the size of the blaze in my heart.
I want bonfires, love,
I want to feel the heat from the start.

And yeah, this fire is glowing and bright,
and we could stoke it if we tried.
But in the end it’s not big enough to warm the both of us,
so I’ll walk away if you’ll be the one
to put it out.

Because I want bonfires, baby,
the size of the blaze in my heart.
I want bonfires, love,
I want to feel the heat from the start.

6.17.09
c.l.l.

Hickory

I've been listening to Iron & Wine's Around the Well CDs over and over again. This song's lyrics resonate with me right now.

Hickory
by Sam Beam

He kissed her once as she leaned on the windowsill
She'll never love him but knows that her father will
Her fallen fruit is all rotten in the middle
But her breast never dries when he's hungry

The money came and she died in her rocking chair
The window wide and the rain in her braided hair
A letter locked in the pattern of her knuckle
Like a hymn to the house she was making

Blind and whistling just around the corner
And there's a wind that is whispering something
Strong as hell but not hickory rooted

She kissed him once cause he gave her a cigarette
And turned around but he waits like a turned down bed
And summer left like her walking with another
And a sound of a church bell ringing

The money came and he died like a butterfly
A buried star in the haze of the city lights
A gun went off and a mother dropped her baby
On the blue feathered wing - we were lucky

Blind and whistling just around the corner
And there's a wind that is whispering something
Strong as hell but not hickory rooted

Beagle or Something

by April Bernard

The composer's name was Beagle or something,
one of those Brits who make the world wistful
with chorales and canticles and this piece,
a tone poem or what-have-you,
chimes and strings aswirl, dangerous for one
whose eye lids and sockets have been rashing from tears.
The music occupied the car where
I had parked and then sat, staring at
a tree, a smallish maple,
fire-gold and half-undone by the wind,
shaking in itself,
shocking blue morning sky behind, and also
the trucks and telephone wires and dogs
and children late to school along Orange Street, but
it was the tree that caused an uproar,
it was the tree that shook and shed,
aureate as a shaken soul, I remembered
I was supposed to have one—for convenience

I placed it in my chest, the heart being away,
and now it seems the soul has lodged there, shaking,
golden-orange, half-spent but clanging
truer than Beagle music or my forehead pressed
hard on the steering wheel in petition for release.

Terezín

A history of Terezin: click here.

Terezín
by Taije Silverman

—a transfer camp in the Czech Republic

We rode the bus out, past fields of sunflowers
that sloped for miles, hill after hill of them blooming.

The bus was filled with old people.
On their laps women held loaves of freshly baked bread.
Men slept in their seats wearing work clothes.

You stared out the window beside me. Your eyes
were so hard that you might have been watching the glass.

Fields and fields of sunflowers.

Arriving we slowed on the cobblestone walkway.
Graves looked like boxes, or houses from high up.

On a bench teenage lovers slouched in toward each other.
Their backs formed a shape like a seashell.
You didn't want to go inside.

But the rooms sang. Song like breath, blown
through spaces in skin.

The beds were wide boards stacked up high on the walls.
The glass on the door to the toilet was broken.
I imagined nothing.

You wore your black sweater and those dark sunglasses.
You didn't look at me.

The rooms were empty, and the courtyard was empty,
and the sunlight on cobblestone could have been water,
and I think even when we are here we are not here.

The courtyard was flooded with absence.
The tunnel was crowded with light.
Like a throat. Like a—

In a book I read how at its mouth they played music,
some last piece by Wagner or Mozart or Strauss.

I don't know why. I don't know
who walked through the tunnel or who played or what finally
they could have wanted. I don't know where the soul goes.

Your hair looked like wheat. It was gleaming.

Nearby on the hillside a gallows leaned slightly.
What has time asked of it? Nights. Windstorms.

Your hair looked like fire, or honey.
You didn't look at me.

Grass twisted up wild, lit gold all around us.
We could have been lost somewhere, in those funny hills.

And the ride back—I don't remember.
Why was I alone? It was night, then. It was still morning.

But the fields were filled with dead sunflowers.
Blooms darkened to brown, the stalks bowed.
And the tips dried to husks that for miles kept reaching.
Those dreamless sloped fields of traveling husks.

Now that no one looking

by Adam Kirsch

Now that no one looking at the night—
Sky blanked by leakage from electric lamps
And headlights prowling through the parking lot
Could recognize the Babylonian dance
That once held every gazer; now that spoons
And scales, and swordsmen battling with beasts
Have decomposed into a few stars strewn
Illegibly across an empty space,
Maybe the old unfalsifiable
Predictions and extrapolated spheres
No longer need to be an obstacle
To hearing what it is the stars declare:
That there are things created of a size
We can't and weren't meant to understand,
As fish know nothing of the sun that writes
Its bright glyphs on the black waves overhead.

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs...

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs...
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.

Not Waving But Drowning

How many people do I see everyday who are not waving, but drowning? How often am I?

Not Waving But Drowning
by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

April Rain Song

by Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

Spilled

Another villanelle today.

Spilled
by Bruce Bennett

It's not the liquid spreading on the floor,
A half a minute's labor with the mop;
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.

The stupid broken spout that wouldn't pour;
The nasty little salesman in the shop.
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor,

A stain perhaps, a new, unwelcome chore,
But scarcely cause for sobs that will not stop.
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.

It's the disease for which there is no cure,
The starving child, the taunting brutal cop.
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor

But through a planet, rotten to the core,
Where things grow old, get soiled, snap off, or drop.
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more:

The vision of yourself you can't ignore,
Poor wretched extra clinging to a prop!
It's not the liquid spreading on the floor.
It's everything you've ever spilled, and more.