Mind, Give Me

May 7, 2013 § Leave a comment

by Juan Ramón Jiménez

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Mind, give me
the exact name of things,
…that my word may be
the thing itself,
recreated by my soul.
So that all who do not know them
go through me,
                              to things;
all who have forgotten,
go through me,
                              to things;
all those who love them
go through me,
                              to things…
Mind, give me
the exact name, and yours
and theirs, and mine, of things!

(translated by Peter Levitt)


Apeture

May 3, 2013 § Leave a comment

Aperture

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by Nuar Alsadir

I close the wardrobe, it opens.
I close the wardrobe, it opens.
Is that the way it will always be,
persistence as a form of flight;
my summons the rising and slamming tight
though rust will gather despite me?
I’ve folded my dresses, placed them
on shelves. I could affix
another hinge, but the walls
have become a cluster and repetition
a way to light—to light
through the absence it exposes.

Stars at Tallapoosa

April 23, 2013 § Leave a comment

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by Wallace Stevens

The lines are straight and swift between the stars.
The night is not the cradle that they cry,
The criers, undulating the deep-oceaned phrase.
The lines are much too dark and much too sharp.

The mind herein attains simplicity.
There is no moon, on single, silvered leaf.
The body is no body to be seen
But is an eye that studies its black lid.

Let these be your delight, secretive hunter,
Wading the sea-lines, moist and ever-mingling,
Mounting the earth-lines, long and lax, lethargic.
These lines are swift and fall without diverging.

The melon-flower nor dew nor web of either
Is like to these. But in yourself is like:
A sheaf of brilliant arrows flying straight,
Flying and falling straightway for their pleasure,

Their pleasure that is all bright-edged and cold;
Or, if not arrows, then the nimblest motions,
Making recoveries of young nakedness
And the lost vehemence the midnights hold.

You Were You Are Elegy

April 22, 2013 § 1 Comment

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You Were You Are Elegy
By Mar Jo Bang

Fragile like a child is fragile.
Destined not to be forever.
Destined to become other
To mother. Here I am
Sitting on a chair, thinking
About you. Thinking
About how it was
To talk to you.
How sometimes it was wonderful
And sometimes it was awful.
How drugs when drugs were
Undid the good almost entirely
But not entirely
Because good could always be seen
Glimmering like lame glimmers
In the window of a shop
Called Beautiful
Things Never Last Forever.
I loved you. I love you. You were.
And you are. Life is experience.
It’s all so simple. Experience is
The chair we sit on.
The sitting. The thinking
Of you where you are a blank
To be filled
In by missing. I loved you.
I love you like I love
All beautiful things.
True beauty is truly seldom.
You were. You are
In May. May now is looking onto
The June that is coming up.
This is how I measure
The year. Everything Was My Fault
Has been the theme of the song
I’ve been singing,
Even when you’ve told me to quiet.
I haven’t been quiet.
I’ve been crying. I think you
Have forgiven me. You keep
Putting your hand on my shoulder
When I’m crying.
Thank you for that. And
For the ineffable sense
Of continuance. You were. You are
The brightest thing in the shop window
And the most beautiful seldom I ever saw.

Variations on Some of Dante’s Last Lines

April 13, 2013 § Leave a comment

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Variations on Some of Dante’s Last Lines
By Norma Cole

And move and hold back
entering by the highroad through the words
and fall like a person hit by sleep
arriving at the place without light

And fall like a dead body falls
and find there the great enemy
and come to a tower all of stones
such that through it the earth opens

We pass between the martyrs and the high walls
even up there water is pouring out
then turning and fording again
sling the noose from the roof of the house

And each and every vapor spent
over winning and not losing
in which it stands caught out
fleet then catapults like a stone

Filling our view
whereupon another valley is revealed

For Jean Marie, who lost her life to breast cancer on this day in 1988

April 11, 2013 § 2 Comments

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The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

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For You Today

April 11, 2013 § Leave a comment

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For You Today
By Jessica Greenbaum

Of course there is a jackhammer. And a view, like Hopper,
but happier. Of course there is the newspaper—the daily
herald of our powerlessness. Easy go, easy come: thwash,
the next day another, an example of everything that gets done
in the dark. Like the initiative of the crocuses from a snow
that was, as it works out, warming them. Or in this case,
the strange October weather warming them. There were the
conclusions we jumped to. To which we jumped. There was
pain, and then there was suffering. Of course there was my
ambition to offer you the world, but one that I have rearranged
to make sense. Here are all the sensations of being alive
at the turn of the twenty-first century, here’s how they ring out
against each other, here’s how one brings out the sense of
another, here is the yellow next to the fathomless blue.