Carrousel, or After Lovemaking

[Natalie Handal]  

II

Sometimes I thought I liked
your crimson lips.
Sometimes I thought
your dark-water compass
was mine.
Then I saw the rust
you kept in your apartment,
the bees outside your door,
your half-painted toenails,
the pedal of your chest
taking all the air out.
I heard the harp-weavers
around you
demanding you withhold the music,
strings with the dried blood
of those we are unable to name,
I realized we had both
sleepwalked into
a room of horns.  

I  

I will never die or love enough, you warned.
I didn't believe you. And I was right.
The storms inside you turned into music.
Some intruders became your lovers
but most you chased away.
Stooped beside a basket of cactus,
beside sheets of papyrus,
we spent time in half-prayers,
fooling around with happiness
as we hummed the records we no longer played,
looked at photos from our old cameras,
and heard the giggling inside.

You turned off the oil lamp--
all we wanted
was a new way of finding birth, a slow dance, a carrousel.

from MATERIALIQUE

[julie doxsee]

Today the
sun.


Today the
memory of


dividing
your name


into six pieces
and stirring it


into seven bowls
of milk.

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

[ee cummings]

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

Harry Ploughman

[Gerard Manley Hopkins]

Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank--
                 Head and foot, shoulder and shank--
By a grey eye's heed steered well, one crew, fall to;
Stand at stress. Each limb's barrowy brawn, his thew
That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank--
                          Soared or sank-- ,
Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rank
And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do--
                 His sinew-service where do.

He leans to it, Harry bends, look. Back, elbow, and liquid waist
In him, all equal to the wallowing o' the plough; 's cheek crimsons; curls
Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced--
                 See his wind- lilylocks -laced;
Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls
Them-- broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced
With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls--
                 With-a-fountain's shining-shot furls.

Two from the Weekend: 7/30/11 - 7/31/11

Pure Balance

[Galway Kinnell]

Wherever we are is unlikely.
Our few kisses—I don't know if
they're of goodbye or of
what—or if she knows either.

Neither do I understand why it's
exhilarating—as well as the other things it is—
to know one doesn't have a future,
or how much longer one won't have one.

Future tramples all prediction.
Hope loses hope. Clarity
turns out to be
an invisible form of sadness.

We look for a bridge to cross
to the other shore where our other
could be looking for us
but all the river crossings

all the way down to the sea
have been bombed. We look for a tree—
touch it—touch
right through it—sometimes nowhere

is there anything to hitch oneself to,
and we must make our way by pure balance.
This is so and can't be helped
without doing damage to oneself.

THE LITTLE MUTE BOY

[Federico Garcia Lorca]

The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger.

In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away,
put on a cricket's clothes.)

[Translated By: W.S. Merwin]

The Wild Iris

[Louise Glück]

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.

On a False Spring

[Joseph Massey]

The names
we don't
remember, how

they flower—
smeared a-
long the field's

edge—
beyond our
mouths.