Their Sex Life by A. R. Ammons

Their Sex Life

One failure on 

Top of another.

First Death In Nova Scotia by Elizabeth Bishop

First Death In Nova Scotia

In the cold, cold parlor

my mother laid out Arthur

beneath the chromographs:

Edward, Prince of Wales,

with Princess Alexandra,

and King George with Queen Mary.

Below them on the table

stood a stuffed loon

shot and stuffed by Uncle

Arthur, Arthur's father.

Since Uncle Arthur fired

a bullet into him,

he hadn't said a word.

He kept his own counsel

on his white, frozen lake,

the marble-topped table.

His breast was deep and white,

cold and caressable;

his eyes were red glass,

much to be desired.

"Come," said my mother,

"Come and say good-bye

to your little cousin Arthur."

I was lifted up and given

one lily of the valley

to put in Arthur's hand.

Arthur's coffin was

a little frosted cake,

and the red-eyed loon eyed it

from his white, frozen lake.

Arthur was very small.

He was all white, like a doll

that hadn't been painted yet.

Jack Frost had started to paint him

the way he always painted

the Maple Leaf (Forever).

He had just begun on his hair,

a few red strokes, and then

Jack Frost had dropped the brush

and left him white, forever.

The gracious royal couples

were warm in red and ermine;

their feet were well wrapped up

in the ladies' ermine trains.

They invited Arthur to be

the smallest page at court.

But how could Arthur go,

clutching his tiny lily,

with his eyes shut up so tight

and the roads deep in snow? 

 

 

Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world. 

Remember June's long days, 

and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. 

The nettles that methodically overgrow 

the abandoned homesteads of exiles. 

You must praise the mutilated world. 

You watched the stylish yachts and ships; 

one of them had a long trip ahead of it, 

while salty oblivion awaited others. 

You've seen the refugees heading nowhere, 

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully. 

You should praise the mutilated world. 

Remember the moments when we were together 

in a white room and the curtain fluttered. 

Return in thought to the concert where music flared. 

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn 

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars. 

Praise the mutilated world 

and the grey feather a thrush lost, 

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes 

and returns.

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)

American Singer by Matthew Zapruder

American Singer

when I walk

to the mailbox

holding the letter

that fails to say

how sorry I am

you feel your call

or any words at all

on that day

would have stopped

the great singer

who long ago

decided more

quickly through

to move

I notice probably

because you wrote

that strange

word funeral

the constant black

fabric I think

is taffeta

always draped

over the scaffolds

the figures

scraping paint

are wearing dusty

protective suits

and to each other

saying nothing

I move invisibly

like a breeze

around three men

wearing advanced

practically weightless

jackets impervious

to all possible

weather even

a hurricane

I hear them say

something German

then photograph

the pale blue

turrets that floating

up in fog

seem noble

heads full

of important thoughts

like what revolution

could make us happy

from some window

wandering horns

he was three

when I was born

for a long time

I had no ideas

my father worked

in a private office

full of quiet

people working

I came to visit

it seemed correct

I went to college

studied things

dyed my hair

felt a rage

disguised as love

kept escaping

suffering only

a few broken bones

everything healed

now I live

in California

where in some

red and golden

theater I saw

him howl

such unfathomable

force from only

one lung

it was one

of  his last shows

in Athens once

many years

ago we shared

a cigarette

a little smoke

from our faces

I can’t remember

so many things

but see him

in his wheelchair

his folded body

it’s all gone

but for electrons

I can still push

into my ears

I choose the song

the perfect one

hear his words

and see

the mirror

in the ancient

lighthouse blinking

brave ships

somehow

you crossed

the water carrying

what we need

you can rest

light as nothing

in the harbor

we will take it

and go on

 

That Little Beast by Mary Oliver

That Little Beast

That pretty little beast, a poem,

   has a mind of its own.

Sometimes I want it to crave apples

   but it wants red meat.

Sometimes I want to walk peacefully

   on the shore

and it wants to take off all its clothes

   and dive in.

Sometimes I want to use small words

   and make them important

and it starts shouting the dictionary,

   the opportunities.

Sometimes I want to sum up and give thanks,

   putting things in order

and it starts dancing around the room

   on its four furry legs, laughing

   and calling me outrageous.

But sometimes, when I’m thinking about you,

   and no doubt smiling,

it sits down quietly, one paw under its chin,

   and just listens.

The Hand by Mary Ruefle

The Hand

The teacher asks a question.

You know the answer, you suspect

you are the only one in the classroom

who knows the answer, because the person

in question is yourself, and on that

you are the greatest living authority,

but you don’t raise your hand.

You raise the top of your desk

and take out an apple.

You look out the window.

You don’t raise your hand and there is

some essential beauty in your fingers,

which aren’t even drumming, but lie

flat and peaceful.

The teacher repeats the question.

Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,

a robin is ruffling its feathers

and spring is in the air.

Placeholder by Joseph Massey

Placeholder

Now that the animal 

trapped in the rafters

is silent, the cold alone

is a sound. 

February's glare

bent by Victorian glass

casts the outline 

of a spike of ice

spread from floor to ceiling—

the only thing 

holding the house up.

The River of Girls by Tishani Doshi

The River of Girls

i.m. India's missing girls

This is not really myth or secret.

This murmur in the mouth

of the mountain where the sound

of rain is born. This surging

past pilgrim town and village well.

This coin-thin vagina

and acid stain of bone.

This doctor with his rusty tools,

this street cleaner, this mother

laying down the bloody offerings

of birth. This is not the cry

of a beginning, or a river

buried in the bowels of the earth.

This is the sound of ten million girls

singing of a time in the universe

when they were born with tigers

breathing between their thighs;

when they set out for battle

with all three eyes on fire,

their golden breasts held high

like weapons to the sky.

 

Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

Dream Song 14

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.   

After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,   

we ourselves flash and yearn,

and moreover my mother told me as a boy   

(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored   

means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no   

inner resources, because I am heavy bored.

Peoples bore me,

literature bores me, especially great literature,   

Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes   

as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.   

And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag   

and somehow a dog

has taken itself & its tail considerably away

into mountains or sea or sky, leaving            

behind: me, wag.

 

The Long Boat by Stanley Kunitz

The Long Boat

When his boat snapped loose

from its mooring, under

the screaking of the gulls,

he tried at first to wave

to his dear ones on shore,

but in the rolling fog

they had already lost their faces.

Too tired even to choose

between jumping and calling,

somehow he felt absolved and free

of his burdens, those mottoes

stamped on his name-tag:

conscience, ambition, and all

that caring.

He was content to lie down

with the family ghosts

in the slop of his cradle,

buffeted by the storm,

endlessly drifting.

Peace! Peace!

To be rocked by the Infinite!

As if it didn't matter

which way was home;

as if he didn't know

he loved the earth so much

he wanted to stay forever.

 

Bow Down by Derrick Austin

Bow Down

Let us talk of…what then—

are we that silent moment on the stage

when kings are out of rules and fools of puns?

Remember crossing the bridges by the sea,

you a stranger here, asking

the name of the tree ruffled with purple?

----

It was knowledge, a kind of lording

over another, as when sunning at a pool,

you dipped one leg in the water.

As if you were given all its crowns.

----

Before you drifted into my life—waiting

in the wings—I said no to so much.

Nudging me, you said, Please

put it in your mouth. You do this to me.

----

Kings wait to see who will kneel.

I’ve forgotten my line. Is this when I

abdicate the throne or bruise you

with my scepter?

                                 I beg

your pardon. I would resign the crown

a thousand times to kneel at your feet.

What kind of king am I? I’m just as lost as you.

----

Drifter, stardust, little marsh-light,

you are known by so many names:

Bassanio, Gaveston…

                                         Try a new skin:

friar, courtier, dominance,

submission—it’s all foreplay, roleplay.

We bow. The curtain falls. Another night.

Respiration by Jamaal May

Respiration

A lot of it lives in the trachea, you know.

But not so much that you won’t need more muscle:

the diaphragm, a fist clenching at the bottom.

Inhale. So many of us are breathless,

you know, like me

kneeling to collect the pottery shards

of a house plant my elbow has nudged

into oblivion. What if I sigh,

and the black earth beneath me scatters

like insects running from my breath?

Am I a god then? Am I insane

because I worry about the disassembling of earth

regularly? I walk more softly now

into gardens or up the steps of old houses

with impatiens stuffed in their window boxes.

When it’s you standing there with a letter

or voice or face full of solemn news,

will you hold your breath before you knock?

“1 Corinthians 13” by Spencer Reece

“1 Corinthians 13”

How long do we wait for love?

Long ago, we rowed on a pond.

Our oars left the moon broken—

our gestures ruining the surface.

Our parents wanted us to marry.

Beyond the roses were we lay,

men who loved men grew wounds.

When do we start to forget our age?

Your husband and I look the same.

All day, your mother confuses us

as her dementia grows stronger.

Your boys yell: Red Rover!

We whisper your sister’s name

like librarians; at last on the list,

her heart clapping in her rib cage,

having stopped now six times,

the pumps opened by balloons,

we await her new heart cut

out from the chest of a stranger.

Your old house settles in its bones,

pleased by how we are arranged.

Our shadow grows like an obituary.

One of us says: “It is getting so dark.”

Your children end their game.

Trees stiffen into scrapbooks.

The sky’s shelves fill with stars.

The Kimono by James Merrill

The Kimono

When I returned from lovers' lane

My hair was white as snow.

Joy, incomprehension, pain

I'd seen like seasons come and go.

How I got home again

Frozen half dead, perhaps you know.

You hide a smile and quote a text:

Desires ungratified

Persist from one life to the next.

Hearths we strip ourselves beside

Long, long ago were x'd

On blueprints of "consuming pride."

Times out of mind, the bubble-gleam

To our charred level drew

April back. A sudden beam . . .

--Keep talking while I change into

The pattern of a stream

Bordered with rushes white on blue.

 

David Cassidy Then by Dennis Cooper

David Cassidy Then

David Cassidy picks me on The Dating Game.

I walk around the partition

and there he is. A quick kiss,

then Jim Lange gives us the good news.

“David, we’ll be flying you and your date

to . . . Rio de Janeiro! You’ll be

staying at the luxurious Rio Hilton

and attend a party in your honor!”

At the Hilton we knock the chaperone

out with a lamp, then we jive

around, smoke a little Colombian.

David says something to let me

know he’s willing, and I get

to chew his clothes off.

He dances Swan Lake naked

and I sprawl out on the bed.

He saunters over scolding me in French,

and covers my face with his modest rear.

He gives me a few minutes

then he’s up, blow-drying the drool

from his legs. He slips on a white jumpsuit,

runs a thumb across his teeth, and

turns to where I sit, still dreamy on the bed.

“Come on,” he says, full of breath.

Never so proud, I bring my hands up,

rub his stink into my face like a lotion.

I will wear it to the party!

As the lobby doors open

reporters start the sea of lights.

The cameras take us kissing, dancing.

They angle to get David’s sheathed body.

Girls watch his ass like a television screen

of men stepping onto the moon.

Little do they know what really lies there,

that this is no tan. “This is David,”

I say, smelling my face like a flower,

and pull him close, stoned out of my gourd.

The Kiss by Neil Carpathios

The Kiss

By freezing passion at its blossoming

perhaps Rodin knew he challenged

Sophocles who said as lover you want

ice to be ice yet not melt

in your hands. How stone,

implying permanence, might let us believe,

a moment, the seated figures are beyond the leaf

that cannot keep from letting go the branch,

beyond even stupidly purpling grapes

that do not understand the process

by which they darken; darken nevertheless.

 

Jasmine by Yusef Komunyakaa

Jasmine

I sit beside two women, kitty-corner 

to the stage, as Elvin's sticks blur 

the club into a blue fantasia.

I thought my body had forgotten the Deep 

South, how I'd cross the street

if a woman like these two walked 

towards me, as if a cat traversed 

my path beneath the evening star. 

Which one is wearing jasmine? 

If my grandmothers saw me now 

they'd say, Boy, the devil never sleeps. 

My mind is lost among November 

cotton flowers, a soft rain on my face 

as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes 

of chance on his upright

leaning into the future. 

The blonde, the brunette-- 

which one is scented with jasmine? 

I can hear Duke in the right hand 

& Basie in the left

as the young piano player 

nudges us into the past. 

The trumpet's almost kissed

by enough pain. Give him a few more years, 

a few more ghosts to embrace--Clifford's 

shadow on the edge of the stage.

The sign says, No Talking. 

Elvin's guardian angel lingers 

at the top of the stairs, 

counting each drop of sweat 

paid in tribute. The blonde 

has her eyes closed, & the brunette 

is looking at me. Our bodies 

sway to each riff, the jasmine 

rising from a valley somewhere 

in Egypt, a white moon 

opening countless false mouths 

of laughter. The midnight 

gatherers are boys & girls 

with the headlights of trucks 

aimed at their backs, because 

their small hands refuse to wound 

the knowing scent hidden in each bloom. 

 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314) by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

 

Poem by Muriel Rukeyser

Poem

I lived in the first century of world wars.

Most mornings I would be more or less insane,

The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,

The news would pour out of various devices

Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.

I would call my friends on other devices;

They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.

Slowly I would get to pen and paper,

Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.

In the day I would be reminded of those men and women,

Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,

Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.

As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,

We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,

To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile

Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,

Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means

To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,

To let go the means, to wake.

I lived in the first century of these wars.

 

Travel Tickets by Samih al-Qasim

Travel Tickets

The day I'm killed,

my killer, rifling through my pockets, 

will find travel tickets:

One to peace,

one to the fields and the rain,

and one 

to the conscience of humankind.

Dear killer of mine, I beg you:

Do not stay and waste them.

Take them, use them.

I beg you to travel.

(Translated by A.Z. Foreman)

 

Second Empire by Richie Hofmann

Second Empire

The water, for once,

unmetaphysical. Stepping over

the stones, you pulling

your shirt over your shoulders.

The flesh-and-

blood that constitutes you

could have been anything and yet

appears before me

as your body. Wading out again,

I am a little white omnivore

in the black water,

inhaling avidly

the absence of shame.

We lie on our backs

with our underwear on.

The soul is an aristocrat.

It disdains the body,

staring through the water

at the suggestion of our human forms.

 

When Grace at the Bliss Café Calls by Jane Vandenburgh

When Grace at the Bliss Café Calls

It’s a terrible day in Baltimore,

and in Kathmandu, and in the port

city of Salerno gloom pervades, and

your own private sorrow’s throbbing

in the exact center of your right

hand, a pain that radiates outward

from palm to fingers that cannot find

the shape of your mechanical pencil,

a Mont Blanc in the burgundy they

don’t make anymore, a gift given

long ago, engraved, and obviously

too good for you since now you’ve lost

it, and this lack fixes you in a place

of grief age-old and physical, an

ache so similar to the pulsing you’d

feel in the exact center of either palm

after your father killed himself and

you felt the immediate need to write

lists, words invented for some self-

administered spelling test, your then

being told this was an odd, wrong,

cold thing to do. America, you’d

write, if you had your pencil, will you

now turn out to be only a beautiful

idea? You dreaming the weight of

a loss that feels as incalculable as

being orphaned at nine or seeing

another neighborhood gutted or

our communal need to witness the

next 300 lost at sea. Your name

almost exactly his, the etching now

faint along its barrel, and how you’ve

given pens and pencils to your own

kids extravagantly, each birthday, every

Christmas, then found them still in

boxes stuffed in a sock drawer after

they’d returned to school. It was the

classroom that saved you, the clean

notebook, the word September, and

all that white around the black block

of text where you could write what

you really thought, which was that

the dead could talk to you, like when

you stayed in bed all day drawing

lilacs because Ross’s wife was Orthodox

so there was was no time to get to his

funeral. Stones thrown, cop cars

torched, bells ringing out across our

riven land, and it’s exactly here, typing

the word riven, then wondering if

you know what it really means, that the

phone rings, the read-out saying Bliss

and it’s Grace, your server at the

vegetarian café by the creek 200 miles

away where you ate three days ago,

saying she needs your address so she

can mail your pencil back to you.

Chaplinesque by Hart Crane

Chaplinesque

We make our meek adjustments,

Contented with such random consolations

As the wind deposits

In slithered and too ample pockets.

For we can still love the world, who find

A famished kitten on the step, and know

Recesses for it from the fury of the street,

Or warm torn elbow coverts.

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk

Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb

That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,

Facing the dull squint with what innocence

And what surprise!

And yet these fine collapses are not lies

More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;

Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.

We can evade you, and all else but the heart:

What blame to us if the heart live on.

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen

The moon in lonely alleys make

A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,

And through all sound of gaiety and quest

Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.