The Coming of Light by Mark Strand

The Coming of Light

Even this late it happens:

the coming of love, the coming of light. 

You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, 

stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, 

sending up warm bouquets of air.

Even this late the bones of the body shine 

and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

Guanahani, 11 by Kamau Brathwaite

Guanahani, 11 

like the beginnings - o odales o adagios - of islands

from under the clouds where I write the first poem

its brown warmth now that we recognize them

even from this thunder's distance

still w/out sound. so much hope

now around the heart of lightning that I begin to weep

w/such happiness of familiar landscape

such genius of colour. shape of bay. headland

the dark moors of the mountain

ranges. a door opening in the sky

right down into these new blues & sleeping yellows

greens - like a mother's

embrace like a lover's

enclosure. like schools

of fish migrating towards homeland. into the bright

light of xpectation. birth

of these long roads along the edge of Eleuthera,

now sinking into its memory behind us

anaphora penises by Andrew McMillan

anaphora       penises

I disagree with you on this

one small point      the time you said   of penises

when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all I think 

you’re wrong      each one is fingerprint unique

each with its own way of being in the world

shy or all bravado or statesmanlike

it’s not size   though you can feel each one trying

to push itself upright   like a schoolboy

hoping to be called on to give an answer

it’s smaller things   the smell of each one   the way

the day can linger there   beneath the slim lips

of the foreskin   each with its own direction

each with its own personality   its own

way of introducing itself   each of them

a personal totem for the bearer

each its own low pendulum marking the passing

of each year with its own minutiae

of successes/changes/health scares      each one

of singular importance to each singular

man   each treasured and wept for and prone

to misjudgment   and not to be trusted

Second Estrangement by Aracelis Girmay

Second Estrangement

 

Please raise your hand,

whomever else of you

has been a child,

lost, in a market

or a mall, without

knowing it at first, following

a stranger, accidentally

thinking he is yours,

your family or parent, even

grabbing for his hands,

even calling the word

you said then for “Father,”

only to see the face

look strangely down, utterly

foreign, utterly not the one

who loves you, you

who are a bird suddenly

stunned by the glass partitions

of rooms.

                                        How far

the world you knew, & tall,

& filled, finally, with strangers.

Twilight Metaphysics by Radmila Lazić

Twilight Metaphysics

It’s too late to teach my heart anything.

The alphabet of suffering

I already know by heart. I test it live.

Life knows more than the Sybil.

Time has stopped. What bliss is there in flowing?

Reality resembles a moth-eaten sweater —

This is poetry.

Life limps like a crippled girl

Who hopes to marry well

Even though her heart is scarred with memories.

Biography of fire and water.

These are the worthless and painful reserves

With which one starts on a long, uncertain journey

Over one’s own private homeland

On which every foot steps on in boots.

Older than Cain is every suffering,

Even this one which like a cousin from far away

Has come for a three-day visit

And stayed, made herself comfortable,

Took up all the room —

And says nothing about leaving!

The time of miracles is behind us.

Time of tower-building,

Heavenly and earthly gardens

From schoolbooks and poems.

The so-called Greek luck awaits us

Where we will never arrive.

Therefore, if you can,

Water the flowers and the heart

From the same pitcher.

Time doesn’t dry up,

Nor make steps quicker, as they say.

Time swallows its own images

As if they were its children.

Get it through your head, throwing a blanket

Over your face won’t help you.

Even if underneath it a dear body waits for you.

No use stuffing wax in your ears either.

The siren’s song will be a part of your scream.

Those born happy and less happy

Die before their own body dies.

They wear their faces like other people’s clothes

As in paintings of Hieronimus Bosch.

The one who wrote the sky, the earth and the sea,

And above all, snow and dreams,

The phases of the moon, the color of leaves, our faces,

Seems distant and cold like the North Pole.

Don’t call that nihilism or blasphemy.

With wrong syntax and bad diction

Was how the world was created —

So many apples of divisiveness

Have been tossed between us,

One of them will roll even at your feet,

Perhaps, just as you’ve brought in the harvest,

Added up the accounts,

Thrown your hands over your head

Chasing rings of smoke and reveries.

Dead-born will be your wishes.

Your every hope will be a widow.

And as for love, not enough

To spread on a slice of bread.

(Translated by Charles Simić)

The Lammas Hireling by Ian Duhig

The Lammas Hireling

 

After the fair, I’d still a light heart

and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap.

And cattle doted on him: in his time

mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream.

Yields doubled. I grew fond of company

that knew when to shut up. Then one night,

 

disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,

I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form.

Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,

stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,

I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.

To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,

the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled

and blew the small hour through his heart.

The moon came out. By its yellow witness

I saw him fur over like a stone mossing.

His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered.

His eyes rose like bread. I carried him

 

in a sack that grew lighter at every step

and dropped him from a bridge. There was no

splash. Now my herd’s elf-shot. I don’t dream

but spend my nights casting ball from half-crowns

and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned.

It has been an hour since my last confession.