Better or Worse by Heather McHugh

Better or Worse

I.

Daily, the kindergarteners   

passed my porch. I loved   

their likeness and variety,   

their selves in line like little   

monosyllables, but huggable—

I wasn't meant

to grab them, ever,

up into actual besmooches or down   

into grubbiest tumbles, my lot was not   

to have them, in the flesh.

Was it better or worse to let

their lovability go by untouched, and just   

watch over their river of ever-

inbraiding relations? I wouldn't

mother them or teach. We couldn't be   

each other's others; maybe,

at removes, each other's each.

II.

Each toddler had a hand-hold on

a loop of rope, designed to haul

the whole school onward   

in the sidewalk stream—

like pickerel through freshets,

at the pull of something else's will, the children

spun and bobbled, three years old and four

(or were they little drunken Buddhas,

buoyant, plump?). They looked

now to the right, now to the sky, and now

toward nothing (nothing was too small)—

they followed a thread of destination,

chain of command, order of actual rope that led

to what? Who knew?

For here and now in one child's eye there was a yellow truck,

and in another's was a burning star; but from my own perspective,

overhead, adult, where trucks and suns had lost their luster,   

they were one whole baby-rush toward

a target, toward the law

of targets, fledge

in the wake of an arrowhead;

a bull's-eye bloomed, a red   

eight-sided sign. What   

did I wish them?

Nothing I foresaw.

Cedars of Lebanon by Derrick Austin

Cedars of Lebanon

       His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance        is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. –Song of Songs 5:15

If you can see them, the snow-covered

cedars, crowning the hills, come

to the cabin between the two tallest,

their branches hooked

with the tantrums of crows.

~~

Will you find me without the pink and blue hydrangeas?

Will you find me without the spikes of St. Augustine grass?

Will you find me with the bloodied snow—where some frail thing was

raptured?

~~

If you find a stag and kill it,

throw its hind legs over your shoulder

and drag it to my cabin

between the tallest cedars.

Its blood on the snow is my voice pursuing you.

~~

I sleep on a cedar bed

with red fur blankets,

the wood of the gates of paradise,

wood which hid the naked couple.

Wood of shame. Wood of passage.

If you come, I’ll press my hand

to your chest. A key

to the fittings of a lock.

~~

You knock at the door.

Break several cedar branches

and dust off the snow.

Bring in seven for the bedroom,

seven for the fireplace,

then rest your head on my chest—

even bare

branches can make a kind of summer.

Madrigal, For the Living and the Dead by Tomas Tranströmer

Madrigal, For the Living and the Dead

I inherited a dark forest where I seldom walk. But a day is coming when the living and the dead change places. Then the forest starts moving. We aren't without hope. The worst crime remains unsolved despite the efforts of many police. In the same way there is a great unsolved love in our lives. I inherited a dark forest, but today I am walking in the other forest, the light one. And the living things that sing, wiggle, wave and crawl! It's spring and the air is very strong. I have an examination at the University of Forgetfullness and am as emptyhanded as the shirt on the clothesline.

(Translation by Samuel Chalmers)

Thinking of Work by James Shea

Thinking of Work

A brief storm

blew the earth clean. 

There was much 

to do: sun to put up,

clouds to put out,

blue to install,

limbs to remove,

grass to implant. 

(The grass failed.

We ordered new grass.) 

A limb had cracked

in half in the short storm,

short with its feeling. 

We saw its innards,

all the hollow places. 

Something flew out of

the window and then

the window flew out of the window.

Dream by Eileen Myles

Dream

Close to the

door in

my dream the

small signs

I saw a brown

sign with wisdom

on it

I saw a brown

one leaning

with wisdom

on it

fringe of a mirror

my mother

leaning over a pond

cupping water

leaning against

the moulding

cardboard or

wood which materials do you

does your wisdom prefer

which a-

partment in a summer

with someone

I felt brave to

have touched

her love the screen

door and the dogs

and the cats always

getting out. That

was the fear

two signs

fading but recalling

they had faded like words

fade in stone because

of the rain and the days

and waking and the dream

is leaving with every

step leaning over the meat

because I do not want

you to have died in vain

kissing the turkey and

the neck of  my dog

all animals am I.

all dreams, all stone

all message am I.

The Menace by Rowan Ricardo Phillips

The Menace

Call down the world to the world of the world,

Suspend all the harmonies of Heaven.

Listen in the snowfall for the Earth’s first

Cooling, for its scent in the chocolate air 

As the first snow still falls… Is this

Then poetry? Always Apollo asked,

Absent of relation to its own mean?

See the world as a problem to be solved.

See the world as a problem to be loved.

Make it again, until you get it right,

So that the first voice sounds like the last voice.

Love at First Sight by Wisława Szymborska

Love at First Sight

They’re both convinced

that a sudden passion joined them.

Such certainty is beautiful,

but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure

that there’d been nothing between them.

But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways—

perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them

if they don’t remember—

a moment face to face

in some revolving door?

perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?

a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?—

but I know the answer.

No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear

that Chance has beeen toying with them

now for years.

Not quite ready yet

to become their Destiny,

it pushed them close, drove them apart,

it barred their path,

stifling a laugh,

and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,

even if they couldn’t read them yet.

Perhaps three years ago

or just last Tuesday

a certain leaf fluttered

from one shoulder to another?

Something was dropped and then picked up.

Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished

into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells

where one touch had covered another

beforehand.

Suitcases checked and standing side by side.

One night, perhaps, the same dream,

grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning

is only a sequel, after all,

and the book of events

is always open halfway through.

(Translated by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh)