Five Branch Tree
2024-11-20
2024-11-18
--Robert Bly
There is so much sweetness in children’s voices,
And so much discontent at the end of day,
And so much satisfaction when a train goes by.
I don’t know why the rooster keeps crying,
Nor why elephants keep raising their trunks,
Nor why Hawthorne kept hearing trains at night.
A handsome child is a gift from God,
And a friend is a vein in the back of the hand,
And a wound is an inheritance from the wind.
Some say we are living at the end of time,
But I believe a thousand pagan ministers
Will arrive tomorrow to baptize the wind.
There’s nothing we need to do about John. The Baptist
Has been laying his hands on earth for so long
That the well water is sweet for a hundred miles.
It’s all right if we don’t know what the rooster
Is saying in the middle of the night, nor why we feel
So much satisfaction when a train goes by.
2024-11-16
2024-11-14
--Jennifer FoersterAn atlason the underside of my dream.My half-shut eyelid—a black wing.I dipped sharp quillsin the night’s mouth—moths swarmedfrom my throat.I pulled a feather blanketover my skeletonand woke—a map of Americaflapping in the dark.Once I dreamtof inheriting this—my motherwho still follows crowsthrough the field,my sister’s small handtucked inside hers,me on her breastin a burial quilt.
2024-11-12
2024-11-10
--Rae Armantrout1You had been swinging restlesslybetween the appearance of spontaneityand the appearance of serious thought.You had been changing lanesafter a glancein a mirror honest aboutits tendency to distort.What choice did you have?It was soothing to watchwisps of smokefrom a nearby chimneydisappearingone by one.2Do you like pulses,ridges, ripplesstretching into obscurity?Would you prefer a flickerto a steady light source?This one stuttersslightly,hesitant,as if it could hold somethingin reserve
2024-11-08
--Rae ArmantroutYou will buy your lifeas a seriesof "experiences"to which youwill belong.Have a good flight.•Do you believein reproduction?Do you think thisupland of clouds,white buttes cutby shadow canyons,shapely and boundlessas the bodyyou were promised,will reappearafter you're gone?•Boarding all zones at this time
2024-11-06
2024-11-04
2024-11-02
--MaitreyabandhuHe saw a blue light entering his heartcoming from a man he couldn’t seebut knew was standing in the stars abovethe playing field behind his house. The lightcame like a curl of candle smoke and lita cooking-apple tree inside his headwhere he’d built a den and brought flowersin a broken mug without its handle.He could see the usual things – the laurel hedge,the path that marked the border of his world –but no river murmured powerful thoughts,no wind of meaning blew among the stars,no nature’s heart beat full against his own,just apple branches lit up in the dark.
2024-10-31
--Maitreyabandhu
Strange that you should come
like that, without any form at all,
carrying no symbolic implements,
without smile or frown
or any commotion,
as if you had been there all the time,
like a pair of gloves left in a pocket.
As if I had been looking that way,
into the wide blue yonder, and you were
beside me, enduring my hard luck stories
with infinite patience. Not even waiting –
the tree outside my window
doesn’t wait, nor the ocean-wedge
with its new, precise horizon – just there
like the shadow of a church
or a quiet brother.
And how I saw you, in the mess of things,
was as a slant of grey,
the perfect grey of house dust,
an absolute neutral, with no weaving,
no shimmer of cobalt
and light-years away from Byzantium.
Grey. And I want to add, like light,
as if a skylight opened in my skull,
and into the darkness fell
a diagonal of pure Bodmin Moor.
But even that’s too bright,
too world-we’re-busy-in.
Call it ‘dust’ then, or the bloom
of leaf-smoke from an autumn fire.
2024-10-29
--Maitreyabandhu
The man was sitting by the kitchen window.
Outside, the trees were full of nervous birds,
nodding their heads or flicking up their tails
in gestures of defiance. A pheasant walked
along a hedge, his copper coat restrained,
even the sun held back behind the trees.
The man was watching ladybirds climb up
the windowpane: so many on the walls,
so many huddled near the lights! They fell
down on their backs as if they'd taken ether.
The house stood in the corner of a field
with woodpigeons, always woodpigeons, in twos
or squadrons in the trees; and a robin singing
from a post, his song as bright as teaspoons.
The sun rose in pale and broken stripes,
then set in a perfect orange ball. Nothing
happened inside the house. The man took off
his glasses when he slept, drank two strong cups
of coffee every day, and walked around
the garden with his scarf around his neck.
He wanted signs of life: the sound of someone
closing a drawer or slipping on a jacket;
but no-one pressed the gravel drive or opened
the kitchen door. A patch of sunlight swivelled
round the room, brightening the kettle's spout.
The man lay down and wrote inspiring things
on little scraps of card. He thought he heard
a hare snuffling in the grass, an owl
hooting in the night. But then the taps
ran dry and the blue pilot light went out.
2024-10-27
2024-10-25
--Maurice Manning
A gang of crows was chasing off
a hawk. The little stream was laughing
and shushing itself. The hawk's reflection
briefly blurred a pool of water
and then the pool went back to waiting
for nothing or the next reflection.
The maple trees were yellow and red,
but redder farther up the stream.
I wanted especially to share
the cloud of redder leaves upstream
with the little girl I had with me,
but she was sleeping. Walking home,
I thought the willow trees around
the pond were standing up like brooms
to sweep the sky. That was the voice
in my head describing the willow trees
as brooms, a thought to stop the world
for a moment's moment. She might have thought
the willows looked like lashes winking
around a deep-green eye,
but as I say, she was asleep
for this excursion in the world.
And she hasn't told me yet about
the voice inside her head. For the moment
that voice is learning how to listen
to its own mysterious silence. I expect
it's like a sanctuary in there
with a candle glowing at the back of the room
and violets dotting the grass outside.
2024-10-23
--Maurice ManningYou wouldn't have believed it, howthe man, a little touched perhaps,set his hands together and prayedfor happiness, yet not his own;he meant his people, by which he meantnot people really, but trees and cows,the dirty horses, dogs, the foxwho lived at the back of his place with her kits,and the very night who settled downto rock his place to sleep, the placehe tried so hard to tend he foundhe mended fences in his sleep.He said to the you above, who, let'sbe honest, doesn't say too much,I need you now up there to givemy people happiness, you letthem smile and know the reason; hearmy prayer, Old Yam. The you who's youmight laugh at that, and I agree,it's funny to make a prayer like that,the down-home words and yonder reachof what he said; and calling Godthe Elder Sweet Potato, shucks,that's pretty funny, and kind of sad.
2024-10-21
--Maurice ManningWell, this is nothing new, nothingto rattle the rafters in the noggin,this moment of rememberingand its kissing cousin the waking dream.I wonder if I'll remember it?I've had a vision of a womanreclining underneath a tree:she's about half naked and little by littleI'm sprinkling her burial moundswith grass. This is the kind of workI like. It lets me remember, and soI do. I remember the time I laidmy homemade banjo in the fireand let it burn. There was nothing elseto burn and the house was cold;the cigar box curled inside the flames.But the burst of heat was over soon,and once the little roar was done,I could hear the raindrops plopping upthe buckets and kettles, scattered outlike little ponds around the room.It was night and I was a boy, aloneand left to listen to that old music.I liked it. I've liked it ever since.I loved the helpless people I loved.That's what a little boy will do,but a grown man will turn it allto sadness and let it soak his heartuntil he wrings it out and dreamsabout another kind of love,some afternoon beneath a tree.Burial mounds—that's hilarious.
2024-10-17
--Li-Young Lee
Li-Young, don’t feel lonely
when you look up
into great night and find
yourself the far face peering
hugely out from between
a star and a star. All that space
the nighthawk plunges through,
homing, all that distance beyond embrace,
what is it but your own infinity.
And don’t be afraid
when, eyes closed, you look inside you
and find night is both
the silence tolling after stars
and the final word
that founds all beginning, find night,
abyss and shuttle,
a finished cloth
frayed by the years, then gathered
in the songs and games
mothers teach their children.
Look again
and find yourself changed
and changing, now the bewildered honey
fallen into your own hands,
now the immaculate fruit born of hunger.
Now the unequaled perfume of your dying.
And time? Time is the salty wake
of your stunned entrance upon
no name.
2024-10-15
--Li-Young Lee
That scraping of iron on iron when the wind
rises, what is it? Something the wind won’t
quit with, but drags back and forth.
Sometimes faint, far, then suddenly, close, just
beyond the screened door, as if someone there
squats in the dark honing his wares against
my threshold. Half steel wire, half metal wing,
nothing and anything might make this noise
of saws and rasps, a creaking and groaning
of bone-growth, or body-death, marriages of rust,
or ore abraded. Tonight, something bows
that should not bend. Something stiffens that should
slide. Something, loose and not right,
rakes or forges itself all night.
2024-10-13
--Li-Young Lee
1.
Through the night
the apples
outside my window
one by one let go
their branches and
drop to the lawn.
I can’t see, but hear
the stem-snap, the plummet
through leaves, then
the final thump against the ground.
Sometimes two
at once, or one
right after another.
During long moments of silence
I wait
and wonder about the bruised bodies,
the terror of diving through air, and
think I’ll go tomorrow
to find the newly fallen, but they
all look alike lying there
dewsoaked, disappearing before me.
2.
I lie beneath my window listening
to the sound of apples dropping in
the yard, a syncopated code I long to know,
which continues even as I sleep, and dream I know
the meaning of what I hear, each dull
thud of unseen apple-
body, the earth
falling to earth
once and forever, over
and over.
2024-10-11
2024-10-09
--Ursula K. Le GuinYears do odd things to identity.What does it mean to sayI am that child in the photographat Kishamish in 1935?Might as well say I am the shadowof a leaf of the acacia treefelled seventy years agomoving on the page the child reads.Might as well say I am the words she reador the words I wrote in other years,flicker of shade and sunlightas the wind moves through the leaves.
2024-10-07
--Ross GayIf you find yourself half nakedand barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,again, the earth's great, sonorous moan that saysyou are the air of the now and gone, that saysall you love will turn to dust,and will meet you there, do notraise your fist. Do not raiseyour small voice against it. And do nottake cover. Instead, curl your toesinto the grass, watch the cloudascending from your lips. Walkthrough the garden's dormant splendor.Say only, thank you.Thank you.
2024-10-05
3You'll be driving along depressed when suddenlya cloud will move and the sun will muscle throughand ignite the hills. It may not last. Probablywon't last. But for a moment the whole worldcomes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives—red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutationsof burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire.It won't last, you don't want it to last. Youcan't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop.It's what you've come for. It's what you'llcome back for. It won't stay with you, but you'llremember that it felt like nothing else you've feltor something you've felt that also didn't last.--from Leaves; Lloyd Schwartz
2024-10-03
2024-10-01
--Dmitry BlizniukHere, in the countryside, death is simple and unpretentious.It goes without makeup, anda chipped log rattlesunder a dented axe.This low, big-boned tree stump(be careful, watch your step)is a guillotine for chickens.Feathers and down are stuck in the notches in the wood,like last unlit cigarettes before execution,or unsent letters to beloved ones…And autumn birches pose nude around the house:armfuls of freckles are thrown up to the cloudsand hang there,on the long, equine face of October.
2024-09-29
--Dmitry Blizniuk
There’s something about destiny
that resembles a dentist’s work:
sterility, perseverance, carefulness,
consistent cruelty,
disposable whiteness.
One day, you enter the kitchen and suddenly realize
that you’ve lost forever
this smiley summer,
this milky cloudy planet,
this slim nervous woman with green eyes.
And you put on the final movement of the Moonlight Sonata,
having no faith at all in art.
You throw a lousy witch into a fire,
expecting her to spit, swear, kick her legs.
Hah! The angered melody will soar up,
emitting smoke, the smell of sackcloth,
and the fume of uncombed felty gold of the hair.
And frightened, you close yourself off,
but the music will seep in even through the shuttered windows.
Its poisonous vapor will worm its way in.
Your body will start sweating at once,
getting covered with small drops of fright,
like hot chicken meat in a clear bag.
Oh, great music,
you work wonders
and nightmares.
2024-09-27
--Dmitry Blizniuk
Someone walks within the word Autumn,
walks on high red heels,
one floor above,
one understanding above.
Someone stops at the window,
pulls the curtains open,
and secretly admires the suntanned horsemen of the falling leaves
that prance, rearing up on their hind legs, golden and flared.
The willow at the lamp post has lost its mind;
it mourns with bowed head,
dropping green saliva on the ants.
Then, later,
late at night,
the moon will come up,
it will be thin like an eyelid —
a teacher with a birthmark on her face
will take a crowd of stars-second-graders
on a trip above the night city.
2024-09-23
When the immense drugged universe explodesIn a cascade of unendurable colourAnd leaves us gasping naked,This is no more than the ectasy of chaos:Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal loveWhich alone, as we know certainly, restoresFragmentation into true being.--Robert Graves; Ecstasy of Chaos
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)