2022-10-04

 

--Matthew Rohrer

We are even more modern
we are free
not to know
pining pining
til the trees are in
their autumn beauty
who knows why
we are free
an LP of poetry
left on in the apartment
while I walk my love
to the subway
she turns to gold
in the light banking off
the ball-fields
and to have to think
of that small
pale body asleep
I return I take the stairs
3 at a time
and now my heart is sore


 

2022-10-02

 
--Matthew Rohrer

If you, Tom, could see this inflight video map

of the world turning wildly on its axis

you would not, I think, be mad, though it is not

on paper, and that is what you do, but it is

a useful thing to see the earth twisted up like this;

it is our minds that are twisted, and you

are twisted too around a spoon, and drunk, I’m sure

by now, like me, past Newfoundland’s shore

with other peoples’ wine and dotted lines

to Bruxelles where I will only be

to switch planes, but you, I think, first went

there of all the other places you’ve been,

gobbling up the light as you went,

sending presents wrapped in maps.

 

2022-09-30

 
--Matthew Rohrer

Heartbroken over a football game, Autumn

evening, of this kind of thing I'm not ashamed

nor of the twistiness of that diction,

or wanting America to burn

though only certain parts deserve it,

its forests are beautiful and have done

nothing wrong, even the desert's emptiness

though it terrifies me, is beautiful,

and tacos, and kebabs wrapped up in naan,

and today walking through the park I turned

to see dozens of bright white seagulls flocked

on the windy lake against the blue sky

and I felt an ache and I sent a text

to a friend I said TODAY I SAW FLOCKED

ON THE LAKE WHITE SEAGULLS IT WAS BEAUTIFUL

he wrote FOLLOW THEM it was too late


2022-09-27

 

[Road with Men Walking, Carriage, Cypress, Star, and Crescent Moon; Vincent vanGogh (1890) ]



2022-09-25

 

--Louise Bogan

Come, let us tell the weeds in ditches
How we are poor, who once had riches,
And lie out in the sparse and sodden
Pastures that the cows have trodden,
The while an autumn night seals down
The comforts of the wooden town.

Come, let us counsel some cold stranger
How we sought safety, but loved danger.
So, with stiff walls about us, we
Chose this more fragile boundary:
Hills, where light poplars, the firm oak,
Loosen into a little smoke.


 

2022-09-23

 
--Louise Bogan

The cold remote islands
And the blue estuaries
Where what breathes, breathes
The restless wind of the inlets,
And what drinks, drinks
The incoming tide;

Where shell and weed
Wait upon the salt wash of the sea,
And the clear nights of stars
Swing their lights westward
To set behind the land;

Where the pulse clinging to the rocks
Renews itself forever;
Where, again on cloudless nights,
The water reflects
The firmament's partial setting;

—O remember
In your narrowing dark hours
That more things move
Than blood in the heart.

2022-09-21

 
--Louise Bogan

The landscape where I lie
Again from boughs sets free
Summer; all night must fly
In wind’s obscurity
The thick, green leaves that made
Heavy the August shade.

Soon, in the pictured night,
Returns — as in a dream
Left after sleep’s delight —
The shallow autumn stream:
Softly awake, its sound
Poured on the chilly ground.

Soon fly the leaves in throngs;
O love, though once I lay
Far from its sound, to weep,
When night divides my sleep,
When stars, the autumn stream,
Stillness, divide my dream,
Night to your voice belongs.

 


2022-09-19

 
......,..,......[ Dawning ; Andrea Kowch ]


 

2022-09-17

 
--Susan Howe

I wander about as an exile
as a body does a shadow
A notion of split reference
if in silence hidden by darkness
there must be a Ghost
Iconic theory of metaphor
a sound and perfect voice
Its hiding is understood
Reader I do not wish to hide
in you to hide from you
It is the Word to whom she turns
True submission and subjection
 
 
Were Protestant dissenters
Who walk along this road
Who knows better than you know
I remember the strangers
Not finding names there
Immanence is white with this
Where to find charges
A hymn was contesting a claim
Court of interior recollection
Map of a wilderness of sin
There I cannot find there
I cannot hear your wandering prayer
of quiet


2022-09-15

 
--Susan Howe

1.

age of earth and us all chattering

a sentence   or character
suddenly

steps out to seek for truth   fails 
falls

into a stream of ink   Sequence 
trails off

must go on

waving fables and faces   War 
doings of the war

manoeuvering between points 
between

any two points     which is 
what we want   (issues at stake)

bearings and so

holes in a cloud   are minutes passing 
which is

which
view   odds of images swept rag-tag

silver and grey
epitomes

seconds   forgeries engender 
(are blue)   or blacker

flocks of words flying together   tense 
as an order

cast off to crows

 

2022-09-13

 
--Susan Howe

The past
will overtake   
alien force   
our house   
formed
of my mind   
to enter
explorer
in a forest   
of myself
for all
my learning   
Solitude
quiet
and quieter   
fringe
of trees
by a river
bridges black   
on the deep   
the heaving sea   
a watcher stands
to see her ship   
winging away   
Thick noises
merge in moonlight   
dark ripples   
dissolving
and
defining
spheres
and
snares

             Place of importance as in the old days
stood on the ramparts of the fort
                                                 the open sea outside   
alone with water-birds and cattle
                        knee-deep in a stream
grove of reeds
               herons watching from the bank
henges
      whole fields honeycombed with souterrains   
human
                        bones through the gloom
       whose sudden mouth
surrounded my face
                      a thread of blue around the coast   
                                                         feathery moon   
eternity swallows up time
                                     peaceable as foam
                        O cabbage gardens
summer’s elegy
                        sunset survived

 

2022-09-11

 

......................[ Untitled ; Vasile Kazar ]


 

2022-09-06

 
Haiku- Summer 2022


father's day--
different shades of the sunset
seen in all good time


summer solstice,
my neighbors and I mowing
as we did last week


cottonwood trees,
your rustles with the wind speak
to the passing clouds


warm summer evening
the song I can't remember
afloat in the breeze


end of August,
foolish to think something
still needs to happen


2022-09-02

 
--Mathew Rohrer

If you, Tom, could see this inflight video map

of the world turning wildly on its axis

you would not, I think, be mad, though it is not

on paper, and that is what you do, but it is

a useful thing to see the earth twisted up like this;

it is our minds that are twisted, and you

are twisted too around a spoon, and drunk, I’m sure

by now, like me, past Newfoundland’s shore

with other peoples’ wine and dotted lines

to Bruxelles where I will only be

to switch planes, but you, I think, first went

there of all the other places you’ve been,

gobbling up the light as you went,

sending presents wrapped in maps.

 

2022-09-01

 
Its a Nice Day for a Nice Day

Morning holds to nothing, its all ago
partially recalled through 
windows onlooking clarity, constant options
from doors opened to silent airways,
moss with the sort of sobriety laid
over old forgotten stone paths

that usher the dew born passing
from disorderly light worn
from weary stars and equally so, a sound,
a luring invertebral tone,
a disbursement made while it toils over
and over a swell of its very own

display of audible thought, maneuvering 
to find out what is memorial, 
what lasts after what was when partially gone,
what we inevitably rely upon,
for better or worse, as humidity rises upward
while in the midst only our own selves

regarded more in the past and the future
than the alacrity of the present,
how backwards and overly protective,
the house on the lawn stirring
more widespread than any singular step
toward any intended direction

and of course sweet dreams get lost
in their own circumstances,
and it stands that vision has no home
within familiar surroundings,
and what of the message deteriorating
at the moment of delivery

on a hillside, over a horizon, blinded by
the sun vaporized daily when
all that's together are cambrian photons,
color imbued shapes within every
creature ever known to have emerged, such
as you, and me, so briefly, delightful. 


2022-08-30

 

....................[ Clare Woods ]


 

2022-08-28

 
--Robert Mitchum (after fishing with H. Bogart)

Rising early to beat the heat
a little dry from last night’s booze.
We’re soon out miles from land where
the big fish roam under the sun
and stars, undisturbed by time’s
wave-measured march.

Slicing bonito for bait, the blood is
red against all the blue. Blue above
and below. The hook, hungering for
meat, shines blue in my hand as
I drop its feathered plume into the wake.

We drink beer and wait for the line to sing,
rattling off the reel like a runaway train,
tightening under the drag, burning the leather stop.
The marlin leaps, its bill skewering the sky,
carves and dances in the blue, then twists and dives.

The rod quivers in the belt. Leather biting my back
I reel and pull, the marlin leaps again,
I heave forward and rare back as fire
sweat and salt gather on my skin
A moment’s slack, a shake, the fish is free.

Why aren’t all losses as lovely as this?
Quien sabe?”

2022-08-26

 
--Peter Balakian

The day comes in strips of yellow glass over trees.
 
When I tell you the day is a poem
I’m only talking to you and only the sky is listening.
 
The sky is listening; the sky is as hopeful
as I am walking into the pomegranate seeds
of the wind that whips up the seawall.
 
If you want the poem to take on everything,
walk into a hackberry tree,
then walk out beyond the seawall.
 
I’m not far from a room where Van Gogh
was a patient—his head on a pillow hearing
the mistral careen off the seawall,
 
hearing the fauvist leaves pelt
the sarcophagi. Here and now
 
the air of the tepidarium kissed my jaw
and pigeons ghosting in the blue loved me
 
for a second, before the wind
broke branches and guttered into the river.
 
What questions can I ask you?
How will the sky answer the wind?
 
The dawn isn’t heartbreaking.
The world isn’t full of love.


2022-08-24

 


There’s a soft spot in everything
Our fingers touch,
                                     the one place where everything breaks
When we press it just right.
The past is like that with its arduous edges and blind sides,
The whorls of our fingerprints
                                                         embedded along its walls
Like fossils the sea has left behind.

fromTwo Stories”, Charles Wright




2022-08-22

 

[Still Life with Snakes, Frogs, Mushrooms, Flowers and Butterflies; Otto Marseus van Schrieck (1662)]


 

2022-08-20

 
--Greg Kuzma

Now one of my riches is it’s summer.
It is hard to admit to the so much I have,
it is hard to keep track of it, to
make good, to keep it from running from me,
to keep it from growing confused in its
waiting, or from getting hardened to what
seems like my neglect. I know that with
so much, though I will try to have it all,
witness it all, and be in on the harvest
of my things, that I will fall to the ground
in dismay, and rot there like the what
that now blows clean and hopeful in the fields.


 

2022-08-18

 
--Greg Kuzma

So much that is weak has survived
and lives out its long wondrous days
with only the least of annoyance.
The grim and holy, the loud and reckless,
pass them, making their great surface
disruptions. So much that is weak and
slight has bloomed beneath the dark brow
of the storm. Rage, rage, or whisper,
everything fades. The tall trees of the
yard, the small dry walnut shells.


2022-08-16

 
--Greg Kuzma

It is morning.
We are building the ruin of another day.
And are hard at it.
Muscles deflect the sun,
the rain is burning off,
and now the wind rises.

Who would have thought
we would get this far,
into our nearly middle age.
We who have thought the
world would let us come
right up to the present crisis.

Whatever the allowance is
we spend it.
We lean and groan, the sea,
far off, leans and groans.
Birds skitter past us, trees bend,
and the wind advises.


2022-08-14

 

[ Composition ; Gustave Singier (1969) ]