November 5, 2017

Essay on November by Stephen Kuusisto

There is at times a small fire
In the brain, partita for violin,
Brier, black stem,
All burning in the quarter notes.
And the hedgerow
Beyond the barn
Calls its starlings in.
Then frost, sere leaves,
A swollen half-moon
Like a drowsy fingertip
Above the apple trees.

October 15, 2017

Quote by David Wojnarowicz

"If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would."  

October 10, 2017

we must smell all the flowers

fake orange flower 
found among fallen 
leaves & broken 
glass in the space 
between parked cars, a 
chalked rainbow fades. 
young mother presents 
the fake orange flower 
to her tousle-haired 
son toddling about 
pacifier clenched in his 
mouth, swiping  
filthy ashtrays from 
black mesh tables 
the young mother lifts 
the fake orange flower 
to her nose and beckons 
her son to do the same 
on this early autumn 
morning we must smell 
all the flowers, it seems, 
even the fake ones.

August 18, 2017

Forlorn figure

Walking across the river, to a job 
that would soon evict me 
like an unruly tenant. I noticed 
a forlorn figure, sleeping in the dirt 
where grass had once been. 
I am lonely 
but not nearly that alone.

August 12, 2017

[I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson] by Wilfred Owen

[I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell],
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half gleam, half glower,
And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,
In different skies.

August 9, 2017

It sounded as if the streets were running Emily Dickinson

IT sounded as if the streets were running,
And then the streets stood still.
Eclipse was all we could see at the window,
And awe was all we could feel.
By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,        
To see if time was there.
Nature was in her beryl apron,
Mixing fresher air.

August 8, 2017

Poem Written at Willow Lake by Yuan Hongdao, Translated by Jonathan Chaves

At sunset, I lie down for a nap...
the mountains seem to tumble onto my pillow.
Green mosses are reflected in the water;
winds from the rice fields blow through the window.
I enjoy myself here, 
        arranging rocks and flowers
                in the garden,
writing out spells to keep away crows and bugs.
My drinking companions 
        are mostly Buddhist monks:
                even when we're drunk, 
                        we talk about the void.