The Old Year’s gone away      To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day      Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place      In either shade or sun: The last year he’d a neighbour’s face,      In this he’s known by none.

All [...]]]> THE OLD YEAR

The Old Year’s gone away
     To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
     Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
     In either shade or sun:
The last year he’d a neighbour’s face,
     In this he’s known by none.

Old papers thrown away,
     Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
     Are things identified;
But time once torn away
     No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year’s Day
     Left the Old Year lost to all.

  — John Clare (1793 – 1864), English poet.

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a purple mole at the [...]]]> QUEEN ANNE’S LACE

Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.

  — William Carlos Williams (1883 – 1963), American Poet.

The one who speaks does not know. The one who knows does not speak,

wrote the old master, which perhaps describes the situation. Meaning we were all sad.

Meaning that when you were seized by desire, it was nothing more than flesh, bared above the collarbone

she [...]]]> AFTER READING LAO TZU

The one who speaks does not know.
The one who knows does not speak,

wrote the old master, which perhaps describes
the situation. Meaning we were all sad.

Meaning that when you were seized by desire,
it was nothing more than flesh, bared above the collarbone

she poured the long night of herself
into empty coffee cans and cornfields

and brushed by air. Meaning: It’s chemical. So
that when the moon rears its parched head,

her eyes a mask on her face, the livestock snorting and pacing,
her absent husband…she died young

when you feel a finger grazing your neck,
it’s only wind created by the movement of

her daughter crying and lighting
fires under the bed

your own body. Downdraft. Live
stock. Because sadness is multiplied

don’t worry, she told me,
you can’t inherit this

by sadness. A cradle of no compare.
Loose conspiracy of mind and body,

dough swelling over the edge of the bowl,
the yeasty smell of it, a disease that is

a blanket over the window
a pillow over the face

known and not spoken and
also the other one,

who speaks and does not know
what to say.

  — Amy Newlove Schroeder

I have not felt a thing for weeks. But getting up and going to work on time I did what needed to be done, then rushed home. And even the main streets, those ancient charmers, Failed to amuse me, and the fight between The upstairs couple was nothing but loud noise. None of [...]]]> NUMBNESS

I have not felt a thing for weeks.
But getting up and going to work on time
I did what needed to be done, then rushed home.
And even the main streets, those ancient charmers,
Failed to amuse me, and the fight between
The upstairs couple was nothing but loud noise.
None of it touched me, except as an irritation,
And though I knew I could stop
And enjoy if I wanted to
The karate excitement and the crowd
That often gathers in front of funeral homes,
I denied myself these dependable pleasures,
The tricks of anti-depression
That had taken me so long to learn,
By now worn smooth with use, like bowling alleys in my soul.
And certain records that one can’t hear without
Breaking into a smile, I refused to listen to
In order to find out what it would be like
To be cleansed of enthusiasm,
And to learn to honor my emptiness,
My indifference, myself at zero degrees.

But supposing numbness were only a disguised disappointment?
A veil for anger? Then it would have no right to attention
In and of itself, and one would always have to push on,
Push on, to the real source of the trouble—
Which means, back to melodrama.
Is the neutral state a cover for unhappiness,
Or do I make myself impatient and unhappy
To avoid my basic nature, which is passive and low-key?
And if I knew the answer,
Would it make any difference in my life?
At bottom I feel something stubborn as ice fields,
Like sorrow or endurance, propelling me.

  — Phillip Lopate (b. 1943)

I must keep from breaking into the story by force for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun, your nation dead beside you.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternity and from each drop of [...]]]> EQUINOX

I must keep from breaking into the story by force
for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand
and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
your nation dead beside you.

and made songs of the blood, the marrow.

  — Joy Harjo (b. 1951)

Body, remember not only how much you were loved, not only the beds where you lay, but also those desires for you, shining clearly in eyes and trembling in a voice—and some chance obstacle thwarted them. Now when everything is the past, it almost looks as if you gave yourself to [...]]]> REMEMBER, BODY …  

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds where you lay,
but also those desires for you,
shining clearly in eyes
and trembling in a voice—and some chance
obstacle thwarted them.
Now when everything is the past,
it almost looks as if you gave yourself
to those desires as well—how they shone—
remember—in the eyes that looked at you,
how they trembled for you in the voice—remember, body.

  — C.P. Cavafy (1863 – 1933), Greek poet and journalist. Translated by Aliki Barnstone

The second half of my life will be black to the white rind of the old and fading moon. The second half of my life will be water over the cracked floor of these desert years. I will land on my feet this time, knowing at least two languages and who my friends [...]]]>

CROSSROADS  

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.

  — Joyce Sutphen (b. 1949)

“Art is what remains when the pot is broken.”                 —Chinese proverb

I know we are bound to the earth, and the cracked heart, old terra cotta, surrenders to vine.

Listen—I’ve seen wind stir the hair of the dead at Belsen, growing like art from the lacing grass;

what is terrible, even, rises. The [...]]]>

PASSOVER

“Art is what remains when the pot is broken.”
                —Chinese proverb

I know we are bound to the earth,
and the cracked heart, old terra cotta,
surrenders to vine.

and that ghost tenderly enters
the soul of some mortal thing.

  — Mary Rose O’Reilley

He came out of the office where he was employed in an unimportant and poorly paid position up to eight pounds a month, with tips; when he finished his tedious work that kept him stooped all afternoon, he came out at seven, and sauntered slowly, gazing idly in the street. [...]]]> HE ASKED ABOUT THE QUALITY

He came out of the office where he was employed
in an unimportant and poorly paid position
up to eight pounds a month, with tips;
when he finished his tedious work
that kept him stooped all afternoon,
he came out at seven, and sauntered slowly,
gazing idly in the street. Beautiful
and interesting, he carried himself
as if hed reached his full sensual potential.
He turned twenty-nine a month ago.

Quickly and furtively so the shopkeeper
sitting in the back would not notice.

  — C.P. Cavafy (1863 – 1933), Greek Poet.

To exist; to be among things. The art of nerve ends, masseur art Of the blind skin

Or the five Senses gone To the one sense, to well being

Lacks significance. Or lacks life. The thing By which the mind Sees!——if it wake——

The wooden sills, the grimed past Above the store fronts and [...]]]> MONUMENT

To exist; to be among things.
The art of nerve ends, masseur art
Of the blind skin

      And down town,
The absurd stone trimming of the building tops
Rectangular in dawn, the shopper’s
Thin morning monument.

  — George Oppen (1908 – 1984), American poet