How to Kill by Keith Douglas Under the parabola of a ball, a child turning into a man, I looked into the air too long. The ball fell in my hand, it sang in the closed fist: Open Open Behold a gift designed to kill. Now in my dial of glass appears the soldier…
Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower By Rainer Maria Rilke Quiet friend who has come so far, feel how your breathing makes more space around you. Let this darkness be a bell tower and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength. Move back and forth into the change….
Yesterday I wondered if they celebrate February 14 as Valentine’s Day in Ukraine. I consulted the Oracle, no longer at Delphi. The answer: yes they do. That it is possible to celebrate love when surrounded by serried ranks of armor, self-propelled artillery, motorized infantry seemed a truly human image of resistance. We ought to…
Wake Up, Mario by Martín Espada For Mario Gonzalez Arenales (1994-2021) He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just scaring my wife.—call to the Alameda Police Department, April 19, 2021 They watched him from the window of the house, a man at the fencein a crooked wool cap, chipping at their tree with a comb,…
This morning the sun was a fingernail of fire above the treeline across the river. This poem was on my mind. Life is a siege, sometimes a pitched battle against the darkness that surely will envelop our dreams — unless you, unless I resist. As we grow older, it happens. The ancient contest between…
More from East Coker by T. S. Eliot winner of the Nobel prize for literature… In that open field If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close, On a summer midnight, you can hear the music Of the weak pipe and the little drum And see them dancing…
I In my beginning is my end. In successionHouses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their placeIs an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earthWhich is already flesh, fur and…
Canticle By Wendell Berry What death means is not this – the spirit, triumphant in the body’s fall, praising its absence, feeding on music. If life can’t justify and explain itself, death can’t justify and explain it. A creed and a grave never did equal life of anything. Yellow flowers sprout in the clefts…
Late Lament Breathe deep the gathering gloom,Watch lights fade from every room.Bedsitter people look back and lament,Another day’s useless energy spent.Impassioned lovers wrestle as one.Lonely man cries for love and has none.New mother picks up and suckles her son.Senior citizens wish they were young.Cold-hearted orb that rules the nightRemoves the colours from our sight.Red…
In the Meantime By Max Garland The river rose wildly every seventh spring or so, and down the hatch went the town, just a floating hat box or two, a cradle, a cellar door like an ark to float us back into the story of how we drown but never for good, or long….
