Photograph of a Baby, by Charles Brasch (1909-1973) Round-head round-eyed Sebastian, Wrinkling his eyes against the sun, Looks into the distance and will not see anyone. What does he find there At the end of his absorbing stare, Where Mt. Herbert floats weightless in the glass-clear air? Is it something he does not […]
The Detective’s Last Case, by Luis Rogelio Nogueras (1944-1985) The crime scene isn’t the crime scene yet: it’s just a half-lit room where two naked shadows kiss. The killer isn’t the killer yet: he’s just a tired man who’s about to return from a long trip a day early. The victim isn’t the […]
Tiger Butter, by Diane Glancy (1941-) Is it only when you’re little you know tigers live in your closet— one with your shoes on his two ears, another with your umbrella tied to his tail; the rest wearing your red coat and blue trousers with the red buttons? Is it only when you’re little the […]
Talking to Her, by Vincent O’Sullivan (1937-) Talking to her is stepping from a street, from traffic and sun and the racket of news to a hospital lobby, where feet click on lino, where the jaunty lose the springiness of their walk, are told Wait here until the Authorities are free. Or Come in, you […]
Afternoon Light, by Yakov Fichman (1881-1958) Drink deep, my heart, of brightest noon, But trust not its tranquility! Quietly, in the blue light, lurk Mourning winds one cannot see. Treacherous is the afternoon rest. Do not trust it when it comes. A bright canopy is woven slowly By a hidden hand over horror’s depths. Dreams […]
Art Class, by James Galvin (1951-) Let us begin with a simple line, Drawn as a child would draw it, To indicate the horizon, More real than the real horizon, Which is less than line, Which is visible abstraction, a ratio. The line ravishes the page with implications Of white earth, white sky! The horizon […]
Sleep’s Threshold, by Edgar Fawcett (1847-1904) What footstep but has wandered free and far Amid that Castle of Sleep whose walls were planned By no terrestrial craft, no human hand, With towers that point to no recorded star? Here sorrows, memories, and remorses are, Roaming the long, dim rooms or galleries grand; Here the lost […]
The Burning Kite, by Ouyang Jianghe (1956-) What a thing it would be, if we all could fly. But to rise on air does not make you a bird. I’m sick of the hiss of champagne bubbles. It’s spring, and everyone’s got something to puke. The things we puke: flights of stairs, a […]
Breakfast, by Mary Lamb (1764-1847) A dinner party, coffee, tea, Sandwich, or supper, all may be In their way pleasant. But to me Not one of these deserves the praise That welcomer of new-born days, A breakfast, merits; ever giving Cheerful notice we are living Another day refreshed by sleep, When its festival we keep. […]
So Simple. So Unexpected, by Eileen Hennessy Practical, impeccably polite, glowing with righteousness and the importance of my town of clotheslines and light poles and propane tanks, our well-tempered river lounging in its luscious bed of weeds, the railroad running past my one-way life, I lived to the complicated rhythms of my days, the […]