Feb 22

Rembrandt’s Late Self-Portraits (Jennings)

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Rembrandt’s Late Self-Portraits, by Elizabeth Jennings (1926-2001)

You are confronted with yourself. Each year
The pouches fill, the skin is uglier.
You give it all unflinchingly. You stare
Into yourself, beyond. Your brush’s care
Runs with self-knowledge. Here

 

Is a humility at one with craft.
There is no arrogance. Pride is apart
From this self-scrutiny. You make light drift
The way you want. Your face is bruised and hurt
But there is still love left.

 

Love of the art and others. To the last
Experiment went on. You stared beyond
Your age, the times. You also plucked the past
And tempered it. Self-portraits understand,
And old age can divest,

 

With truthful changes, us of fear of death.
Look, a new anguish. There, the bloated nose,
The sadness and the joy. To paint’s to breathe,
And all the darknesses are dared. You chose
What each must reckon with.
Feb 21

Address to A Child During A Boisterous Winter Evening (D. Wordsworth)

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Address to A Child During A Boisterous Winter Evening, by Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855)

What way does the wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and o’er rocky height,
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There’s never a scholar in England knows.

 

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp ’larum; but, if you should look,
There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
— Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

 

As soon as ’tis daylight tomorrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

 

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
– But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light.

 

Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! ’tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell.
— Come, now we’ll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door — we’ll not let him in;
May drive at the windows — we’ll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here’s a cozy warm house for Edward and me.
Feb 20

I Say I Say I Say (Armitage)

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I Say I Say I Say, by Simon Armitage (1963-)

Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let’s show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let’s tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line ‘Just like blood’
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way.
Feb 19

Snowflake (Baer)

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Snowflake, by William Baer (1948-)

Timing’s everything. The vapor rises
high in the sky, tossing to and fro,
then freezes, suddenly, and crystalizes
into a perfect flake of miraculous snow.
For countless miles, drifting east above
the world, whirling about in a swirling free-
for-all, appearing aimless, just like love,
but sensing, seeking out, its destiny.
Falling to where the two young skaters stand,
hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips
itself about to ever-so-gently land,
a miracle, across her unkissed lips:
as he blocks the wind raging from the south,
leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.
Feb 18

Piazza Piece (Crowe Ransom)

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Piazza Piece, by John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974)

– I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
And listen to an old man not at all,
They want the young men’s whispering and sighing.
But see the roses on your trellis dying
And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
For I must have my lovely lady soon,
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.

— I am a lady young in beauty waiting
Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.
But what grey man among the vines is this
Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream !
I am a lady young in beauty waiting.

Feb 17

Shadows in the Water (Traherne)

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Shadows in the Water, by Thomas Traherne (1637-1674)

 

In unexperienced infancy
Many a sweet mistake doth lie:
Mistake though false, intending true;
A seeming somewhat more than view;
         That doth instruct the mind
         In things that lie behind,
And many secrets to us show
Which afterwards we come to know.

 

Thus did I by the water’s brink
Another world beneath me think;
And while the lofty spacious skies
Reversèd there, abused mine eyes,
         I fancied other feet
         Came mine to touch or meet;
As by some puddle I did play
Another world within it lay.

 

Beneath the water people drowned,
Yet with another heaven crowned,
In spacious regions seemed to go
As freely moving to and fro:
         In bright and open space
         I saw their very face;
Eyes, hands, and feet they had like mine;
Another sun did with them shine.

 

’Twas strange that people there should walk,
And yet I could not hear them talk;
That through a little watery chink,
Which one dry ox or horse might drink,
         We other worlds should see,
         Yet not admitted be;
And other confines there behold
Of light and darkness, heat and cold.

 

I called them oft, but called in vain;
No speeches we could entertain:
Yet did I there expect to find
Some other world, to please my mind.
         I plainly saw by these
         A new antipodes*,
Whom, though they were so plainly seen,
A film kept off that stood between.

 

By walking men’s reversèd feet
I chanced another world to meet;
Though it did not to view exceed
A phantom, ’tis a world indeed,
         Where skies beneath us shine,
         And earth by art divine
Another face presents below,
Where people’s feet against ours go.

 

Within the regions of the air,
Compassed about with heavens fair,
Great tracts of land there may be found
Enriched with fields and fertile ground;
         Where many numerous hosts
         In those far distant coasts,
For other great and glorious ends
Inhabit, my yet unknown friends.

 

O ye that stand upon the brink,
Whom I so near me through the chink
With wonder see: what faces there,
Whose feet, whose bodies, do ye wear?
         I my companions see
         In you, another me.
They seemèd others, but are we;
Our second selves these shadows be.

 

Look how far off those lower skies
Extend themselves! scarce with mine eyes
I can them reach. O ye my friends,
What secret borders on those ends?
         Are lofty heavens hurled
’Bout your inferior world?
Are yet the representatives
Of other peoples’ distant lives?

 

Of all the playmates which I knew
That here I do the image view
In other selves, what can it mean?
But that below the purling stream
         Some unknown joys there be
         Laid up in store for me;
To which I shall, when that thin skin
Is broken, be admitted in.

 

*Antipodes are opposites; in this case the people who live in the opposite world of a reflection.

Feb 16

Rattlesnakes Hammered on the Wall (Gonzales)

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Rattlesnakes Hammered on the Wall, by Ray Gonzales (1952-)

Seven of them pinned in blood by
long, shiny tails, three of them still

 

alive and writhing against the wood,
their heaviness whipping the wall

 

as they try to break free,
rattles beating in unison,

 

hisses slowly dying in silence,
the other four hanging stiff

 

like ropes to another life,
patterns of torn skin dripping

 

with power and loss, the wonder
of who might have done this

 

turning in shock as all seven
suddenly come alive when

 

I get closer, pink mouths
trembling with white fangs,

 

lunging at me then falling back,
entangled in one another to form

 

twisted letters that spell a bloody
word I can’t understand.

 

Feb 15

Dear One Absent This Long While (Olstein)

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Dear One Absent This Long While, by Lisa Olstein (1972-)

It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;
everything blooms coldly.

 

I expect you. I thought one night it was you
at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs,

 

you in a shiver of light, but each time
leaves in wind revealed themselves,

 

the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak.
We expect you, cat and I, bluebirds and I, the stove.

 

In May we dreamed of wreaths burning on bonfires
over which young men and women leapt.

 

June efforts quietly.
I’ve planted vegetables along each garden wall

 

so even if spring continues to disappoint
we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain.

 

I have new gloves and a new hoe.
I practice eulogies. He was a hawk

 

with white feathered legs. She had the quiet ribs
of a salamander crossing the old pony post road.

 

Yours is the name the leaves chatter
at the edge of the unrabbited woods.
Feb 14

Her News (Williams)

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Her News, by Hugo Williams (1942-)

You paused for a moment and I heard you smoking
on the other end of the line.
I pictured your expression,
one eye screwed shut against the smoke
as you waited for my reaction.
I was waiting for it myself, a list of my own news
gone suddenly cold in my hand.
Supposing my wife found out, what would happen then?
Would I have to leave her and marry you now?
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad,
starting again with someone new, finding a new place,
pretending the best was yet to come.
It might even be fun,
playing the family man, walking around in the park
full of righteous indignation.
But no, I couldn’t go through all that again,
not without my own wife being there,
not without her getting cross about everything.

Perhaps she wouldn’t mind about the baby,
then we could buy a house in the country
and all move in together.
That sounded like a better idea.
Now that I’d been caught at last, a wave of relief
swept over me. I was just considering
a shed in the garden with a radio and a day bed,
when I remembered I hadn’t seen you for over a year.
“Congratulations,” I said. “When’s it due?”

Feb 13

Words (Krolow)

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Words, by Karl Krolow (1915-1999)

Candor of words invented,

Said behind doors out of sight,

From windows and against blank walls,

White-washed with patient light.

 

Reality of words spoken,

Of two syllables or of three:

Carved from the riddles of heaven,

From a vein in the stone set free.

 

Deciphering of strangers’ faces,

With lightning under the skin,

With beards in which the wind stands,

By a sound, whispered within.

 

But the names, still remaining,

A hum in the ear, so slight,

As of bees and of cicadas,

Returning into the night.

 

Vowels — humble insects,

Invisible in the air.

Floating down as ashes,

As quince scent lingering there.

 

(Trans. by Ingo Seidler)

Words That Burn