Rembrandt’s Late Self-Portraits, by Elizabeth Jennings (1926-2001)
Rembrandt’s Late Self-Portraits, by Elizabeth Jennings (1926-2001)
Address to A Child During A Boisterous Winter Evening, by Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855)
I Say I Say I Say, by Simon Armitage (1963-)
Snowflake, by William Baer (1948-)
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.
Shadows in the Water, by Thomas Traherne (1637-1674)
*Antipodes are opposites; in this case the people who live in the opposite world of a reflection.
Rattlesnakes Hammered on the Wall, by Ray Gonzales (1952-)
Dear One Absent This Long While, by Lisa Olstein (1972-)
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?”
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)