Written by
Marianne Moore |
Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as
you have to it yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey—
foot at the top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of
the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer
investigate them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are
desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away-the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were
no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx—
beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the
seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls
as heretofore—
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion
beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of
bell-bouys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which
dropped things are bound to sink—
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor
consciousness.
|
Written by
John Matthew |
May be the whole thing was a dream,
Pinched myself awake this morn,
To check if you are there, virtually,
And felt your sudden absence online!
Be sure you will always exist,
In a special place in my heart,
Your smile in pixels is so sweet,
But, no, you are too good to be true!
Where are you? Do you exist?
Do you still inhabit Internet protocols?
And virtual chats and emoticons
That in joyous moments I watched.
Now that you are gone; are you
Among your charmed admirers?
I wish you well, I will miss you,
May you be ever happy and smiling!
Distances and togetherness,
Opposites, can’t networks cross,
I could never bridge the distances
Of your sweet kindness.
Someday, if you feel betrayed,
And, as weepy as a monsoon cloud,
Remember this friend who still cares,
And felt fulfilled by your brief warmth.
|
Written by
John Matthew |
Yesterday a passing, transient shower,
Slaked my thirst so gently, softly,
Showers in March are unheard —
In this arid part of the world.
They say the world is dying, I know,
I remember how you said love died,
It was a passing shower, a fancy,
That left you cold and shivering.
This distance, these wired networks,
Couldn’t bring your love to you,
You became strangers, distances apart,
The eyes, too, misted with showers.
What are you holding in your heart —?
Which you can’t tell me in stealing time,
What is it that your sorrowing soul,
Keeps wrapped in the mystery of your words?
Friend, your world is far removed,
I can only view the receding landscape,
Of another woman’s deep distress,
Is it much to expect the showers to pass?
If you come out of the fort, step over the moat,
Open your heart and cry in the rain,
I am sure the passing showers will cease,
And usher in the blossoms of spring!
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
up the ladder and round the bend
age spirals like a convolvulus
its bells break into the light
catching breath with their beauty
but how in the sightless earth
its roots work to a wise agenda
for all the seasonal pleasures
sun and open air afford us
we grow below more tightly
(knowing squeezed into essence)
till each pinch of inner space
networks our darkest truths
the convolvulus keeps climbing
probing wise tendrils into gaps
the sun still clings to - and finds
fresher vantage points to spell
its bright peals out - age stays young
turns its patterns into poems
flowers are to ring out loud
what roots keep tight about
and up the ladder round the bend
dances stately or bizarre
measure the joy of living
how lightly we twine or twist
they trumpet to the stars
and we are stretched ourselves
between the fixed earth and
the sky's impossible dimensions
such a step we have to make
to keep in tune with both
age brings the calm to do it
our plant has been spaced out
into its true proportions
nothing has to boast to let
its grace show - content to be
up the ladder and round the bend
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