Written by
Seamus Heaney |
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly.
You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
|
Written by
Jennifer Reeser |
I wish I could,
like some, forget,
and never anguish,
nor regret,
dismissive, free
to roam the street,
no matter how
the visions meet.
Remembrance is
a neighborhood
where convicts live
with great and good,
its roads of red,
uneven brick,
whose surfaces –
both rough and slick –
spread out into
a patchwork plan.
Sometimes at night
I hear a man
vault past the fence,
and cross the yard,
my door chain down,
and me off-guard.
He curses, threatens,
pounds the door.
I’m wedged between
the couch and floor,
ungainly, barefoot,
limp and pinned,
scared of the dark,
without a friend,
with only one
clear thought, that I –
like him, like you –
don’t want to die.
|