Currently Browsing: Monday Poem

Sister Unity: Things Unseen (a poem)

A Sister of Perpetual Indugelnce explains it all for you.
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James Merrill: “More or Less” (a poem)

Nature copies Art, said Oscar Wild Out therefore with the old inheritance, Rooms so overfurnished the heart sinks, Moulding and fringe, high ozone-whitened panes, Precious woods and mirror cataract, The million doodad species catching dust. In with lack of clutter, starkly styled, Only the fittest vertebrates and plants, Cactus habitat and goldfish bowl, Little to smarten up our costly prefab Unless a holoraph of (say) Einstein – Bespectacled, white-maned, a breathing sphinx – Prints ever-thinning air with the myopic Simplicity of those who live here still, Their sad knowhow, their fingertip...
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Rumi: “Flutes for Dancing” (a poem)

It’s lucky to hear the flutes for dancing coming down the road. The ground is glowing. The table set in the yard. We will drink all this wine tonight because it’s Spring. It is. It’s a growing sea. We’re cloud over the sea, or flecks of matter in the ocean when the ocean seems lit from within. I know I’m drunk when I start this ocean talk. Would you like to see the moon split in half with one throw?   From The Essential Rumi, translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne (1997 Castle Books)  
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Antler: “Catching the Sunrise” (a poem)

When I see the first light      touch treetops on the far shore I launch my canoe without a sound      and float into perfect calm. Not til the lakefloor disappears      do I dip my paddle And begin without a sound      for the other side. Not a drip or a ripple      I go slow. When I reach the center of the lake      the sun is up enough      the far shore glows. Soon I’m paddling in sunlight,     mist rises in wraiths. On seeing the bottom      as I near the other side I stop paddling and glide,      not a breath of wind. Bird sings. Fish jumps. Looking...
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James Broughton: “His Music” (a poem)

He rings my reaches He wings my wording He instructs me in the songbook of the Sun He fingers my edges He sparks my wick He teaches fire music to all my flesh He asks for attunement He answers in anthems He breaths a language that enlightens my throat He performs his canticle on the pulse of my being My soul ejaculates in time with his heartbeat — James Broughton from Ecstacies (1983, Syzygy Press)  
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