Nov 192010

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart )i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

 Comments Off on e.e. cummings – i carry your heart with me
Nov 192010

The Hedgehog in His Element

Miserable, bullying, armed to the teeth,
like a Sherman tank forced out of the brush
or St Sebastian bristlng with his arrows.

Spring in Odd Weather

Not the dampness of opportunity, perhaps;
nor an irritating jumble of stimuli, choreographed

by some renegade Balanchine; nor
the particular razory liaison of May rain,

enough to muzzle the tits in the greening hedge;
nor the lofty bloat of ruined cloud

stalking the placid rape fields, which still
awaited an eighteenth-century painter

who had failed to show; no, these, not even
these could account for the whicker of spring chill,

the Commerce that muzzled her admirers in Art,
though above the fens, on the raw silhouette

of a hill – tentative, protracted, new-risen with weeds
like Iron Age spears – you stood your watch,

staring out in something like astonishment,
a porcelain doll blank in its own immortal gaze.

 Comments Off on William Logan – 2 poems
Nov 192010


Well now, it really is you,
and after how many months?
I had ceased keeping track.
No, not given up, never that.
I should die if that were true.
But still – was it some affront?
You’ve never been this cruel.

Distracted? To be sure;
even you can’t begrudge me this:
a father, friend, another friend.
Death’s visits threatened never to end.
I know better than to implore,
complain, or like some schoolchild, wish.
Unvisited I do not live, I endure.

Portrait of My Mother in January

Mother dozes in her chair,
awakes a while and reads her book,
then dozes off again.
Wind makes a rush at the house
and, like a tide, recedes. The trees are sear.

Afternoons are the most difficult.
They seem to have no end,
no end and no one there.
Outside the trees do their witchy dance.
Mother grows smaller in her chair.

 Comments Off on August Kleinzahler – 2 poems
Nov 192010

Chicago Poems. 1916.

For the gladness here where the sun is shining at evening on the weeds at the river,
Our prayer of thanks.

For the laughter of children who tumble barefooted and bareheaded in the summer grass,
Our prayer of thanks.

For the sunset and the stars, the women and the white arms that hold us,
Our prayer of thanks.

If you are deaf and blind, if this is all lost to you,
God, if the dead in their coffins amid the silver handles on the edge of town, or the reckless dead of war days thrown unknown in pits, if these dead are forever deaf and blind and lost,
Our prayer of thanks.

The game is all your way, the secrets and the signals and the system; and so for the break of the game and the first play and the last.
Our prayer of thanks.

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Nov 192010

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

 Comments Off on Elizabeth Bishop – One Art