Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Mary Ruefle, poetry, The Bunny Gives Us a Lesson in Eternity
We are a sad people, without hats.
The history of our nation is tragically benign.
We like to watch the rabbits screwing in the graveyard.
We are fond of the little bunny with the bent ear
who stands alone in the moonlight
reading what little text there is on the graves.
He looks quite desirable like that.
He looks like the center of the universe.
Look how his mouth moves mouthing the words
while the others are busy making more of him.
Soon the more will ask of him to write their love
letters and he will oblige, using the language
of our ancestors, those poor clouds in the ground,
beloved by us who have been standing here for hours,
a proud people after all.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: poetry, Rebecca Hazelton, You Are the Penultimate Love of My Life
Again this morning my eyes woke up too close
to your eyes,
their almost green orbs
too heavy-lidded to really look back.
To wake up next to you
is ordinary. I do not even need to look at you
to see you.
But I do look. So when you come to me
in your opulent sadness, I see
you do not want me
to unbutton you
so I cannot do the one thing
I can do.
Now it is almost one a.m. I am still at my desk
and you are upstairs at your desk a staircase
away from me. Already it is years
of you a staircase
away from me. To be near you
and not near you
Still, how many afternoons have I spent
peeling blue paint from
our porch steps, peering above
hedgerows, the few parked cars for the first
glimpse of you. How many hours under
the overgrown, pink Camillas, thinking
the color was wrong for you, thinking
after my next
Soon you’ll come down the stairs
to tell me something. And I’ll say,
okay. Okay. I’ll say it
like that, say it just like
that, I’ll go on being
It’s not the best in you
I long for. It’s when you’re noteless,
numb at the ends of my fingers, all is
all. I say it is.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: learning to mourn, poetry, robert winner
I’m an inexperienced mourner
I don’t even know how to begin
to cry out like that old man
wailing in the next hospital room—
oi vay, oi vay—his two sounds
beating against the wall.
He makes me squirm
but I get his message better than my own.
How can I free myself like him?
How can I know my place as he does,
know how little I am?
How can I mourn, the cheep of a trapped bird
crying out violent sorrow?
Old man, teach me.
Help me reach the bowels of my cry
and bring it up, coarse, rasping.
Teach me to be disgusting.
Help me to exile myself from all
the populations of eyes and ears.
Teach me to live in that country
where no one else is, where I can
bash to pieces my good breeding,
my priests and pillars
—no illusions, the self wiped out,
unable to see or hear or understand.
Old man—lying in your shit—
you’ve let the angel of death from your mouth.
One minute of your unforgiving protest
is like true song: reckless, fatal singing,
song that is not victorious, not even consoling,
merely a sound you have to make.
The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: I don't buy it, poetry, wendy videlock
I don’t buy it, says