Of The Empire
by Mary Oliver

We will be known as a culture that feared death
and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity
for the few and cared little for the penury of the
many. We will be known as a culture that taught
and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke
little if at all about the quality of life for
people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All
the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a
commodity. And they will say that this structure
was held together politically, which it was, and
they will say also that our politics was no more
than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of
the heart, and that the heart, in those days,
was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

© 2008 by Mary Oliver
From her 2008 collection, Red Bird, p. 46
Published by Beacon Press 2008

#poem #poetry #literature

ELEGY FOR TÍO LAZARO
by Isabella DeSendi

Because he was already dying, he figured
there was no harm in huffing through 2 or 3 cigarettes

in the early morning before my mother would wake—
the animal of his thin, brown body lassoed

to an oxygen tank. Because he didn’t have papers
we had to drive two hours to retrieve the tank

from a discount store in Ocala
where my mom had to pay

out of pocket for air that would be filtered
from a rocket-ship shaped canister

into a tiny tube three times the size of a vein
directly into the soggy, plastic bags of my tio’s

stalling lungs just so he could drink cafecitos
& play crossword puzzles or the lottery

while we sat around in the kitchen
wondering how long we could keep him alive.

My mom was elbow deep in dishwater
when the letter came

denying our appeal for his citizenship.
No, he could not get Medicare.

Yes, he would have to go back after living
50 years in this country. This country,

where, at 20, he learned to fix engines
in chop shops and likened himself

to a surgeon—saying any man with purpose could fix
any broken thing if he simply tried hard enough.

Entiendes sobrina? It’s why God gave us hands.
Sometimes, I like to imagine him in the garage

surrounded by brutal heat and moonlight,
the broken chair under him barely keeping

itself together while he held metal chunks
in his hands like a heart, wondering where

it all went wrong, believing enough screws
could put it all back. Of course, this was after he fell

in love with a woman in Kentucky,
dreamt of being a local politician

and with that same American sense of disillusion,
grandeur—discovered heroin: the god he’d worship

until he felt nothingness, & after nothingness
the dull edge of sobriety, the death of his American wife

which meant the death of food stamps, which meant the death
of a life that allowed him to lay on the roof of his car

while he smoked Marlboros and recited constellations:
Andromeda, Aquilus, Ursa major, Ursa minor

which made him feel just as smart as the white men
he swept for. Aren’t our lives just simple constellations

made up of many deaths? Yes, someone in an office
in a building in this country decided no, he could not

get medical care. No, he could not stay.
Two nights later, Lazaro woke from a dream

screaming aliens were coming to get him.
That their ship was hovering over the house.

The light so bright he couldn’t see my mom’s hands
as she helped him back to bed. The next night he died.

Milky Way: one answer on yesterday’s crossword puzzle.
You can’t tell me the dying don’t know

when their time is coming.
The tip of the letter, still sticking out

of my mom’s black purse like a cigarette
already flickering gone.

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

---

Isabella DeSendi: “I wrote this poem after telling two of my poet friends the story of my tio’s death, including his vision of being abducted by aliens just days after we’d received the news about his deportation. My mom was still trying to figure out how to fight the government’s decision, how to break the news. My friends and I were huddled in a small circle during the intermission of a reading when I decided to share the story with them. One friend, Cat, turned to me and said, ‘Bella, this is a poem.’ She was right. This piece is an elegy for my tio, but it’s also a lamentation for immigrants in this country—and ultimately a song of praise for my mother, whose strength, generosity, and capacity for enduring I am constantly in awe of.” 

https://www.rattle.com/elegy-for-tio-lazaro-by-isabella-desendi/

#poem #poetry #literature #immigration

With Thanks to the Field Sparrow, Whose Voice is so Delicate and Humble
by Mary Oliver

I do not live happily or comfortably
With the cleverness of our times.
The talk is all about computers,
The news is all about bombs and blood.
This morning, in the fresh field,
I came upon a hidden nest.
It held four warm, speckled eggs.
I touched them.
Then went away softly,
Having felt something more wonderful
Than all the electricity of New York City.

#poem #poetry #literature

STORYTELLING
by C. Wade Bentley

The morning they saw the body in the river
on the way to school was also the day Jessica
said how she’d known all along that Seth
was gay and she was perfectly fine with it
and Kaylie said well me too but if you knew
why didn’t you say something before we went out
for two months but just before Jessica could answer
was when Jared said what the hell? and pointed
down along the banks of the river where half hidden
in the grass was what they would soon know was the naked
body of a young woman maybe a few years older
than they were and where for a still and silent minute
they just looked at the way her hair had woven
itself into the weeds the way her head would nudge
gently against the shore and then retreat
how the little ripples in this quiet section of water
would splash onto her right hip all purple and grey
shiny and taut with a look on her face
and her wide eyes that said nothing at all
that said I have no opinion I will have nothing to say
on that matter and it’s no use waiting for it you will
tell the police your story now and play it up big
for your mates at school later but you won’t hear it
from me that story that love story that fantasy
I had hoped to tell had begun to tell has now moved
to mid-stream and will be out to sea sooner or later
where old couples who are even now walking
along the shore will pause from time to time
their faces into the wind, listening.
—from Rattle #40, Summer 2013

---

C. Wade Bentley: “There are three things I can count on to make me happy: playing with my grandsons, hiking in the mountains, and writing poetry. Even when the end result of my poetic effort is crap—as it often is—I am never quite so happy as when lost and wallowing in the mud of a possible poem, trying to write my way out. And when the alchemy actually works, that’s a bonus. That’s magic.”

#poem #poetry #literature

https://www.rattle.com/storytelling-by-c-wade-bentley/

‘80S LEGACY #poem

Don’t honor Bush II’s administration with undue blame.
Twas Reagan and his merry crew reset our country’s tenor.
Of course progressive opposition clamored through post-Nixon ‘70s,
hot and sure about every error.
The point is, we had that luxury. Yes, there was poverty,
discrimination,
aggregations and individuals in need; but hunger,
untreated disease, was not perceived as righteous penalty
for lack of decent wage. There was real spirit of community,
especially on the lower rungs, but noblesse oblige philanthropy still
held, built civic structures, cohesion.
Neighbors could meet upon moral foundation that made sense,
incorporated well-wrought reason.
The ‘80s brought in a different paradigm,
more wily and wild. Days of cocaine,
champagne, glamour and celebration for sweet deregulation,
when every schemer
could conjure a neo-capitalist heritage of wealth unbound.
Before it was found that
poisonous as plutonium, in the gleeful hands of elitist true believers,
just what we
were free to become.
Since then it seems proportion and balance speed spinning to demise.
Wisdom demonized in mad shrapnel’s wake of
blast-warped brains.
Games of harassing hatred and spitting disdain. Contemporary
Cassandras warned: his numbers are 666.
A man possessed by
Hollywood fantasies. America construed as big screen portrayed,
folie a deux with a nation.
And here those snowy yesteryears roost
in loyal rafters, lay out
macabre future ruled by disaffected youth.
Who is it, really, that we as a people choose to be?
Distanced from encouraging history,
adumbrated by convenient lies, what are our chances
for recovery?

#CAPITALISM #poem

Capitalism
All well and good
But we are not always
(thank providence)
driven by profit.
We have the capacity
to be driven by all kinds of motives
and to act sometimes
for quite foolish reasons
when looked at objectively.

         It is not all black and white
          neither is it plus or minus
                for we are not logic machines
        but human beings
        creatures of passion:
        capable of intense emotions,
          unreasoned behavior,
        and not always
            predictable.

Sometimes, When the Light
By Lisel Mueller

Sometimes, when the light strikes at odd angles
and pulls you back into childhood

and you are passing a crumbling mansion
completely hidden behind old willows

or an empty convent guarded by hemlocks
and giant firs standing hip to hip,

you know again that behind that wall,
under the uncut hair of the willows

something secret is going on,
so marvelous and dangerous

that if you crawled through and saw,
you would die, or be happy forever.

A Note from the Editor
Lisel Mueller was born on this day 100 years ago. Read from a 2013 interview with Mueller.

#poem #poetry #literature

The Negro Speaks of Rivers
By Langston Hughes

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

#poem #poetry #literature

Remember Our Names
Haya Abu Nasser

Life is devoid of meaning
a philosopher once declared,
and what is life for
if my dreams are obliterated with my city
and children are dying.

A single, relentless shot,
and I become the next number
on the long death roll.
They’ll bury me without funeral words.
No tears will be shed over my grave,
no flowers will grace my name,
and they might misspell it
with no one to correct them.

Between life and death,
if I had been three steps later,
or if I had escaped one night later,
I would be dead, without friends,
to see the end of the war
and the withdrawal of weapons.
If a shell hit me,
no one would collect my broken body.
I’d lie beneath the rubble,
awaiting a passerby,
to hear my weeping soul.

My friend was trapped for three days
beneath the fallen walls.
No one heard him when he cried out.
No one heard his last breath, but it happened.
No one rescued him, but God intervened,
and he ascended to heaven.

My friend left on his desk,
one paper, one final poem.
In this poem he prayed to survive;

he begged, but no one listened.
A number was inscribed on his coffin,
“Mahmoud is his name,” I shouted.
We were the same age and both dreamed
of white gulls flying above the rustling waves.

We were young, debating life’s meaning.
I think of the unwritten chapters of our stories.
Life is devoid of meaning, my friend once said.
We are the meaning, I declared,
while our laughter echoed.

When I depart, remember the blood red tulip.
My name is Haya, so carve it on my grave,
and do not misspell it.

---

Haya Abu Nasser is a human rights activist and writer, originally from Deir-Sneid. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English literature and humanitarian sciences and works as a fundraising and partnership officer for Save Youth Future Society and other NGOs in Palestine. Haya’s mission is to advocate for the rights of youth and women, combatting discrimination, violence and economic inequality. She has had the honor of acting as keynote speaker at several international events, including the Exeter University Conference, the Islamic Malaysian Union, and the recent WD23 in Rwanda, where she passionately addressed topics related youth engagement in peacebuilding efforts, aligning with the principles of UN Resolutions 2250 and 1325. She is currently internally displaced within Gaza.

https://scoundreltime.com/remember-our-names/

#poem #poetry #literature

the damsel
let the dragons
swoop down
& steal her away
from the ugliness
of her world.
unbeknownst to her,
she was only trading
one tower
for another. 
- the wickedest liars of all.

-- Amanda Lovelace, The Princess Saves Herself in This One

#poem #poetry #Amanda-Lovelace

TODAY: On “the fifth of/February 1918,” a soon-to-be seven-year-old girl called Elizabeth Bishop accompanied her aunt to a dentist’s appointment. Fifty years later, she published a poem about her experience called “In the Waiting Room.”

#poem #poetry #poets #literature

LIFETIME ACHIEVEMNT
#poem

What is achieved in a life?
All those moments we live, feel.
Blood pumped,
air inhaled, expelled.
Voices, words that reverberate,
haunt, compel as passion
that won’t let go.
Grasp, if you can, those
floating threads each holding
chapters, stanzas, soul songs
that carried you through
excruciating days, months, years.

See, brilliant achievement,
creation, demons and gods
as needed, a whole world
intricately, intimately
perceived
Exquisite beauty –the essence of artistic
inspiration.

BRIDE’S
#poem #brigid

Novitiate strong and true, my Lord.
Trained to service as is due, my Lord.
Sweep snowy threshold; chop roots for stew,
my Lord.
Domicile clean, tidy, warm.
Hearth fire charmed; wicks ready to light at dark’s release.
Kitchen enchantment, smells that spell succulent sup.
Holiday breads, hunt’s victory,
fruit sweet and spiced, preserved against winter’s insurgency.
Stalwart, luscious vintage ever replenished to
toast-raising cups.
Fragrant pipe passed ‘round; copious wine.
Feast sumptuously satisfied. Night of dance
with hallowed candles cast in magic.
Rhythms wax and wander, discover heroic tales, grand to recount.
Bawdy poetry regales, playful competition gains momentum.
Energy escalates, fans profound merriment.
Family, beyond embarrassment, drunk on high spirits and love.
Goddess blesses, gently kisses, wafts through
artful celebration.

BEARING WATER FOR BRIGID
#poem #brigid

Sketches for a water vessel —
joined, bottle and message elide on waves.
Voice of Brigid calls.
All who hear: Imagine.
Exposed to wind, to grit, to rain
and hail,
rock faces erode.

Vessel
Designated fixed space
Seaworthy container
Conveyor through fluid
separates
Fluidity
Creates place, surface to paint
tableaux for amusement,
diffusement of emotion,
beatitude against foment of dueling farce.

Harsh edges polished,
pure colors
blend in the dark.
Brief infusion
of giddy illusion
glows
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
smiles,
a secret
clue revealing
purpose, meaning;
engages
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,
Glorious
Muse

(Voice rains from within)

A wound is a sacred vessel.
Pain carves into flesh
sense memory;
carries the seed
of its own demise.
Sentience
engulfed in life
learns anew to be whole.

Wounded with the potential for wisdom
when eyes are are pried
from seeping, sucking, suffering
aching to censure what future we admire.
Redefine the schizm.
This wound is our project.
To heal, discover the vision;
realign the seam to fit
self-framed landscape.

Let loose that genie of desire.
Ride rushing blood streams.
Build a roaring pyre of grief,
insane belief in wrathfilled deities.
Revile that old refrain: “life is pain” or a game
to be lost.
No Faustian bargain.
Just a
rambling adventure
daring
to explore
essence of ecstasy.
Don’t wait for the rest to see
and demur.
Stretch your sail.
Take sight of your guiding star.
The only failure is self-denial
in favor of the vile lie
that pain is destiny
instead of faithful friend
lending energy
for change.

Slice vivid memories.
Exult in the tastes, the textures.
Enliven your way.

In the end
the vessel breaks.
There the Goddess stirs.

For Warmth

Poem by Thich Nhat Hanh

I hold my face in my two hands.
No, I am not crying.
I hold my face in my two hands
to keep the loneliness warm—
two hands protecting,
two hands nourishing,
two hands preventing
my soul from leaving me
in anger.

Written during the Vietnam war, after the bombing of the village Ben Tre, after an American officer made the comment "We had to destroy the town in order to save it"

#ThichNhatHanh #poetry #poem #anger #war #bombing

The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster
by Richard Brautigan

When you take your pill
it’s like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside of you.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48585/the-pill-versus-the-springhill-mine-disaster

Comment on Reddit:
https://www.reddit.com/r/menwritingwomen/comments/kild6z/the_only_time_a_simple_fourline_poem_has_filled/

#poem #poetry #literature

Fire and Ice
By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

A Note from the Editor

Robert Frost died on this day in 1963. Frost won the Pulitzer Prize for his collection New Hampshire 100 years ago this year.

#poem #poetry #literature

https://us12.campaign-archive.com/?e=58c6df03ad&u=c993b88231f5f84146565840e&id=9a49fb5806

TODAY: In 1845, “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe is published in the New York Evening Mirror.

#writing #poetry #literature #poets #poem

LEAF REMOVAL
by Al Ortolani

I listen to my wife on the phone
explaining to Leaf Removal, Inc.
how we just can’t
pick up the leaves anymore.
It’s getting to that point she says
that we need someone, which really
isn’t true because we could slide
down the hill on our heels, rake
the leaves into piles, douse them
with charcoal lighter, and set
them ablaze. Then we’d just need
a metal tined rake to lean on,
a little luck to keep the house
from going up in flames, and with
the garden hose uncoiled, nozzle
dribbling like a mouth, watch
last year turn to smoke,
a slip, an ass tumble. Instead,
two rabbits leap out of the leaves,
zig zagging ahead of the dog
who forever believes he’s a hunter
with sharp white teeth and
the speed to stay stride for stride
with the memory of himself.

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

---

Al Ortolani: “Lately, whenever I invoke the Muse for inspiration, she gives me poems from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. Way back to childhood. Even if I don’t want to go in this direction, since the past is the past, old hat as they say, I know that rejecting the Muse can end up in something like poetic impotence. So I follow her lead, and dig around through images I should have sold at garage sales. Probably, there’s a lesson here about knowing thyself, remembering and learning, even when you’ve tried to forget.”

#poem #poetry #literature

Finding the Bird Skull in the Backyard
by Jacqueline West

Someday
says my five-year-old
we will all have birds on our shoulders

Some will be falcons
and some will be ravens
and some will be parrots or chickadees

and they will ride everywhere
with us, except when they fly up to watch
from above and come back to tell us what they’ve seen

This might be exactly
what we need—sharp eyes
on a pair of wings, giving us

all points of the compass at once
all signs of danger or sparkling treasure
all possible paths between two points

And even when
the birds are gone
says the five-year-old

we’ll still have them
because the parts we remember won’t leave
and we’ll make things that were alive

into new things that are alive
and anything that dies will come back
and hold on tight to us again.

from the latest Eye to the Telescope
http://eyetothetelescope.com/index.html

#poem #poetry #sfpoetry #literature