[somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond]

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, 

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers, 

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and 

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals 

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-- e.e. cummings

Ode to the Happy Day

This time let me

be happy.

Nothing has happened to anybody,

I am nowhere special,

it happened only

that I am happy

through the four chambers

of my heart, walking,

sleeping or writing.

What can I do? I am

happy,

I am more uncountable

than the meadow

grass

I feel my skin like a wrinkled tree

and the water below,

the birds above,

the sea like a ring

around my waist,

the Earth is made of bread and stone,

the air sings like a guitar.

You,by my side in the sand,

you are the sand,

you sing and you are a song,

today the world

is my soul:

song and sand,

today the world

is your mouth:

Let me

be happy

on your mouth, on the sand,

be happy just because, because I am breathing

and because you are breathing,

be happy, because I am touching

your knee

and it is as though I am touching

the blue skin of heaven

and its pristine air.

Today let me

and me only

be happy,

with everybody or without them,

be happy,

with the grass

and the sand,

be happy

with the air and the earth,

be happy,

with you, with your mouth,

be happy.

-- Pablo Neruda

The Facts of Life

That you were born
and you will die.

That you will sometimes love enough
and sometimes not.

That you will lie
if only to yourself.

That you will get tired.

That you will learn most from the situations
you did not choose.

That there will be some things that move you
more than you can say.

That you will live
that you must be loved.

That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of
your attention.

That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg
of two people who once were strangers
and may well still be.

That life isn’t fair.
That life is sometimes good
and sometimes better than good.

That life is often not so good.

That life is real
and if you can survive it, well,
survive it well
with love
and art
and meaning given
where meaning’s scarce.

That you will learn to live with regret.
That you will learn to live with respect.

That the structures that constrict you
may not be permanently constricting.

That you will probably be okay.

That you must accept change
before you die
but you will die anyway.

So you might as well live
and you might as well love.
You might as well love.
You might as well love.

-- Padraig O Tuama

Marie Makes Fun of Me at the Shore

Marie says

look tiny red spiders

are walking

across the pools

& just as I am writing down

tiny red

spiders are

walking across the pools 

She says Mom I can just see it

in your poem it'll say 

tiny red spiders are walking 

across the pools

-- Bernadette Mayer

Bob Rauseo, my bo, Bob -- by Robert Burns and adapted by Mary Kay Rauseo

Bob Rauseo, my bo, Bob
When we were first acquainted,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your handsome brow was straight;
But now your brow is bold, Bob,
Your locks are like the snow,
But blessings on your frosty head,
John Anderson my joy!

Bob Rauseo, my bo, Bob,
We climbed the hill together,
And many a jolly day, Bob,
We have had with one another;
Now we must totter down, Bob,
And hand in hand we will go,
And sleep together at the foot,
Bob Rauseo, my bo!

Corn Ridges Are Lovely, by Robert Burns and slightly modified by Bob Rauseo

 It was upon a Lammas night,

When corn ridges are bonnie, 

Beneath the moon's unclouded light,

I held away to Mary

The time flew by, with careless heed; 

Till, between the dark and dawn, 

With small persuasion she agreed

to see me through the barley.

Corn ridges, and barley ridges,

and corn ridges are bonnie:

I will never forget that happy night,

Among the ridges with Mary.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,

The moon was shining clearly;

I set her down, with right good will, 

Among the ridges of barley:

I knew her heart was all my own; 

I loved her most sincerely;

I kissed her over and over again, 

Among the ridges of barley.

Corn ridges, and barley ridges,

and corn ridges are bonnie:

I will never forget that happy night,

Among the ridges with Mary.

I locked her in my fond embrace;

Her heart was beating rarely:

My blessings on that happy place,

Among the ridges of barley.

But by the moon and stars so bright,

That shone that hour so clearly!

She ay shall bless that happy night

Among the ridges of barley.

Corn ridges, and barley ridges,

and corn ridges are bonnie:

I will never forget that happy night,

Among the ridges with Mary.

I have been blythe with comrades dear;

I have been merry drinking;

I have been joyful gathering money;

I have been happy thinking:

But all the pleasures ever I saw,

Though three times doubled fairly-

That happy night was worth them all,

Among the ridges of barley.

Corn ridges, and barley ridges,

and corn ridges are bonnie:

I will never forget that happy night,

Among the ridges with Mary.

Have a Good Think. Food for Thought

 Thought from the light photonic realm

of thought proceeds photonically

through the synaptic gap then charges

the bioluminescent chemical compound

Becoming the matter that matters most

Proceeding through the neuron pathways 

As a light engorged carrier of inspiration

Coursing through and enlightening

The magical brain with the sparks

of God-given genius

Then in a river of coordination down the motor pathways

to the hands and fingers, through the pen

And via the india ink upon the papyrus page

Owing to long years of practiced penmanship

Duly inscribed as the artistic work accomplished

In the earthly realm for all to see and read

And enjoy and comprehend;

The result of a walk and a good think and

The mastication of the heavenly food

That falls, like manna from the sky.

-- Joseph Bergin

We Are Waiting For Peace to Break Out

 -- for Marvin Simmons

We are waiting for peace to break out

We are waiting for flowers to bloom

We are waiting for the moon to come

from behind the black clouds of war

We are waiting for the light

We are waiting

and as we wait we sing songs of celebration

We are waiting

and as we wait we hold out our hands in love and friendship:

white hands extended in friendship to black hands

and brown and green hands of the earth

We are waiting

and while we wait we applaud those who have gone

      before us

preaching peace: all the Martin Luther Kings, all the 

    Gandhis...

We are waiting for peace to break out

and as we wait we dance: we dance with the cold east wind

with the creaking singing branches of giant firs

we dance with the devils

of dust and the angels of clouds

We are waiting

and as we wait we are learning the language

of burning roses and the sunflowers slowly turning 

    toward the sun

We are waiting for peace to break out

and while we wait we are learning to listen

to cries for mercy and cries for help

though we may not know the language

We are learning to listen for the arrival of doves

We are waiting for peace to break out 

and while we wait we are smiling at you

at all of you - at the you and the me in the mirror...

We are waiting for peace to break out 

We are waiting for buds to pop though it is deep winter

We wait for peace as patiently as the drop of water

on the lips at the mouth of the fountain

We wait knowing the water of peace is cool and sweet 

sure that the crystal drop will fall on the earth 

in spite of any of man's evil actions --

 -- Carlos Reyes [Jan Reitsma]

II. The Mermaid (from The Sea Cabinet)

 Between the imaginary iceberg an the skeletal whale

is the stuffed and mounted mermaid in her case, 

the crudely-stitched seam between skin and scale

so unlike Herbert Draper's siren dreams, loose 

on the swelling tide, part virgin and part harpy.

Her post-mortem hair and her terrible face

look more like P.T. Barnum's Freak of Feejee,

piscene and wordless, trapped in the net of a stare.

She has the head and shrivelled tits of a monkey

the green glass eyes of a porcelain doll, a pair

of praying-mantis hands, and fishy lips

open to reveal her sea-carved mouth, her rare

ivory mermaid-teeth.  Children breathe and rap

on the glass to make her move. In her fixity

she's as far as can be from the selkie who slips

her wet pelt on the beaches of Orkney

and walks as a woman, pupils widened in light, 

discarding the stuffed sack of her body.

Without hearing, or touch, or taste, or smell, or sight

she echoes the numb roll of the whale

in a sea congealed with cold, when it was thought

no beast could be as nerveless as the whale. 

-- Caitriona O'Reilly

[Pia, 2022]

Quarantine

In the worst hour of the worst season

    of the worst year of a whole people

a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.

He was walking – they were both walking – north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.

     He lifted her and put her on his back.

He walked like that west and west and north.

Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.

    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.

But her feet were held against his breastbone.

The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.

     There is no place here for the inexact

praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.

There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.

      Also what they suffered. How they lived.

And what there is between a man and woman.

And in which darkness it can best be proved.

Eavan Boland

Am I Allowed

Am I allowed

to be happy

while the Rohingya women,

torn at night,

rise in the tattered morning light

and place one foot in front of the next?

Am I allowed

to be happy

while the Congalese's idea

of a brokered-peace

is almost as dangerous

as the war itself?

To be happy

while walls are built

and borders constructed

As the world edges

closer to a steep and rocky precipice?

Am I allowed

While my daughter labors alone

And while my mother waits

for some small invisible spark

to light her last days?

Of my womb scars, my history

you have pardoned me

Telling me to it's ok

to put them down

to lay down

to even dance.

But you aren't

my god

my memory

my conscience.

These things

burn and sear

leaving me

unable to sleep

or to wake

Reminding me

That I don’t have free will

And that the choice

to be happy

is not

without consequences

nor without burden.

Material Witness

The radio reports

there is a genocide happening.

For real and right now.

What am I doing?

Matching socks:

a heap of wool and cotton,

black heel to black heel

rolling, tossing and piling.

And again.

Someone was matching socks

while my family was heaving

worn brown luggage

down le rue.

Did we take a right or a left?

Toward or away from the setting sun?

I know of piles:

eyeglasses, teeth, shoes, souls—

the weight of war.

We forget

what we most need to remember:

how fragile the body

how damaged the spirit

how ragged the socks.

Imprint

i

it overwhelms me, an instant of ocean,

delayed grief for the lost years

ii

i dream you back into existence

i dream you back into

i dream you back

i dream you

i dream

iii

i follow you to an unknowable past, mama

each detail of the journey becoming a magnified ignorance

it's taken this long to find that a solitary walk can result in a headful of light;

returning, i step into my footprints, a kind of retrieval...

cradled in a closed palm, the plaited ring of light

iv

i write until my fingers bleed, I write out my sorrow,

i write into the terror of forgetting

v.

listening to leaves settle, like the drift of a gown on ceramic tiles,

telling you: i think of you, sometimes,

the sky is infinite, maybe