To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redress
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing
As an empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs,
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Month: August 2023
Animals by Leonard Michaels
Her skin was made of animals, exceedingly tiny, compressed like a billion paps in a breathing sponge. Caressing her, my palm was caressed by the smooth resilient motion in her skin. Awake or asleep, angry, bored, loving, made no difference. Her skin was superior to attitudes or words. It implied the most beautiful girl. And the core of my pleasure ached for her, the one she implied.
For Pao-Chin, A Boatman On The Yellow Sea by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Where is he now, in his soiled shirt reeking of garlic,
Sculling his sampan home, and night approaching fast—
The red sail hanging wrinkled on the bamboo mast;
Where is he now, I shall remember my whole life long
With love and praise, for the sake of a small song
Played on a Chinese flute?
I have been sad;
I have been in cities where the song was all I had,—
A treasure never to be bartered by the hungry days.
Where is he now, for whom I carry in my heart
This love, this praise!
The Guardian by Mark Strand
The sun setting. The lawns on fire.
The lost day, the lost light.
Why do I love what fades?
You who left, who were leaving,
what dark rooms do you inhabit?
Guardian of my death,
preserve my absence. I am alive.
Lot’s Wife by Anna Akhmatova
And the just man trailed God’s shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a relentless voice kept harrying his woman:
“It’s not too late, you can still look back
at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage bed.”
A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.
Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for your concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.
translated by Stanley Kunitz & Max Hayward
Not Dying by Mark Strand
These wrinkles are nothing.
These gray hairs are nothing.
This stomach which sags
with old food, these bruised
and swollen ankles,
my darkening brain,
they are nothing.
I am the same boy
my mother used to kiss.
from Eating Out: God by Leonard Michaels
My mother said, “What’s new?” I said, “Nothing.” She said, “What? You can tell me. Tell me what’s new.” I said, “Something happened.” She said, “I had a feeling. I could tell. What happened?” I said, “Nothing happened.” She said, “Thank God.”
the other thing
sometimes after talking to people
I just want to lie down and go to sleep
only I can’t sleep so there’s that
and the other thing
that we don’t talk about
but we all know it’s there
that other thing that makes sleep impossible
so there’s that too
from Downers: Liver by Leonard Michaels
“Everything is fine,” I said. My mother said, “I hope so.” I said, “It is, it is.” My mother said, “I hope so.” I said, “Everything is wonderful. Couldn’t be better. How do you feel?” My mother said, “Like a knife is pulling out of my heart.”
The Coming of Light by Mark Strand
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
Leonard Durso 