Poem by Leo Marks
The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours
American Classics - 39 Groundbreaking books and their impact (Poets.org)
Poems for Blok, 1 by Marina Tsvetaeva
Your name is a—bird in my hand, a piece of ice on my tongue. The lips’ quick opening. Your name—five letters. A ball caught in flight, a silver bell in my mouth.
A stone thrown into a silent lake is—the sound of your name. The light click of hooves at night —your name. Your name at my temple —shrill click of a cocked gun.
Your name—impossible— kiss on my eyes, the chill of closed eyelids. Your name—a kiss of snow. Blue gulp of icy spring water. With your name—sleep deepens.
Our Town
Emily: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?”
Stage Manager: “No. The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.”
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
(Image via zalita)
I’m trying hard to clear my head
to think without language
to remember that whole life without adjective.
Don’t forget—
The shadow moves more than you move
but intends less.
From John Casteen IV’s For the Mountain Laurel
Image via twoblueday.files.wordpress.com
Same-Old, Same-Old
Life is not all grand passions, high spiritual aspirations, profound questions, and tormented inner feelings. Some of the time, our feelings are petty rather than grand, our aspirations worldly rather than spiritual, our questions trivial. Sometimes, our inner feelings—or is it just mine?—are irritable, even bored, rather than tormented. One looks a little sour; one hums a little tune. One plays with one’s spoon or keeps checking the clock.
