ModPo

new books arrived in the laundry room (my wife lets me do laundry more often since I retired) German novels, African American history, Native American languages, British plays - I thumb through all the new additions, while the whites wash and the colors dry.  An eclectic collection, well kept (I can tell) and carefully read by a conscientious reader, perhaps a tenant, now departed, her books abandoned, left behind to testify on her (or his) behalf.  And launderers like me now benefit from such largesse. I thumb through them all, and wonder will my volumes end up here.

Still and All Still and all, if you ask in that way, I might reply – “peace.” Although the wind would likely disagree and would be Pressed to bring the gushing creek to share the thought Among our loose wrapped memories are few  With ribbons tied --  No disappointment showing The fireplace chafes at  Keeping all that pent up sun between the blackened dogs And calmly turning twisted pine unto soot Something’s wild and vengeful In your eyes – something like to hate that  Shakes the earth and strips the forest bare Tornados, hurricanes, wars and derision,  Let these come Christmas Eve.  We’ll find some virtue in combatting  Joy in gritting our bared gnashing teeth It’s when becalmed our canyons start to gape Our wolves are still, I  Know my insides come unzipped  It’s then I cannot stand or understand  The shepherd or the sheep  But longing (though I wish it weren’t so)  And thoroughly betrayed by -- Love. 

Solstice Elongated in your tresses I am the opposite of sleep Shab-e-Yalda, tonight it is myself that I weave Poet, pour the night’s darkest wine, let me unlock the keys to my ruin your lips, Shab-e-Yalda! Your wine is a deep inkwell, let me drink it all and die, no need to write my name, just see the stars, Shab-e-Yalda!

Winter Solstice The shortest day is upon us, and our structures Built to observe, like Stone Henge, the pyramids Track the sun’s alignment, demonstrate this day We look out, on this, the closest day to Heaven If each concentric sphere were like our world They too would face the Sun, not this Earth Our guiding constellations - people and animals They would turn their backs on us as well We watch the Sun each year; we map his path Beloved being, like us, we wonder at your span Like fond farewell, the Sun but lingers in the sky Again, we pray the days run longer from here In hope, dread, we measure on this shortest day For a longer tomorrow, another beautiful year

LAST WEEK Sunday teary Can’t cheat Death Monday leary Another one Out of gas Tuesday dreary Read “Life” at Death Wednesday weary Road tired Home Thursday theory Big Bang TV Friday eerie Feverish sleep Dreams Saturday query Maybe O’leary’s

Today Isn’t Everything by Pablo Neruda Something of yesterday clings to today, a flag or a potsherd; or simply a notion of light, the scum on a midnight’s aquarium, an unwithering thread--- essential tenacity, gold in the air: something persists, whatever passes away a little diminished, to fall under the arrows of the hostile sun and its combats. Else, why in the glowing autonomy of the positive day that we lived did a portent of seagulls stay on, circling back as if it would stagger the mix of its blue with the blue that had vanished? I tell you: Inside the light your soul makes its circle, refining itself to extinction,  or enlarging its rings like the stroke of a bell. And between death and rebirth the space is less grand than we thought, the frontier less implacable. Light’s shape is round as a ring and we move ourselves by its movements. Translation: Ben Belitt From Late and Posthumous Poems: 1968-1974

He always knew his enemies would not be able to destroy him - nor would violence or disease conspire to take him out – nor would he be behind the wheel when he crossed the River Jordan – one night he would fall asleep, as usual, and wake up in Beulahland. a luta continua...

A Prayer By John Drinkwater (1882–1937) LORD, not for light in darkness do we pray, Not that the veil be lifted from our eyes, Nor that the slow ascension of our day             Be otherwise. Not for a clearer vision of the things        5 Whereof the fashioning shall make us great, Not for the remission of the peril and stings             Of time and fate. Not for a fuller knowledge of the end Whereto we travel, bruised yet unafraid,        10 Nor that the little healing that we lend             Shall be repaid. Not these, O Lord. We would not break the bars Thy wisdom sets about us; we shall climb Unfetter’d to the secrets of the stars        15             In Thy good time. We do not crave the high perception swift When to refrain were well, and when fulfil, Nor yet the understanding st...