Search This Blog

Saturday, October 4, 2014


Sky One                                                              Nance Van Winckel
In an early sky, the molecules of my wings
were reshaping themselves—by sheer will, it seemed—
into arms. And I was sad, at first, to be dispossessed
of the old updraft, the wheel-and-hold.
                                          But alright, goodbye.
I'd begun to see that the arms were spiraling, moving
ever more wildly, and Oh, I thought,
            they're full of stars. Then I saw—no,
                        the arms were made of stars. 


from 'Turbulence: Three Exercises'                              Todd Boss

1.      A Squall

will rail
at a westerly
wall awhile,
will reel, will
roll like a
wheel, mile
over mile up
hill, down
dale, will
loose all hell
and finally
drown just
east of town,
like an old hired
hand grown

tired of it all.


Happy Ideas by Mary Szybist  
I had the happy idea to fasten a bicycle wheel to a kitchen stool and watch it turn. Duchamp
I had the happy idea to suspend some blue globes in the air
and watch them pop.
I had the happy idea to put my little copper horse on the shelf so we could stare at each other all evening.
I had the happy idea to create a void in myself.
Then to call it natural.
Then to call it supernatural.
I had the happy idea to wrap a blue scarf around my head and spin.
I had the happy idea that somewhere a child was being born who was nothing like Helen or Jesus except in the sense of changing everything.
I had the happy idea that someday I would find both pleasure and punishment, that I would know them and feel them,
and that, until I did, it would be almost as good to pretend.
I  had the happy idea to string blue lights from a tree and watch them glow.
I had the happy idea to call myself happy.
I had the happy idea that the dog digging a hole in the yard in the twilight had his nose deep in mold-life.
I had the happy idea that what I do not understand is more real than what I do
and then the happier idea to buckle myself into two blue velvet shoes.
I had the happy idea to polish the reflecting glass and say
hello to my own blue soul.  Hello, blue soul.  Hello.
It was my happiest idea.
Fog on Skyline Drive                                                                                  Alison Apothecker
Because what I say must be said
          silently, a hushed gathering
of lip readers practicing
          an imprecise articulation,
and also because all you can do
          as you grip the wheel this evening
and steer against the white line
          that leaves you dizzy in its trailing off,
lost mid-sentence, a verb
                   feeling for its object,
I will have you trust that this night
          will unfold in the same order it does
on any night, that you will,
more slowly, yes, but all the same—
Let me explain it this way:
All that is indecipherable is what I am.
Trees become their shadows and their shadows'
          shadows the faces
you've tried hard to remember not to
You will come to know faith as a white flag
          you wave to the road and night,
the deer and opossum waiting just beyond
          the dimmed lights.
                   Your body calls this grace.
Now, you see it clearly in your mind:
          a warm room, the sleeping dog.
I give you the chance, curve by curve
          to practice what is necessary
                   to say
                            and to hear it being said. 

No comments: