Monday, September 26, 2016

Imaginary Number

The mountain that remains when the universe is destroyed
is not big and is not small.
Big and small are

comparative categories, and to what
could the mountain that remains when the universe is destroyed
be compared?

Consciousness observes and is appeased.
The soul scrambles across the screes.
The soul,

like the square root of minus 1,
is an impossibility that has its uses.

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by Vijay Seshadri, 2012

Monday, September 19, 2016

Dew

None are more familiar with dew
         than professional footballers. From early
grades they are used to running through
         practice drills and hurling their burly
frames through rucks while the moist chaff
         of wet grass under the winter lights
softens their fall, accustoms the half-
         back to the slippery ball and writes
green cuneiform on wet sandshoes.
         And they fear it in the morning,
kicking off the dew in the 'twos'
         because they ignored a coach's warning.
Half their lives are spent in clouds
         of condensation or the cold heat
of a winter sun where even the crowds
         seem like droplets on the concrete
rose of the stadium. In the final days
         of their season, sweat-spangled on the eve
of their triumph, the ball on a string and their plays
         honed, even the doubters believe.
And the last day is, once again,
         already an aftermath: the ground's been shaved
and sucked dry by the noon sun
         and the paddock has become a paved
and bristled hell for those who will
         collide with it and pinion flesh on
earth, earth on flesh and spill
         blood for the sake of the game. Possession
is the law, all are possessed.
         And when the crowd melts into the dry
darkness, after that great red football's
         booted between the uprights of the sky
scrapers and gone, the sky bawls
         cheerless little drops for the victors
and decks the oval with the losers' jewels.

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by David Musgrave, 2007

Monday, September 12, 2016

Waiting

Left off the highway and
down the hill. At the
bottom, hang another left.
Keep bearing left. The road
will make a Y. Left again.
There's a creek on the left.
Keep going. Just before
the road ends, there'll be
another road. Take it
and no other. Otherwise,
your life will be ruined
forever. There's a log house
with a shake roof, on the left.
It's not that house. It's
the next house, just over
a rise. The house
where trees are laden with
fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,
and marigold grow. It's
the house where the woman
stands in the doorway
wearing sun in her hair. The one
who's been waiting
all this time.
The woman who loves you.
The one who can say,
"What's kept you?"

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by Raymond Carver, 1996

Monday, September 5, 2016

After Work

They're heading home with their lights on, dust and wood glue,
yellow dome lights on their metallic long beds: 250s, 2500s -
as much overtime as you want, deadline, dotted line, dazed
through the last hours, dried primer on their knuckles,
sawdust calf-high on their jeans, scraped boots, the rough
plumbing and electric in, way ahead of the game except for
the check, such a clutter of cans and ice-tea bottles, napkins,
coffee cups, paper plates on the front seat floor with cords
and saws, tired above the eyes, back of the beyond, thirsty.
There's a parade of them through the two-lane highways,
proudest on their way home, the first turn out of the jobsite,
the first song with the belt off, pure breath of being alone
for now, for now the insight of a full and answerable man.
No one can take away the contentment of the first few miles
and they know they can't describe it, the black and purple sky.

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by John Maloney, 2007