Wednesday, June 19, 2013


O you gods, you long-limbed animals, you
astride the sea and you unhammocked
in the cyprus grove and you with your hair
full of horses, please. My thoughts have turned
from the savor of plums to the merits
of pity—touch and interrupt me,
chasten me with waking, humble me
for wonder again. Seed god and husk god,
god of the open palm, you know me, you
know my mettle. See, my wrists are small.
O you, with glass-colored wind at your call
and you, whose voice is soft as a turned page,
whose voice unrolls paper, whose voice returns
air to its forms, send me a word for faith
that also means his thrumhis coax and surge
and her soft hollow, please—friend gods, lend me
a word that means what I would ask him for
so when he says: You give it all away,
I can say: I am not sorry. I sing.

I have somehow fallen out of the habit of reading poetry. It doesn't always fit seamlessly into my/our crowded life - it requires a moment of contemplation not multitasking. I really must make the time though because it can take my breath away (see above). Mairead Small Staid's lovely post at the Hairpin, In Need of Poetry, was a welcome reminder of the pleasures of poetry and some of the amazing poets who are writing now. Lots of names and links to follow up on...

Have you read anything striking recently? Any contemporary poets you want to big up? I'm putting Lindenberg's McSweeney's collection on my wishlist.

Chuck x

1 comment:

  1. Poetry forces me to slow down my reading. And I really like the phrase - my wrists are small...