Monday, January 30, 2012

Anne Carson


When my brother died (unexpectedly) his
widow couldn't find a phone number for me among his
papers until two weeks later. While I swept my porch
and bought apples and sat by the window in the evening
with the radio on, his death came wandering slowly
towards me across the sea.

Nox by Anne Carson; 2010

Jim Moore


The old woman who lives across the street
runs her vacuum
on the day after Christmas,
cleaning up after the silence
of the day before.
Two small geraniums in the window
lean into one another
like people whispering at a funeral:
signs of life.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Now the hour bows down, it touches me, throbs
metallic, lucid and bold:
my senses are trembling. I feel my own power –
on the plastic day I lay hold.

Until I perceived it, no thing was complete,
but waited, hushed, unfulfilled.
My vision is ripe, to each glance like a bride
comes softly the thing that was willed.

There is nothing too small, but my tenderness paints
it large on a background of gold,
and I prize it, not knowing whose soul at the sight,
released, may unfold . . .

[Poems from The Book of Hours]