Love after Love-Derek Walcott

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The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

God’s Poem

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I recite literature to God. He likes the ones I can’t get through without tears, mainly because He knows I’m offering my soul and not just steering words with autopilot.

Sometimes I use my own, other times someone says it better than I ever could and I trust that God accepts it the same. So this one Thursday night, Sylvia Plath said my prayer,

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

Silence

As I sat under Plath’s fig tree God remained tied tongued- tongue tied, I wondered if He too was trying to borrow just the right words.

After laying in that awful silence for over a week God spoke, “I saw thee under the fig tree, believest thou [me]? Thou shalt see great things than these.” Luke 1:50.

The silence was broken to remind me God has always been the best of Poets..

x
Katie

Art Courtesy of Carlo Mattioli

Trust the Hours- Galway Kinnell

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Trust the Hours- Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. The desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair, music of pain,
music of looms weaving our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Hawaii

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I moved back to Hawaii this week. My friends have been gone for a while now and I’ve had time to bask in my radiant solitude.

I’ve made space for poetry again. For barefoot sandy morning runs. For acai bowls while feeling the receding tide tickling my sunburn. I feel joy.. Today I feel far from lost.

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

— David Wagoner

Captive

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For her love is a hostage situation
it takes hold and no longer can she control
herself, captive is her mind and her sanity.

Any semblance to a balanced and
stable woman is gone into a sort
of dependence no one could deem safe
but just like that, love took her again

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Art courtesy of Guim Tio

 

It’s not your Job- Caitlyn Siehl

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when your little girl
asks you if she’s pretty
your heart will drop like a wineglass
on the hardwood floor
part of you will want to say
of course you are, don’t ever question it
and the other part
the part that is clawing at
you
will want to grab her by her shoulders
look straight into the wells of
her eyes until they echo back to you
and say
you do not have to be if you don’t want to
it is not your job
both will feel right
one will feel better
she will only understand the first
when she wants to cut her hair off
or wear her brother’s clothes
you will feel the words in your
mouth like marbles
you do not have to be pretty if you don’t want to
it is not your job

China Set

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Onto the bed he carefully lowered me
like a china set, that same set You
broke last month

He poured himself onto me
I opened everything- my arms
my mouth, my legs.. except my heart
This whole time You’ve had it

What a shame it is, to attempt to
love someone while wishing
he were You

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Styrofoam Wishes

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I pretend to like nonfiction

I read it just to prove there is a single

realistic bone in my body, There isn’t.

I am made of styrofoam wishes and

truths I refuse to accept-

 

like Brannon, age 21, shaken awake

by a seizure that no longer allowed him

to wake again. Just like that he died

 

Dec 8th, sunny day, I had cornflakes for breakfast

while Brannon’s mourning mother digested the news.

It happened. Senseless. Completely unspectacular.

The cars outside even continued their commute

no one stopped for the grieving parade, it never showed

 

Dec 9th will come, maybe it will be a sunny day

maybe I will have cornflakes for breakfast

Likely though, I will pick up another fictional story

One with the gallant ending, the fastened bow,

the poetic words. Maybe that will let me sleep

at night pretending those stories are nonfiction-

 

Pretending that people die when time is used and

tucked away, old aged and wrinkled, rocking next

to pictures of their Brady Bunch grandchildren

who tell tales of their first kiss with the neighbor’s son-

the one with the funny looking braces

 

that’s how it’s supposed to be,

hasn’t anyone read the books?

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