Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.

by Mary Oliver

Untranslatable Song

        "Everyone needs one untranslatable song."
                    -Roberto Juarroz

On hearing the striped contralto of guinea fowl,
its mock opera quivers the parsley atop its head--

The song makes its imprint
in the air, making itself felt,
a felt world. Here, there,
the stunned silence
of knowing I will not remember
what I heard;

futures
that will never happen,
a fluidity we cannot achieve
except as a child
creating possibility.

This is the untranslatable song
hidden in the earth.


by Claudia Reder

Point of Attachment

First dream of a place where dreams don't

exist. Of lengthening a tiresome pace before

you can catch your breath. Or that a thousand puddles could

prevent the rising tide. Point your eyes to the stars,

now point them to the sea, breathe deeply and swipe away

the fog. Now give a wave of your hand when I pass by, don't

stand up so the waves can wash over your feet.

Sleep late but don't let those dreams fool you

into thinking that the hours don't mean anything. Or

that the weather is going to change, or that the

birds love to make amends. Nobody knows their names

anyways. All one really needs is the green grass, the

view from someone's lap and a sturdy umbrella.

The leaves will always change and sever their point of attachment;

autumn will leave while winter beats down your windows.

Do not worry. It is too often that worry darkens your door.

Listen to the weaving of the clouds and

the whirling of trees,

keep your ear to the ground and your teeth

gnashed, ready to fight for the amazing place

we called home.


by Matt St. Peter

Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly——

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.


by Sylvia Plath