Late

Had I met you when I was a girl, all bony laughter and ragged sighs,
I would have fallen under your shadow, knelt in the grass, been your weed, your bride.
And had I met you when I was another man's wife—still young, hair full of flame—
I'd have taken the spell for a sign. I'd have been jewel to your thief, little sin, and never
forgiven myself for that kiss. Or had I met you in the early wind of my solitude, I might
have snapped. Cracked like that naked branch I swung from all those aching, brilliant nights.
Instead, you came late, you came after I'd made myself into harbor and chalice and wick.
More like the ashes than any warm hearth. More like a widow than wanton, beloved.
And you lifted me over the wall of the garden and carried me back to my life.


by Cecilia Woloch

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was 
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that 
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back 
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky 
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who 
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. 
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, 
but just coming to the end of triumph.

by Jack Gilbert

the invention of mathematics: two

after the number two there was no stopping
troubles blossoming
in geometric progression
two to tango
and two required for murder and war
Doris Day singing
love me or leave me
and the tragic lob
of my nervous girlheart
th-thump, th-thump
she already knew
that deafening silence
when the call goes unanswered
th-thump, th-thump
with its inevitable
downbeat on two

by Amy Uyematsu

Siempre (Always)

Antes de ti

no tengo celos.

Ven con un hombre

a la espalda,

ven con cien hombres en tu cabellera,

ven con mil hombres entre tu pecho y tus pies,

ven como un rio

lleno de ahogados

que encuentra el mar furioso,

la espuma eterna, el tiempo.

Traelos todos

adonde yo te espero:

siempre estaremos solos,

siempre estaremos tu y yo

solos sobre la tierra

para comenzar la vida.

by Pablo Neruda

In English...

Always

Facing you

I am not jealous.

Come with a man

at your back,

come with a hundred men in your long hair,

come with a thousand men between your chest and your feet,

come like a river

filled with drowned men

that meets the furious sea,

the eternal foam, time.

Bring them all

to where I wait for you:

we shall always be alone,

it shall always be you and me

alone upon the earth

to begin life.

After Years

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood in the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

by Ted Kooser

Before

I always thought death would be like traveling
in a car, moving through the desert,
the earth a little darker than sky at the horizon,
that your life would settle like the end of a day
and you would think of everyone you ever met,
that you would be the invisible passenger,
quiet in the car, moving through the night,
forever, with the beautiful thought of home.


By Carl Adamshick

Sonnet XLIII

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

From Collected Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay,
published by Harper & Brothers Publishers. Copyright © 1956