Silence
Saadi Youssef
Winds that do not blow in the evening,
and winds that do not blow at dawn
have burdened me with a book of boughs.
I see my cry in the silence.
Night descends, blue, between staircases and stars. I see
blue trees, abandoned streets, and a country of sand.
I had a home and lost it.
I had a home and left it.
How close the stars are!
They cling to my steps. O blue trees, blue woods, night!
We have ended up in a world
collapsing or beginning or dying....
...Which country have you come to now?
Here, you will open a door to a torture chamber.
And one day in a garden
you will see your arms, your eyes, or your speeding heart.
But you are strong today, say your word. Say it,
for after tomorrow you will begin to die.
The winds that do not blow in the evening,
the winds that do not blow at dawn.
I am beautified with the book of boughs;
and I see my cry in others' eyes.
November 3, 1974
farahdhiba
Quail
Going where the car
went but under, not
through the guardrail,
a caravan of quail
hazards a mountain road:
mom, five chicks then
dad in near-comic
triple-time, parents
warily swiveling
apostrophed heads,
little ones in
linearity's thrall. Mid-
step and breath,
you watch them
family-find the green
fabric of a June re-
stitching itself
after being torn.
Dore Kiesselbach
New Letters
Volume 72, Number 2
THE EVENING STAR
Tonight, for the first time in many years,
there appeared to me again
a vision of the earth's splendor:
in the evening sky
the first star seemed
to increase in brilliance
as the earth darkened
until at last it could grow no darker.
And the light, which was the light of death,
seemed to restore to earth
its power to console. There were
no other stars. Only the one
whose name I knew
as in my other life I did her
injury: Venus,
star of the early evening,
to you I dedicate
my vision, since on this blank surface
you have cast enough light
to make my thought
visible again.
Louise Glück
Averno
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2006 by Louise Glück.
All rights reserved.
Poem
Artificial Tears
© Tiel Aisha Ansari
| “Artificial tears,” the bottle says. I guess you’re meant to use them on the days (they’re few and far between, it seems to me) life doesn’t bring the real ones. Can it be the need’s that common? Truly, I’m amazed. Perhaps the copy should be thus rephrased— “A tear-like liquid.” “Lubricating glaze.” You think I’m crying, but it might just be artificial tears. You don’t dare weep; you know that it betrays your broken heart, the emptiness that weighs you down. The answer’s in this bottle, see, they’re tidily contained and sorrow-free. What dims the hungry crocodile’s gaze? Artificial tears. |
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