Strange Sea
Implausible fish bloom in the depths,
mercurial flowers light up the coast;
I know red and yellow, the other colors,—
but the sea, det granna granna havet, that’s most dangerous
to look at.
What name is there for the color that arouses
this thirst, which says,
the saga can happen, even to you—
—Edith Södergran (tr. Averill Curdy), Poetry March 2012
O, no iron, o Rio, noLydia Tomkiw, “Six of Ox Is”
red rum murder;
in moon: no omni
devil-lived
derision; no I sired
Otto,
a
drab bard,
Bob,
but no repaid diaper on tub.
O grab me, ala embargo
emit time,
Re-Wop me, empower
Eros’ Sore
sinus and DNA sun is
fine, drags as garden if
sad as samara, ruff of fur, a ram; as sad as
Warsaw was raw.
(Source: paulhooverpoetry.blogspot.com)
Graham Foust, “Clouds”
Such things
as laws fall on us—
soft programs, impossible models
unlocked into air. There
are nameless shapes.
There are tears of understanding.
“Here,
catch.”
Not a map in the world.
—Necessary Stranger; Flood Editions, 2007
Vigils
I
This is luminous repose, neither fever nor languor, in a bed or a meadow.
This is the friend, neither cool nor importunate. Friend.
This is the loved one, neither tormentor nor tormented. Loved one.
Air and world, in no way sought for. Life.
—So it was this?
—And the dream comes on.
II
Light reverts, over the central joist. From the two ends of the room, unremarkable motifs, harmonic elevations that meet. The wall facing the observer is a psychological sequence of friezes in cross-section, atmospheric seams, geological strata.—A vivid, fleeting dream, with sentimental groups… beings of all kinds, in every conceivable guise.
III
The lamps and hearthrugs of the vigil sound like waves along the hull at night and deep below decks.
Sea of the vigil, like Amélie’s breasts.
The wall-hangings, up to halfway, an undergrowth of emerald-tinted lace where the doves of the vigil dart.
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
On the fireback in the blackened hearth, real suns on coastal strands: ah! wells of magic; only the one glimpse of dawn this time.
—Rimbaud (tr. Jeremy Harding)
Graham Foust, “Sob Poem”
Grief that we should be this.
I don’t hate you, broken gift.
The revolution, too, is sad,
jealous with
and of its growth.
Whole buildings are devoted
to particular bones.
*
Start-to-crying’s a wire from
the mind to nowhere.
Don’t
just say there—signify something.
The leaves are on their shadows.
So give down your feather-
weight rage.
—Necessary Stranger; Flood Editions, 2007
