All that bravery got us nowhere -- Hemant Mohapatra

[mineralwater82.livejournal.com]

ALL THAT BRAVERY GOT US NOWHERE

This unnatural hour that I have slept in still
hungry from an unfinished early meal, you appear
with your full body and voice and ask me to write again. I
am sitting in a car, running late for my piano lesson, and you
are leaning at the door, telling me the trees have stopped
growing where you live. That you've walked across
two continents but the moon still refuses to leave you.

**

I hear you've started praying now—cut your hair
and stopped wearing blue. They say you suffered
for my art, for desire and despair. I suffered
for my quietude, for I thought freedom
meant something grander. Thankfully, our inequities
were even: clear and simple, the way horses grieve.
After a while, it became harder to realize I was
not talking to my refrigerator. I was, in fact, suffering.

**

In the dream, we are now climbing a staircase.
I am walking behind you, watching your milky calves
stroll in and out of your summer skirt. "What do you understand
of love?" you ask. "Nothing," I say. "And loss?" "Nothing."
"Then why do you write about either?"
"I don't."

**

"I write about you." You pause for a moment,
but do not turn back. Outside the window,
birds are turning into stone. Around the world, everyone
is entering a conversation.

HEMANT MOHAPATRA
BEST NEW POETS, 2011, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA PRESS

W.S. Merwin, 'Listen'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is"

by W.S. Merwin

As If Death Were a Daily Routine | Ilhan Berk

[exceptindreams.livejournal.com]

"As If Death Were a Daily Routine"
Ilhan Berk
translated by Suat Karantay

The road keeps winding. Eventually we stopped there.
Through the open door we saw her,
sitting there spinning wool
A wooden spindle in her hand.
A large ball of yarn had rolled over and stopped there.
At the threshold we extended our heads:
“How are you?” we said. As if
changing the place of a chair
“I’m simply dying!” she said,
without raising her head.
As if death were a daily routine.

A wind kept beating the sea before her
Which she sometimes raised her head to see.

Synesthesia | Steve Fellner

[exceptindreams.livejournal.com]

"Synesthesia"
Steve Fellner

My brother tasted shapes. McDonald’s hamburgers
were most wonderful parallelograms.
The Rice Krispie treats never had quite enough
perpendicularity. But Caesar salad,
oh Caesar salad! You would never devour
a more delicious bounty of line segments.
Meatloaf and green beans disappeared from my brother’s plate so quick
it was like magic. Once something got caught
in my brother’s windpipe. The lunchroom aid slapped
his back. A small hunk of tuna flew
through the air. All the kids clapped. Two periods later
I heard the story: “Your brother almost died.” My response:
“Too bad.” When they saw him in the hallway, they patted
his shoulder and said, “Congratulations.” As if he won
the spelling bee for the seventh year in a row. Everyone wanted
to become his friend. He was a living good luck charm
and he described things in funny ways. They begged
him to come for dinner and grace their meals.
He accepted their invitations and complimented
the dull American dishes. “This tuna casserole is
an inspired rhombus. Can I have another glass
of pink lemonade? It tastes perfectly
sharp.” Parents loved him. He inspired
their kids to see leftovers in a new way. Or maybe
he excited them so much about their meals
there never was any extra to pack away
in Tupperware bowls for tomorrow. I don’t know.
I was never invited. And I never asked
( too many questions. What interested me was )