thesefevereddays

[thesefevereddays]

Lullaby for the Grieving

By Ashley M. Jones

at the Sipsey River

make small steps.

in this wild place

there are signs of life

everywhere.

sharp spaces, too:

the slip of a rain-glazed rock

against my searching feet.

small steps, like prayers—

each one a hope exhaled

into the trees. please,

let me enter. please, let me

leave whole.

there are, too, the tiny sounds

of faraway birds. the safety

in their promise of song.

the puddle forming, finally,

after summer rain.

the golden butterfly

against the cave-dark.

maybe there are angels here, too—

what else can i call the crown of light

atop the leaves?

what else can i call

my footsteps forward,

small, small, sure?

#a poem #poetry #ashley m. jones

[thesefevereddays]

Living in the Body

By Joyce Sutphen

Body is something you need in order to stay

on this planet and you only get one.

And no matter which one you get, it will not

be satisfactory. It will not be beautiful

enough, it will not be fast enough, it will

not keep on for days at a time, but will

pull you down into a sleepy swamp and

demand apples and coffee and chocolate cake.

Body is a thing you have to carry

from one day into the next. Always the

same eyebrows over the same eyes in the same

skin when you look in the mirror, and the

same creaky knee when you get up from the

floor and the same wrist under the watchband.

The changes you can make are small and

costly—better to leave it as it is.

Body is a thing that you have to leave

eventually. You know that because you have

seen others do it, others who were once like you,

living inside their pile of bones and

flesh, smiling at you, loving you,

leaning in the doorway, talking to you

for hours and then one day they

are gone. No forwarding address.

#poetry #a poem

[thesefevereddays]

THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH

The Hon. Mrs. Thomas Graham, c. 1775.

#thomas gainsborough

[thesefevereddays]

17 Kinds of Hungry

By Adrian Matejka

Until around sundown, the surviving

lilies in the yard stay wide open,

like the window of a car passing

on a hot day. No music from the flowers,

but they smell like somebody’s fragrant

soap unwrapped on a dish edged

with daisies. All those smells expressing

themselves haphazardly like a band

trying to tune up. Escape is what I’ve wanted

since I was little, cramped in summertime

Section 8: flowers everywhere,

my bird-legged brother a couple steps

back, my sister book-nosed somewhere

in the radius of us. Just a deciduous minute

when the blossom of noises

was from my own AM radio & not my thin

stomach. No more backtalks, no more

slapbacks. Just a quick inhale before

I tiptoed out the front door. Unlatch, turn,

run away. Escape, as Indiana bats wheeled

up top, chirping sonorous somethings.

I ran under them & to the bus, past

those long-necked lilies, self-congratulatory

in their exploded colors. Their purples leaned

the way June does, their reds hot as the woman’s

attitude waiting at the bus stop while

the #17 scooted past without picking us up.

#poetry #a poem

[thesefevereddays]

GUSTAV KLIMT

Portrait of a Lady, 1916.

#gustav klimt

[thesefevereddays]

Two Apricots

By Ama Codjoe

In Kadıköy market, their money already

mingled, someone fished for coins

and handed a small few to the grocer; the other

inspected the apricots and kept the one

less beautiful. Each revealed, at their fingertips,

a pink moon. The firmament tasted like

an insatiable kiss. They held each other’s hands—

dirty from money, sticky with juice.

#poetry #a poem #ama codjoe

[thesefevereddays]

THOMAS WILMER DEWING

In the Garden, 1892-1894.

#thomas wilmer dewing

[thesefevereddays]

In the Green Morning, Now, Once More

By Delmore Schwartz

In the green morning, before

Love was destiny,

The sun was king,

And God was famous.

The merry, the musical,

The jolly, the magical,

The feast, the feast of feasts, the festival

Suddenly ended

As the sky descended

But there was only the feeling,

In all the dark falling,

Of fragrance and of freshness, of birth and beginning.

#a poem #poetry #delmore schwartz

[thesefevereddays]

EWA JUSZKIEWICZ

Untitled (after Charles Howard Hodges), 2019.

#Ewa Juszkiewicz

[thesefevereddays]

When the Fact of Your Gaze Means Nothing, Then You Are Truly Alongside

By Donika Kelly

late spring wind sounds an ocean

through new leaves. later the same

wind sounds a tide. later still the dry

sound of applause: leaves chapped

falling, an ending. this is a process.

the ocean leaping out of ocean

should be enough. the wind

pushing the water out of itself;

the water catching the light

should be enough. I think this

on the deck of one boat

then another. I think this

in the Salish, thought it in Stellwagen

in the Pacific. the water leaping

looks animal, looks open mouthed,

looks toothed and rolling;

the ocean an animal full

of other animals.

what I am looking for doesn’t matter.

that I am looking doesn’t matter.

I exert no meaning.

a juvenile bald eagle eats

a harbor seal’s placenta.

its head still brown.

this is a process. the land

jutting out, seals hauled out,

the white-headed eagles lurking

ready to take their turn at what’s left.

the lone sea otter on its back,

toes flopped forward and curled;

Friday Harbor: the phone booth

the ghost snare of a gray whale’s call;

an orca’s tooth in an orca’s skull

mounted inside the glass box.

remains. this is a process.

three river otters, two adults, a pup,

roll like logs parallel to the shore.

two doe, three fawns. a young buck

stares, its antlers new, limned gold

in sunset. then the wind again:

a wave through leaves green

with deep summer, the walnut’s

green husk. we are alive in a green

crashing world. soon winter.

the boat forgotten. the oceans,

their leaping animal light, off screen.

past. future. this is a process. the eagles

at the river’s edge cluster

in the bare tree. they steal fish

from ducks. they eat the hunter’s

discards: offal and lead. the juveniles

practice fighting, their feet tangle

midair before loosing. this

is a process. where they came from.

for how long will they stay.

that I am looking doesn’t matter.

I will impose no meaning.

#poetry #a poem

[thesefevereddays]

Lost in the Milky Way

By Linda Hogan

Some of us are like trees that grow with a spiral grain

as if prepared for the path of  the spirit’s journey

to the world of all souls.

It is not an easy path.

A dog stands at the opening constellation

past the great helping hand.

The dog wants to know,

did you ever harm an animal, hurt any creature,

did you take a life you didn’t eat?

This is the first on your map. There is another

my people made of  the great beyond

that lies farther away than this galaxy.

It is a world that can’t be imagined by ordinary means.

After this first one,

the next could be a map of  forever.

It could be a cartography

shining only at some times of  the year

like a great web of finery

some spider pulled from herself

to help you recall your true following

your first white breath in the cold.

The next door opens and Old Woman

counts your scars. She is interested in how you have been

hurt and not in anything akin to sin.

From between stars are the words we now refuse;

loneliness, longing, whatever suffering

might follow your life into the sky.

Once those are gone, the life you had

against your own will, the hope, even the prayers

take you one more bend around the river of sky.

#poetry #a poem #linda hogan

[thesefevereddays]

FERDINAND HODLER

Lake Geneva from Chexbres', 1904.

#ferdinand hodler

[thesefevereddays]

April Rain Song

By Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops

Let the rain sing you a lullaby

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk

The rain makes running pools in the gutter

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night

And I love the rain.

#poetry #a poem #langston hughes

[thesefevereddays]

GUSTAV KLIMT

Italian Garden, 1913.

#gustav klimt

[thesefevereddays]

Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard

By Kay Ryan

A life should leave

deep tracks:

ruts where she

went out and back

to get the mail

or move the hose

around the yard;

where she used to

stand before the sink,

a worn-out place;

beneath her hand

the china knobs

rubbed down to

white pastilles;

the switch she

used to feel for

in the dark

almost erased.

Her things should

keep her marks.

The passage

of a life should show;

it should abrade.

And when life stops,

a certain space—

however small —

should be left scarred

by the grand and

damaging parade.

Things shouldn’t

be so hard.

#kay ryan #a poem #poetry

[thesefevereddays]

JOHN SINGER SARGENT

Miss Beatrice Townsend, 1882.

#john singer sargent

[thesefevereddays]

Somehow

By Dorothy Chan

For Norman

You visit me in a dream after passing,

after I’ve been awaiting you for weeks,

because Chinese belief teaches us our

loved ones will appear when we’re asleep.

It’s real when I enter the hotel restaurant

in the middle of nowhere town I live in,

as the Midwest architecture transforms

into Kowloon at evening time. We eat

bird’s nest soup, and I remember the time

my father ordered me this four-hundred-

year-old delicacy at Hong Kong airport.

Out comes the Peking duck, and I ask you:

“Why did it take you so long?” You answer:

“I arrived once you were strong and ready.

#poetry #a poem