I Don’t Have a Pill for That By Deborah Landau
It scares me to watch
a woman hobble along
the sidewalk, hunched adagio
leaning on —
there’s so much fear
I could draw you a diagram
of the great reduction
all of us will soon
be way-back-when.
The wedding is over.
Summer is over.
Life please explain.
This book is nearly halfway read.
I don’t have a pill for that,
the doctor said.
April 1975 By Reuben Jackson
Should my black
Flatlander eyes
Lock on the other
Brother
In the General Store?
The first I’ve seen
Since what seems like.…
I can’t count that high
Do I pretend I don’t see
Other people
pretending not to see us?
Two brothers
Buying
Triscuits
And peanut butter,
Respectively,
In Northern New England,
Is revolution
On a Sunday
Afternoon.
Man with Avocado by Vanessa Gabb
He eats an avocado
With salt and saves half
For her
Before long the avocado browns
This is how he knows
It has passed
Through his hands
He has halved it
And opened it
To the elements
She watches him
Hand her halves
He says listen
She says just let me be
Here just no
He says eat
They fray
In pieces
See how velvet
See how ripe
It is
She knows he is trying
For metaphor
She knows he is
Saying let us stop all this
Love me
I am here love me
Our beauty
Lies in our perishability
It is this
Short life
The death of it
That is supposed to move
See its impermanence
Is what is
If never to vanish
If never to fade away
What would the avocado be
But she misunderstands him
When he gives
Her the avocado to eat
She is not listening
He does not believe in designations
I am a simple man he says
See this
My mouth
My hands
An avocado
When you are hungry
I feed you
My Papa’s Waltz By Theodore Roethke
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
The Awakening by James Weldon Johnson
I dreamed that I was a rose
That grew beside a lonely way,
Close by a path none ever chose,
And there I lingered day by day.
Beneath the sunshine and the show’r
I grew and waited there apart,
Gathering perfume hour by hour,
And storing it within my heart,
Yet, never knew,
Just why I waited there and grew.
I dreamed that you were a bee
That one day gaily flew along,
You came across the hedge to me,
And sang a soft, love-burdened song.
You brushed my petals with a kiss,
I woke to gladness with a start,
And yielded up to you in bliss
The treasured fragrance of my heart;
And then I knew
That I had waited there for you.
I Got Kin by Hafiz
Plant
So that your own heart
Will grow.
Love
So God will think,
“Ahhhhhh,
I got kin in that body!
I should start inviting that soul over
For coffee and
Rolls.”
Sing
Because this is a food
Our starving world
Needs.
Laugh
Because that is the purest
Sound.
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
I fell in love with a North Korean
by falling asleep on his shoulder
in a South Korean subway.
Later, perhaps because of that,
I misread the Arabic word gurfa,
not as the amount of water
that can be held in one hand,
but as the amount of wonder.
As if one’s entire history could be
measured one handful at a time.
As if we knew another way.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Compassion Camp 