Showing posts from 2021


By Vicki Feaver I used to iron everything: my iron flying over sheets and towels like a sledge chased by wolves over snow; the flex twisting and crinking until the sheath frayed, exposing wires like nerves. I stood like a horse with a smoking hoof, inviting anyone who dared to lie on my silver padded board, to be pressed to the thinness of dolls cut from paper. I’d have commandeered a crane if I could, got the welders at Jarrow to heat me an iron the size of a tug to flatten the house. Then for years I ironed nothing. I put the iron in a high cupboard. I converted to crumpledness. And now I iron again: shaking dark spots of water onto wrinkled silk, nosing into sleeves, round buttons, breathing the sweet heated smell hot metal draws from newly-washed cloth, until my blouse dries to a shining, creaseless blue, an airy shape with room to push my arms, breasts, lungs, heart into. From Poetry Archive


A Poem by Robert Brophy    Lines for Matthew Arnold or variations on “Dover Beach”   The sea is calm tonight, And bleakness full, the fog lies eerie Upon the shore; toward the pier a car light Glimmers and is gone; the cliffs off Palos Verdes stand. Come to the verge, strange is the starless aerie. Only, from the long line of foam Where sea meets fog-blanched sand, Listen! You’ll hear those without home Grieving while the waves draw back, and fling On their return, up where cold forms stand, Hiss, then cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring, Yes, infernal notes of impoverishment in. Jack Smith not long ago Heard it by Newport Pier, and it brought Into his mind that turbid flow Of Southland misery; we Find also, in the sound, the selfsame thought, Hearing it by this the South Bay sea. Locked restroom stalls Were once accessible, and round earth’s shore Apartments not burdened with enormous rent, But now we only hear The melancholy, long, foreclosing roar Adj

Of Mere Being

BY WALLACE STEVENS The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze decor, A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down. Wallace Stevens, "Of Mere Being" from The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play. Copyright © 1967, 1969, 1971 by Holly Stevens. All rights reserved. Source: The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play by Wallace Stevens (Alfred A. Knopf, 1971)

I opened shower

Kumar Abhishek Water shoots out  A force  of small droplets Touch the surface Of my body It follows Each curve and fold  Dryness disappears Now wet Adding some oil Throwing  Ghee into the fire Hands Explore  Sliding Fingers follow Lines of body Eyes shut Mouth open Breathing gradually The water Gone But some tiny Droplets  Stuck On my body Slowly vanish   "Intimacy is being intimate with my own body. Self love plays an important role. "Once we start accepting ourselves and celebrate our own existence then everything becomes beautiful, and we start accepting others, the world."


by Mario de Andrade (San Paolo 1893-1945) Poet, novelist, essayist and musicologist. He was one of the founders of Brazilian modernism. I counted my years and realized that I have Less time to live by, Than I have lived so far. I feel like a child who won a pack of candies: at first he ate them with pleasure, But when he realized that there was little left, he began to taste them intensely. I have no time for endless meetings where the statutes, rules, procedures & internal regulations are discussed, knowing that nothing will be done. I no longer have the patience To stand absurd people who, despite their chronological age, have not grown up. My time is too short: I want the essence, my spirit is in a hurry. I do not have much candy In the package anymore. I want to live next to humans, very realistic people who know How to laugh at their mistakes, Who are not inflated by their own triumphs and who take responsibility for their actions. In this way, human dignity is defended and we

With passion pray

  Rumi “With passion pray. With passion make love. With passion eat and drink and dance and play. Why look like a dead fish in this ocean of God?” Regret, that sinking feeling in the bottom of your stomach. We’ve all been there, wishing we could have another chance. But, it is in this very feeling in which our return to the One happens. The Divine Essence is always seeking our return to Him, waiting for us to seek reconciliation with Him and wash away the mistake. And we give ourselves plenty of opportunity for returning. Darkness wants you to keep mistakes hidden but once you bring the Light in, the experience fades and leaves the lesson. Turn back to the Essence of the One and rejoice that the mistake opened the door for reconnection. Source: Love Poems from God Translator: Daniel Ladinsky

"Notes on a Stay in a Hospital Quarantine Cell"

Patricia G. Horan Patricia G. Horan Patricia Horan is with Elizabeth Sabo .  ·  Dear friends of our beloved Patricia, After testing positive with COVID one week ago, Patricia has completed the great passage, clear-eyed and focused, strong and ready, in the embrace of the tremendous love we all shared with her. Brava, Patricia G. Horan, brava. Please enjoy her final poem, written with insistence and ferocity via text from her hospital bed just three days ago. 12-30-20, 6:45pm   - Elizabeth Sabo December 27, 2020 I swallow my pride and it tastes like honey and salt. The air has embraced my private body and has approved, and it quietly rejoices in its revelations and the liberation of its childlike spills and neediness. How I reach to love it suddenly, this stranger I’ve kept in a fifties New Jersey suitcase, only removing it for one afternoon on a nude fire island beach. Now it is truly liberated in a small windowless quarantine room in North Carolina. The machines behind me beep, shini

“Stray Birds” No. 71

by Ravindranath Tagore The axe begged humbly, ‘O thou mighty oak, Lend me only a piece of thy branch— Just enough to fit me with a handle.’ The handle was ready, and there was no more wasting of time. The beggar at once commenced business—and hit hard at the root, And there was the end of the oak. The woodcutter’s axe begged for its handle from the tree. The tree gave it.

Visit to Katagiri

By Diane di Prima A pleasure. We talk of here & there gossip about the folks in San Francisco laugh a lot. I try to tell him (to tell someone) what my life is like: the hungry people, the trying   to sit zazen in motels; the need in America like a sponge   sucking up whatever prana & courage "Pray to the Bodhisattvas" sez Katagiri Roshi. I tell him that sometimes, traveling, I am too restless to sit still, wiggle &   itch. "Sit only ten minutes, five minutes at a time" he sez-first time it has occurred to me that this wd be OK. As I talk, it becomes OK there becomes some continuity in my life; I even understand (or remember) why I'm on the road. As we talk a continuity, a transfer of energy takes place. It is darshan, a blessing, transmission of some basic joy some way of seeing. LIKE A TANGIBLE GIFT IN THE HAND   In the heart. It stays with me.

The Present

by Billy Collins Much has been said about being in the present. It’s the place to be, according to the gurus, like the latest club on the downtown scene, but no one, it seems, is able to give you directions. It doesn’t seem desirable or even possible to wake up every morning and begin leaping from one second into the next until you fall exhausted back into bed. Plus, there’d be no past with so many scenes to savor and regret, and no future, the place you will die but not before flying around with a jet-pack. The trouble with the present is that it’s always in a state of vanishing. Take the second it takes to end this sentence with a period––already gone. What about the moment that exists between banging your thumb with a hammer and realizing you are in a whole lot of pain? What about the one that occurs after you hear the punch line but before you get the joke? Is that where the wise men want us to live in that intervening tick, the tiny slot that occurs after you have spent hours sear

Strange, Strange

Each woman is a beauty Why do we need Miss Universe? Each person is a treasure for his nation & the world Why do we need the National Living Treasure? Each mountain is wonderful Why do we need One Hundred Great Mountains? Everything on earth is the sun’s heritage Why do we need the World Natural Heritage Parks? The sun can live Ten Billion years. How long will Japan survive – Nobody knows. In the public construction enterprise Somebody makes big money & breaks down the earth Why do you call it public? Stone Age Japanese never knew Atomic Energy. Now nuclear power plants are Poisoning modern Japan to a slow death – Nanao Sakaki (November 20, 1999)

Break the Mirror


sit quietly, you happy lucky idiot

if you have time to chatter read books if you have time to read walk into mountain, desert and ocean if you have time to walk sing songs and dance if you have time to dance sit quietly, you happy lucky idiot   – Nanao Sakaki   APRIL 2, 2013 BY LIVE & LEARN Photo: Mme Scherzo