Processional Poem By James Merrill

Processional Poem By James Merrill

Think what the demotic droplet felt,
Translated by a polar wand to keen,
Six-pointed Mandarin—
All singularity, its Welt—
Anschauung of a hitherto untold
Flakiness, gemlike, nevermore to melt!
But melt it would, and—look—become
Now birdglance, now the gingko leaf’s fanlight,
To that same tune whereby immensely old
Slabs of dogma and opprobrium,
Exchanging ions under pressure, bred
A spar of burnt-black anchorite,
Or in three lucky strokes of word golf LEAD
Once again turns (LOAD, GOAD) to GOLD.

Happy Wednesday Messages…

Entrance Poem By Rainer Maria Rilke

Entrance Poem By Rainer Maria Rilke

Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.

Happy Wednesday Wishes

The Unstrung Lyre Poem

The Unstrung Lyre Poem By Eric Pankey

With what can I string this antique lyre:
A snowy contrail? A trace of ether?
A little belt of stars the morning veils?
The wet end of a sounding line that drips
Souvenirs from the wintry depth’s calm?
These unaccompanied words, a capella,
May as well be words in an empty chapel:
Fire-gutted, cellar-cold, shadows gathered
In the pews instead of parishioners.
What are words spoken to no one but prayer,
But the restless gibber of the heart,
Frantic, willing to say anything,
To beg mercy of what might silence it?
As bright as an Annuciation lily,
As a bowstring shimmering to stillness,
The Word is what I heard and cannot replicate.
This unstrung frame may as well be a loom
Upon which no tomorrow is woven,
Upon which no tomorrow is postponed.

Happy Wednesday Messages…

Embertide in Advent Poem

Embertide in Advent Poem By David Middleton

They waited beneath the cold December snows,
Late flowers of the fall, the folded rose,
The angels’-trumpet crumpled in the mold,
Daisies of Michaelmas, the hidden lily curled
In dust of goldenrod and marigold,
Old matter’s liturgy, a pregnant world
Out of whose star-of-Bethlehem arose
A Roman hyacinth, sweet-olive of the snows.

Happy Wednesday Wishes

Her Purse at the Winter Solstice

Her Purse, at the Winter Solstice Poem By Susan Hahn

The needled red tea roses were distorted
by the quilt in the fabric of the cheap cotton
bag she carried through the filth
of snow to the transfusions
and back again to her bed
where she fanned herself
into the soft pink blankets and then closed
into them like a small item,

lost. Sometimes I couldn’t find her—
a swansdown powder puff,
misplaced. All night
I’d dream of black taffeta, locked inside
a day bag of white painted metal plaques
or an evening clutch of lacquered brass,

covered with ash, ribbed silk. Her purse
had too deep a background,
where blossoms were pinned down
—stitch to stitch—

with never a hope they could climb off
and into the coming spring air, join
the others. I’d dream of a framed
French carryall, pale blue silk
and silver thread worked into
a pattern of a spiderweb, finished
with a tassel of carved steel
beads, my fingers constantly being cut,
by handles decorated with flowered urns
and the cold heads of the sphinxes.

Happy Wednesday Wishes

Neanderthal, with Help from Cave

Neanderthal, with Help from Cave Poem By David Citino

and Bear, Invents the Flute
In the dark cave of Slovenia,
40,000 years of utter silence.
No one to lift this leg bone of bear.
Two finger-holes punched through
to take the mortal breath away,
end open to let out the skein
of tones closer to human moan
than human moan, hoot of moon
wind-honed, horned, fervid scents,
fevered puddles of bison blood, beak
and breath of Gray Father, steam
of Mother Milk. We didn’t know
Neanderthals had an ear.
We didn’t know they beatified
their dead with color. In petal,
pistil, stamen they invented
prayer, and on the first flute
the closer-to-beastly unkin of us
worked, out of starless dark,
the melodies of bear, and birds
lifting off at dawn. The cave
is a flute, the skull is a flute
for wish to move through, true,
eye and nose hole waiting for
the skill to finger out our voices.
From the bones of our parents,
we tease out the music of us.

Happy Wednesday Wishes & Messages…

American Pylons Poem

American Pylons Poem By Kevin Durkin

Spreading their legs between the rows,
of stubble wheat or corn,
they stand their ground against the lash
and icy sting of storms.
While all the country lies asleep,
they brace beneath cold stars,
gripping their buzzing cables, stiff
and faithful in the dark.
When light returns, their ribs allow
blown leaves an easy passage
while they convey, without a pause,
all power and no message.

Happy Wednesday Wishes & Messages…