Poet's Corner #3 2012

Wrong Turn by Luci Shaw I took a wrong turn the other day. A mistake, but it led me to the shop where I found the very thing I'd been searching for. With my brother I opened a packet of old letters from my mother and saw a side of her that sweetened what had been deeply sour. Later that day the radio sang a song from a time when I was discovering love, and folded me into itself again. Advice to Myself by Louise Erdrich Leave the dishes. Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor. Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster. Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup. Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins. Don't even sew on a button. Let the wind have its way, then the earth that invades as dust and then the dead foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch. Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome. Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry who uses whose toothbrush or if anything matches, at all. Except one word to another. Or a thought. Pursue the authentic—decide first what is authentic, then go after it with all your heart. Your heart, that place you don't even think of cleaning out. That closet stuffed with savage mementos. Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner again. Don't answer the telephone, ever, or weep over anything at all that breaks. Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life and talk to the dead who drift in through the screened windows, who collect patiently on the tops of food jars and books. Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything except what destroys the insulation between yourself and your experience or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters this ruse you call necessity. As Birds Are Fitted to the Boughs by Louis Simpson As birds are fitted to the boughs That blossom on the tree And whisper when the south wind blows— So was my love to me. And still she blossoms in my mind And whispers softly, though The clouds are fitted to the wind, The wind is to the snow. Aware by Denise Levertov When I opened the door I found the vine leaves speaking among themselves in abundant whispers. My presence made them hush their green breath, embarrassed, the way humans stand up, buttoning their jackets, acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if the conversation had ended just before you arrived. I liked the glimpse I had, though, of their obscure gestures. I liked the sound of such private voices. Next time I'll move like cautious sunlight, open the door by fractions, eavesdrop peacefully. As Birds Are Fitted to the Boughs by Louis Simpson As birds are fitted to the boughs That blossom on the tree And whisper when the south wind blows— So was my love to me. And still she blossoms in my mind And whispers softly, though The clouds are fitted to the wind, The wind is to the snow. Bounty by Robyn Sarah Make much of something small. The pouring-out of tea, a drying flower's shadow on the wall from last week's sad bouquet. A fact: it isn't summer any more. Say that December sun is pitiless, but crystalline and strikes like a bell. Say it plays colours like a glockenspiel. It shows the dust as well, the elemental sediment your broom has missed, and lights each grain of sugar spilled upon the tabletop, beside pistachio shells, peel of a clementine. Slippers and morning papers on the floor, and wafts of iron heat from rumbling radiators, can this be all? No, look — here comes the cat, with one ear inside out. Make much of something small. Genius by George Bilgere It was nice being a genius worth nearly half-a-million dollars for the two or three minutes it took me to walk back to my house from the mailbox with the letter from the Foundation trembling in my hand. Frankly, for the first minute I was somewhat surprised at being a genius. I'd only published a few small things at that point. I didn't even have a book. I was just a part-time lecturer at a small mid-western college. But early into the second minute I had fully embraced the fact of my genius. I mean, these people know what they're doing, right? Who am I to tell the Foundation its business? And I was already practicing the kind of modest, Hey, it's no big deal tone of voice I'd be using on the phone for the rest of the day as I called all my friends, and especially my enemies, to treat them to the good news. But when I opened the letter and saw it was merely a request for me to recommend someone else to be a genius, I lost interest and made myself a ham sandwich. Noel by Linda Pastan Like a single ornament, the red cardinal on a pine outside the window is our only decoration, until the snow. Poem of the One world by Mary Oliver This morning the beautiful white heron was floating along above the water and then into the sky of this the one world we all belong to where everything sooner or later is a part of everything else which thought made me feel for a little while quite beautiful myself. Rain by Raymond Carver Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgiveable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.