another poem by scott cairns

Imperative

The thing to remember is how

tentative all of this really is.

You could wake up dead.

Or the woman you love

could decide you're ugly.

Maybe she'll finally give up

trying to ignore the way

you floss your teeth as you

watch television. All I'm saying

is that there are no sure things here.

I mean, you'll probably wake up alive,

and she'll probably keep putting off

any actual decision about your looks.

Could be she'll be glad your teeth

are so clean. The morning could

be full of all the love and kindness

you need. Just don't go thinking

you deserve any of it.

Cairns, Scott. "Imperative" philokalia: new & selected poems. Lincoln, Nebraska: Zoo Press, 2002.

a poem by scott cairns

Late Results

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers -- Milosz

And the few willing to listen demanded that we confess on television.

So we kept our sins to ourselves,and they became less troubling.

The halt and the lame arranged to have their hips replaced.

Lepers coated their sores with a neutral foundation, avoided strong light.

The hungry ate at grand buffets and grew huge, though they remained hungry.

Prisoners became indistinguishable from the few who visited them.

Widows remarried and became strangers to their kin.

The orphans finally grew up and learned to fend for themselves.

Even the prophets suspected they were mad,and kept their mouths shut.

Only the poor--who are with us always--only they continued in the hope.

Cairns, Scott. "Late Results" philokalia: new & selected poems. Lincoln, Nebraska: Zoo Press, 2002.

deanna young: two poems

about poetry.

Mostly

what i want in this

is recognition, my words to greet you

from a distance

with a wave, to be friends up close.

To be honey

spiralling onto toast, that gold

and translucent

a strand of truth, words the taste

of what they say, pure

honey on your tongue, to come

from clover

via bees. To be food.

Young, Deanna. "Mostly" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.

Poemophobia

There are people walking the streets of the city

reciting poems under their breath. Poems

they have written or read, made up of words

so specific, none could be changed without grave damage

to the whole; nor the soul of the matter explained

without some great symphony of nakedness writhing.

They walk by your doorstep, you do not wave.

You suspect they might be crazy, and they might.

You distrust the subtle movements of their lips

and I don't blame you. I would do the same.

What choice do we have in a world of door-to-door

sermons, dressed up like truth in black and white.

I hear you. No poems are safe. Good night.

Young, Deanna. "Poemophobia" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.

czeslaw milosz!

here is milosz' craftsman (and there will be more):

Craftsman, prepare your instruments.

A tall echo comes down the mountain; you hear the roaring of spring torrents.

The beauty of the earth reveals itself for the first time to children's eyes just as it did once to yours.

Craftsman, you are building a star that will journey in the sky of those now being born,

While you withdraw without regret, thinking how difficult it was to live a life.

And to learn that we do not get what we wanted, and that the two greatest virtues are resignation and persistence.

Also that consciousness brings no solace, since it is the consciousness of a clown turning somersaults on a stage, hungry for applause.

You acquired unwelcome knowledge, of yourself and others; you are filled to the brim with pity and wonder.

May those who are destined to pick up your labor start where you finished, master of vanquished despair.

Praising, renewing, healing. Grateful because the sun rose for you and for others.

Milosz, Czeslaw. "Craftsman" New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 2001.

a spring poem

perhaps my favourite e. e. cummings poem:

Spring is like a perhaps hand

(which comes carefully

out of Nowhere)arranging

a window,into which people look( while

people stare

arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange

thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps

Hand in a window

(carefully to

and fro moving New and

Old things,while

people stare carefully

moving a perhaps

fraction of flower here placing

an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

cummings, e. e. "Spring is like a perhaps hand" 100 selected poems. New York: Grove Press, Inc., 1959.