To the Looking Glass World
by Lewis Carroll

To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said
"I've a sceptre in hand, I've a crown on my head.
Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be
Come dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen and Me!"

Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,
And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:
Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea--
And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!

"O Looking-Glass creatures," quoth Alice, "draw near!
'Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:
'Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and Me!"

Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,
Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:
Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine--
And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!

Jabberwocky

by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

I Wanted
by Roque Dalton

I wanted to talk about life of all its melodious
corners I want to gather in a river of words
the dreams and the names what is left unsaid
in the newspapers the pains of the solitary
surprised in the nooks of the rain
rescue the leafless parabolas of lovers and give them to you
laid before the games played by a child
elaborating his sweet daily destruction
I wanted to pronounce the syllables of the people
the sounds of its grief
show you where their hearts limp
insinuate those who only deserve a bullet
in the back tell you of my own countries
impose on you from the exoduses from the great
emigrations which opened up all the roads of the world
of the love of even the bedraggled one over there
by the ditches
speak to you of the trains
of my friend who killed himself with another’s knife
of the history of all the men broken
by blindness by myth’s reefs
of the century which my three sons will outlast
of the bird’s tongue and the furious foam
in the stampede of the great four-legged beast
and I wanted to talk to you of the Revolution
of Cuba and the Soviet Union
and of the girl that I love for her eyes
of shortened storm
and of your lives filled with dawns
and of people who ask who saw you who said that
how could it’ve been done I got here
before you
and of all of nature’s things
and of the heart and its testimonies
of the last fingerprints before total annihilation
of the tiny animals and of tenderness
I wanted to yes say to you all of that and tell you
lots of stories I know and in turn were told to me
or that I learned by living in that great room of pain
and things said by other poets before me
and that are good for you to know

And I can’t give you more — closed
door of poetry —
than my own corpse beheaded in the sand.

Like You
By Roque Dalton
(Translated by Jack Hirschman)

Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.
I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
love,
little things,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.

Diego Velasquez, La Venus de Espejo 1644-1648


To Camille Duplessis...

Sumptuous is the feast that your skin bares,

a soft expanse of refulgent whiteness,

laid out among the silken intricacies of Valenciennes lace.

Perfection conceived in my mind,

I relish dining on the succulence of your roseate flesh.

My ambidextrous hands, like the tenderness of cutlery

trace the delicate undulations of curving spine,

Consciously intimate of that sweetness imbuing your honeyed breasts.

Lonely Queen

The preparations for the party were well underway that Vida decided to freshen herself up. She soaked herself in the bathtub for over an hour, letting the aromatic oils soothe her tired body. True, she didn’t have to wash the dishes, polish the silverware and crystal, and arrange the setting, but supervising the household help was exhausting in itself.

She belonged to high society. Her soirees were attended by no less than the denizens of society rags, their hangers-on, as well as a bit of the try-hards flashing their tawdry bling bought from some ragtag department store. But who cares? All that mattered to Vida was that she pampered their palates with the best food and vintage wines, and entertained them with glitzy gigs that her husband’s money could buy. To constantly appear at society magazines was the only point, she thought, even if you have to spend heftily, or elbow your way in to join so-called charitable clubs to promote yourself.

Vida carefully examined herself in the dresser mirror. There were a few wrinkles near the corners of her eyes and mouth, marring her otherwise smooth face. She knew that these blemishes were unremarkable and indistinguishable, but her vanity was stirred. A visit to the cosmetic surgeon was called for to smooth over the lines with Botox injections. In the meantime, she began to apply liquid foundation and blush-on to conceal the depredations of age.

Vida had always been conscientious of her image. She had to be perfect in her manners, style, and taste. Her mother had ingrained that sensibility in her. Didn’t she spend her childhood learning how to walk gracefully, choose the right fork for the salad, wear the most fashionable styles, and engage in agreeable conversation? All in the name of seducing and hooking up with the right man. She grew up adulated by the in-crowd. Wasn’t she the queen of the lot? Many have tried to upstage her, but no one ever succeeded in trouncing her from the throne.

Vida smiled wryly at her reflection. With her left hand, she gathered her flowing hair into a bunch, giving an unobstructed view of her face. Deep inside, she felt that gnawing loneliness -- a solitariness brought about by years of deliberately deceiving oneself, of surrounding herself with lackeys and sycophants, pompous in their praises yet spewing venom behind her back. But Vida had learned to steel herself from these disappointments. She had the wealth and pedigree to ease her way through.

The dress she planned to wear that night was neatly placed on her bed. She had bought it at Zara’s the day before, a simple elegant black dress with Swarovski crystal accents. She had no qualms in buying it since her husband was liberal in giving her all the comforts, just to keep her quiet and happy. Vida had not married for love, but for the practicality of living the indolent life, free from the hassles of a career. Sure, she allowed her husband his infidelities in exchange for the right to max his credit cards and checking accounts. She warned him as well to avoid getting caught in the gossip columns and besmirching their good name. The fiasco that one of their acquaintances had gotten himself into -- getting caught in flagrante delicto humping his mistress in one of the stables of the Polo Club -- gave the society wags enough cannon fodder to destroy a family and overturn lucrative business deals.

I’ll turn a blind eye, but keep me happy, she told her husband. It was a sensible agreement to keep them mutually content.

Vida finished applying her make-up and peered at herself through her long lashes, satisfied at her alluring visage. She daintily dressed herself, smoothing over the creases and arranging the crystal accents to achieve the appropriate glint.

Everyone learns to deceive to survive loneliness. It’s all artifice.

Vida looked at herself one last time at the mirror before she turned off the light in her room. She was ready to face her guests.

Evie’s Choice

Take my hand, I’m a stranger in paradise / All lost in a wonderland, a stranger in paradise. / If I stand starry-eyed / that's a danger in paradise / For mortals who stand beside an angel like you…

The faint strains of Borodin’s ballad wafted through the aluminum-screened windows of the room, suffusing its otherwise dismal air with a mellifluous calm that Wilfredo had long since forgotten. He sat on a chair by Evie’s bed, cradling his son in his arms and gazing listlessly at the inert form of his wife as she slept. Wilfredo knotted his brow when he heard the melody from his neighbor’s radio, painfully reminded of his all too short marital bliss and the prospect of single fatherhood.

The melody was his and Evie’s love song. It was maudlin to some, but Wilfredo didn’t care. It declared his affection for the woman who made his life complete with her vivacious laughter, passion, and free-spiritedness. After living happily for a year, Evie was diagnosed with incurable breast cancer.

“It’s all my fault,” Wilfredo mused bitterly, “I could’ve stopped her.” He knew that Evie had been a candidate for the disease. Her mother died of it five years ago, while he and Evie were starting out their relationship. A few weeks after their marriage, Evie had undergone a breast examination, and the doctor confirmed that her breasts were mottled with small tumors that seemed benign, yet he prescribed Tamoxifen, an anti-cancer drug, for her to assiduously take for the next five to six years.

Evie wanted a child. But the doctor warned that the cancer medication would cause physical defects on her baby, and if she withheld taking the drug, her increased estrogen during pregnancy would possibly stimulate the benign tumors in her breasts to metastasize into cancer cells. It was her choice, he told her -- remain childless for the time being, or risk it out.

Evie was in tears when she told Wilfredo of their predicament. She was in her late thirties, and if she followed her doctor’s advice, it’ll be too late to have a baby and start a family. Wilfredo was apprehensive of the risks, yet Evie was stubborn to change her mind. In any case, he too wanted a child to carry his name.

“God is good…he won’t let Evie die and let the child go motherless,” Wilfredo earnestly prayed.

That was a year ago. Wilfredo hated his naïveté. How could he have believed that God would shield them from this misfortune? He knew that it was their fault -- both of them tempted fate and must now face the consequences.

It was a difficult pregnancy. Evie gave birth to a boy, whom they named Carlos. A few weeks afterward, she complained of searing internal pain, and the check-up confirmed the worst. The doctor ordered chemotherapy and radiation treatments immediately, but it was unendurable for her. Tufts of Evie’s hair fell out, and she promptly vomited any food ingested, transforming her once healthy figure to nothing more than a skeletal frame. Each day, Wilfredo noted that Evie was gradually dying, and he couldn’t stand the affliction on her face.

The doctor’s pronouncements were discouraging.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Castro, there is nothing more that I could do, but alleviate your wife’s pain with proper dosages of morphine.” His stoical voice was a rumble of deafening words. “The cancer had already spread to her vital organs. She’d hold out for a month.”

Wilfredo lost his vitality, and slumped down on a chair.

* * *

Oh, won't you answer this loving prayer / Of a stranger in paradise? / Don't send me in dark despair / for all that I hunger for. / But open your angel eyes / to the stranger in paradise / And tell him that he will be a stranger no more.

Evie managed to smile when she heard the song, waking up from her drug-induced slumber. She moaned feebly, patient with the snaking agony in her body. Her eyes focused on Wilfredo, cradling their baby in his arms. He propped up Carlos for Evie to see.

He would make a wonderful father, she thought.

It was arduous to say goodbye to the man she loved…to the son she wouldn’t see grow up. Wilfredo hung his head in sorrow. He was teary-eyed, filled with ineffable grief at Evie’s labored sighs. Wilfredo tenderly kissed her emaciated hand.

It was time to let her go.

Generation

Lyrics from "American Dreams"

You're comin' up like a flower
You're comin' up through the cracks
That live 'round here
Everybody knows we have no fear
This is my generation
'Cause we just want to dance all night
Live inside the spark of life
This might be the only time around
We wanna know the face of freedom
We wanna make a place where we can learn to love
Build a world that we can be proud of
This is my generation.

In The Balance

In my own wavering balance
Desire fluctuates with modesty
But I choose what I see
I bow my neck to the yoke
For the burden is sweeter after all
And so I take it upon me

In Trutina

In trutina mentis dubia
Fluctuant contraria
Lascivus amor et pudicitia

Sed eligo quod video
Collum iugo prebeo
Ad iugum tamen suave transeo

Dark Night of The Soul

by Saint John of the Cross

One dark night,
fired with love's urgent longings
- ah, the sheer grace! -
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled.

In darkness, and secure,
by the secret ladder, disguised,
- ah, the sheer grace! -
in darkness and concealment,
my house being now all stilled.

On that glad night,
in secret, for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything,
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.

This guided me
more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
- him I knew so well -
there in a place where no one appeared.

O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.

Upon my flowering breast
which I kept wholly for him alone,
there he lay sleeping,
and I caressing him
there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.

When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.

I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

James Abbott McNeill Whistler

Crepuscule in Opal: Trouville

1865, Oil on canvas

Night on the Island
by Pablo Neruda

All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.

Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom
up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now –
bread, wine, love, and anger –
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.
Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

In You The Earth
by Pablo Neruda

Little
rose,
roselet,
at times,
tiny and naked,
it seems
as though you would fit
in one of my hands
as though I’ll clasp you like this
and carry you to my mouth,
but
suddenly
my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
you have grown,
your shoulders rise like two hills,
your breasts wander over my breast,
my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
new-moon line of your waist:
in love you have loosened yourself like sea water:
I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes
and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.

Stamp
Qiu Xiaolong

My father collected stamps, cutting
days and nights to small squares,
soaking a sky full of them
in a washbasin, and drying them
on the doors, windows, and mirrors:
two stamps in his eyes,
the face an unfamiliar envelope,
the world an unfolding album.

I, too, was glued onto a piece
of white paper. The snow was falling,
a message in each flake; a crane’s
footprint disappeared overnight.
Mailed to a nonexistent address
to possess a postmark, I was not
returned, as it occasionally happens,
by a mistake at the post office.

One Fine Day

(Un Bel Di Vendremo)
Translated from Giacomo Puccini’s Opera Madama Butterfly

One fine day we'll notice
A thread of smoke arising on the sea

In the far horizon,
And then the ship appearing;
Then the trim white vessel
Glides into the harbor, thunders forth her cannon.
See you? Now he is coming!
I do not go to meet him. Not I! I stay upon
the brow of the hillock, And wait there... and wait for
a long time, But never weary
of the long waiting.
From out the crowded city There is coming
a man, a little speck in
the distance, climbing the hillock.
Can you guess who it is?
And when he's reached the summit,
Can you guess what he'll say?
He will call: “Butterfly” from the distance.
I, without answering, Hold myself
quietly concealed,
A bit to tease him and a bit so as not to die
At our first meeting; and then, a little troubled
He will call, he will call:
“Dear baby wife of mine,
Dear little orange blossom!”
The names he used to call me when he came here.
This will all come to pass as I tell you.
Banish your idle fears, For he will return
I know it.

The Magic Man

“There is no such thing as magic,” Father was wont to say when I was a child.

Although Father worked as a magician at the local theater, he did not believe in magic at all.

“Every trick I do is through sleight of hand and deft moves. Son, I could fool anyone,” he would loudly chortle at me and clap my back with amusement, while I sat silently by the dressing room mirror, carefully polishing his ebony wand and smoothing out the creases of his floor-length silver-starred velvet cape.

Father sincerely believed that every paying customer to his magic show was gullible.

“Just look at their widening eyes and gaping mouths. You can pick off every peso pinched with the flimsiest hat trick.”

I thought otherwise.

My name is Juanito. I am my father’s assistant. Well, actually I was more of an errand boy who kept things nice and tidy around the dressing room. I lived with Father in a rundown apartment near the theater. My mother had gone round to heaven before I was old enough to remember her face.

Other children would be sad at this news, but it doesn’t matter to me. Father is as good a mother as anyone’s and more so, for he was gentle and kind not only to me but to all the performers. He taught me the simplest of magic tricks to amuse myself when I felt all alone and unhappy. Though I must admit that he could be occasionally impudent with the show’s audience, he still remained perfect and lovable to me.

I knew that I was different. I wholeheartedly believed in magic because I could do things that children could not normally do. By just focusing my thoughts on any object, I could make it fly up into the air, staying suspended and motionless as if held by an invisible hand. I was astounded and excited when I first became aware of my strange talent, and yes, I too was terribly afraid of it. I was no supernatural creature – I had ten digits on both hands and feet, a pudgy body with a commonplace face and topped with a normal tuft of black hair.

However, I did dream of becoming a super hero, like one of those I’ve read in comic books, donning a long cape like Father’s and masked to keep their identities a secret, ready to mete out justice and fight evil wherever it abounds.

I never told Father what I could do. I was terribly anxious of what he would think of my extraordinary powers. Would he think of me differently? I shuddered at the thought that he might call me a liar or prankster, or worse yet would just stop loving me.

What about the people in my neighborhood? Aling Bebang might not want me to go to her store anymore and I won’t be able to taste her delicious fruit popsicles and candied breads. My friends might not want to play with me and I’d miss out on my favorite games of taguan, tumbang preso, and patintero. I’d be all alone, I sniffed to myself.
Merly did not think of me that way.

Merly is Father’s real assistant. She is a year older than me and gamely goes onstage, wearing shiny sequined dresses and bedecked with multi-colored plumages on her head. Merly helps Father in every magic performance and sometimes provides comic relief through stand up comedy skits and her raucous laughter.

She discovered my bizarre power by accident as I was absentmindedly playing with my handkerchief, letting it zoom, dance, and fly up in the air like a bird. Merly went agape in wonder, but soon enough chuckled at the amusing and odd feats done by my handkerchief. She began to dance around the room, carefree and cheerfully chasing the whizzing white cloth. Tired, she plopped down on the cushion beside me.

“Juanito, why didn’t you tell me you had magic powers?”

“Uhhh, I too was surprised. I was also afraid that you’d make fun of me,” I shyly replied.

“Wow! I’d do anything to have your powers. What else can you do?” Merly excitedly exclaimed.

“I could let any object float in the air, just look…”

Throwing up some balls and silvery metal hoops in the air, I began to make them swing around and dance in a rhythmic zigzag fashion. The metal hoops began to tinkle, while the balls whizzed and went through them. All throughout this unique performance, Merly laughed, whooped, and clapped cheerily. It was the best magic show she had ever seen.

“Juanito, you should come and join your father’s magic show. You’d be a real sell-out, I tell you,” Merly boldly suggested to me.

“I…I just couldn’t. Father wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t really believe in magic,” I awkwardly stammered.

“Believe me, he’d like it a lot. Juanito, he loves you very much that he’ll believe in your powers.”

“Merly, I beg you not to tell Father. He’d get angry and would feel different towards me. Please, you’re my friend,” I entreated.

Merly looked at me disappointingly, but she soon smiled at me.

“I promise I won’t tell,” she reassuringly responded.
Merly kept her word and I placed my powers under wraps. However, when both of us felt bored or sad, I would whip up a performance that would soon make us dance around and laugh gregariously.

Years pass by so quickly and soon, Merly and I were teenagers, yet my magical abilities had somehow helped us to remain child-like and full of wonder for the world around us.

Sadly, Father’s magic shows were no longer popular entertainment for the townsfolk. The theater had become dilapidated and most of the other performers had decided to move on to other towns. A rich businessman from the neighboring city decided to open the first cinema in our town, and soon the people would flock every night to look at latest adventure or romance movie offering advertised on the brightly lit marquee and watch it on a large white screen.

Father had also grown old and wrinkled. Though he did not believe in magic, he was never weary and enjoyed doing magic tricks, savoring the applause he received from his awe-struck audience. However, his once full house performances soon declined, sometimes with only five people watching. Nowadays, we could barely scrape a living from his magic shows, and I decided to do odd jobs to support our needs.

Once, Father bewailed to me, “I knew my time was up. Who believes in magic tricks these days with all the new-fangled contraptions and entertainments? Juanito, I’ll kick the bucket soon.”

These words made me feel terribly sad and sometimes infuriated.

Father felt down and out, and I wanted to help him but didn’t know how to cheer him up. Merly still assisted in our magic shows, but because of the low pay had decided to become a vendor in the town market. Once in a while, she would come to visit Father and me, bringing along some fresh fruits and flowers from her stall to brighten our dingy apartment.

“How am I to help him? What do I have to do to make him happy?” I gloomily asked Merly.

“He has lost his zest for life. You can only bring that back through magic,” Merly solemnly replied.

Deep in my heart I knew what Merly meant. Though I was afraid, I had to do something. I just can’t let Father go down hill. Merly will help me get him back on his feet.

During the next few days, I prepared and hung large posters all over the market square announcing about the most extraordinary magic show ever to be seen in town. Merly herself spread the word among her customers and other vendors that the magic show would truly be amazing and spectacular. Soon, all of the townspeople were in a hubbub about the magic show and were demanding for tickets.

I had scheduled the magic show on a Friday night. I meticulously prepared for my routine, placing balls, metal hoops, canes, and multi-colored cloths all over the stage. I realized that I was ready, but my innate timidity made me feel terribly nervous.

On the night of the performance, Merly fetched father from our apartment. It was hard for her to convince him to come, but when she revealed that I was to perform magic, Father was thoroughly surprised.

“How could Juanito perform? I have taught him but a few simple tricks. He might lose heart if the crowd scoffs at these tricks,” Father anxiously exclaimed.

Father sat on front of the stage. His hands quivered in suspense. He was protective of me and didn’t want to see me fail. The townsfolk were all surprised to see him at the front seat for they thought he was the one to perform. All of them were agog to hear that I was the magician for tonight’s show.

At exactly half past eight, all of the lights in the old theater dimmed, and Merly in an uncharacteristic voice announced “Welcome, one and all to the most extraordinary magic show ever seen! Please give a big hand to Juanito, the Magic Man!”

As the curtains were raised and spotlights focused, I let two glass lamps float in before me. The audience and even Father, heaved a sigh of wonder at this amazing occurrence.

Wearing but an old white shirt and straw hat, I merrily approached the astonished crowd and asked “Do you believe in magic? Magic is all around us in nature. All you have to do is open your eyes and believe.”

At my cue, Merly set off marching music using an old gramophone, and the cadenced tune boomed throughout the whole theater hall.

Immediately, the balls, canes, metal hoops, and multi-colored cloths that I scattered around the stage began to float in the air, and with just a flick of my finger, began to make them jiggle and dance, swaying musically to and fro. Like an orchestra conductor, I began directing the objects to whimsically whiz around the audience, and with the snap of my fingers, the hats, walking sticks, and handkerchiefs of some viewers began to float and bop around.

Everybody in the audience deafeningly clapped and guffawed at the performance, and some even began to wriggle and sway at their seats to accompany the objects dancing in the air. I was excited at how the townsfolk were all enjoying themselves and knew that our show was a total success.

Father was the most enthusiastic of all. His eyes were brimming with tears, and was laughing and clapping loudly. From the front seat, he gave me the thumbs up.
After the show, Father approached and tightly hugged me.

“Juanito, why didn’t you tell me of your magic?”

“I thought that you might turn me away if you knew,” I hesitantly replied.

Father looked at me tenderly, and affectionately smiled.

“Juanito, I will always love you. You are my son and accept you for who you are...your magic and all.”

I too, cried that night. Father believed in me and was proud of my extraordinary magic. He was alive once more... I gave back to him his wonder and passion for magic, and he in turn, made me feel the true love that exists between father and son.

SECTION: THE INVISIBLE BRIDE (1)
by Nathaniel Tarn

Once in my life, in her life
Love looked at me a certain way with the look which doesn’t lie
and I saw she’d been burnished to her ultimate beauty:
I remember it was in the middle of something we were doing—
I looked up to say something light about some comment
and for some reason/ ah what reason on that night?
THERE WAS THE LOOK OF FIRE
As if she’d just achieved final illumination:
it was in the middle of something we were doing
but the details escape me—

Do not disturb this peace,
darkness of the world,
do not invade this house of bliss,
this happiness wrested from the moment of life,
do not disturb this hard-come-by,
laboriously won victory over restlessness,
don’t rummage around in the furniture
which has all become now one bed of peace:
last manifesto of love,
last chance on earth of this tradition:

and as I run out into the new, with eyes open into disaster,
scream of man turned to deer
boy to prey in the eagle’s beak
woman to laurel in the sun’s embraces
that scream of longing satisfied /
hiccup of satisfied desire / orgasmic cry
do not disturb this peace for the fee my words shall pay you!

In her garret above the city, love lies a’ dying
singing the arias she remembers one after another
waiting for her lover to show up
so she can rise and feel
the scald of love in her bones
the green trees calling where they live
and leaning on her elbow,
she sings she sings she sings
RINASCE! RINASCE! RINASCE!
(but is yet to perish),

From the century’s lips my wife speaks out in her own name,
crying the lost man of her youth and all her gardens in disarray,
my children melt in the sun of another country
which is the country I have left
to come to this beginning of the deaths we have to die
at the windows of this town
bursting with cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums
suddenly/ suddenly, in the middle of
in the middle of something we were doing,
the windows of the city full of petals and crying telephones!

They that have not learned the art of life
how shall they come to the art of thanatos
how start into the magnificent avenues of their dying,
opening out from the city into their childhood landscape,
and then, as shadows darken over eyes and ears,
begin into the alleys of death, turning aside from the highways,
wending their way from arteries into small veins,
dead-ends, cul-de-sacs, circular plazas,
where the dark rulers of the world sit on their golden stools,
drugs on their lips, pronouncing fates?

You are a region of my heart, death of the small entrances
you are the population of that province
with big round eyes like an owl’s, ringed with longing
and you run toward empire
as you would run to fat
your population grows apace
with a growl as of organs in churches
a bellow of morning choirs:
your population is growing
BEYOND ALL HEALTH

To a Jilted Lover
by Sylvia Plath

Cold on my narrow cot I lie
and in sorrow look
through my window-square of black:

figured in the midnight sky,
a mosaic of stars
diagrams the falling years,

while from the moon, my lover's eye
chills me to death
with radiance of his frozen faith.

Once I wounded him with so
small a thorn
I never thought his flesh would burn

or that the heat within would grow
until he stood
incandescent as a god;

now there is nowhere I can go
to hide from him:
moon and sun reflect his flame.

In the morning all shall be
the same again:
stars pale before the angry dawn;

the gilded cock will turn for me
the rack of time
until the peak of noon has come

and by that glare, my love will see
how I am still
blazing in my golden hell.

Christus Ressurexit!

Christ has risen and the whole of Christendom should remember that their faith is based on this infallible truth: that Christ endured much suffering and died on the cross to save us from sin and death. That is all that matters. We are saved.

HAPPY EASTER!!!

Jean Francois Millet, "The Angelus"

The Joining of Hands

by Nathaniel Tarn

Our hands unable to touch
our fingers begin to think
We work across landscapes
thick with impediments
I begin to walk through you
you walk through me for a while
coming upon clear prairies
and then we are retrieved.

Sleepwalking in the streets
crossing a bridge
as if we were to couple
among the roots of trees
I’ve laid our freedom on this town
a map a grid
and the sea has rushed in
to drown intelligence

In the poem I give you my hands
where you will sense
their joining overhead
give me the birds of summer
beyond intelligence
for they know ways in air
far countries where we need not meet
married already there

In the poem I give you my hands

You cannot lose