The week, still young, has flapped up and down like a hatchling. We've at last arrived in the new office, which, as hoped, seems better, but national and office events have left both day and night off mental kilter. To distract myself, I've been reading the March pages of Poetry furiously on the train. My favorites this time are the ones that hope or admit hope can be hard.
Dan Brown's "Judo," too short to no excerpt.
"Inward lush unpetaling purpose in pink blooms of sleep, and I no longer needed to be separate." – Rachel Jamison Webster's "Dolphins at Seven Weeks." Next page: "We’ve come back to the site of her / conception. She calls it why / and cries all night, / sleepless, wild." — Webster's "Kauai."
"Why are the woods so alluring?" — Amy Gerstler's "Bon Courage."
Her "Sea Foam Palace." Dreamy, sexy, hopeful, yet so, so sharp. It begins:
(Bubbling and spuming
as if trying to talk under
water, I address you thus:)
Must I pretend not to love
you (in your present bloom,
your present perfection — soul
encased in fleshly relevance)
so you won’t believe me
just another seabed denizen
vying for your blessed attention?
"The pamphlets say: / Patience is required. I say, let’s try again / but John blames the state, the neighbors, the way / we wrote our bios, filling out the forms." — Bruce Snider's "Devotions," most unexpected but welcome.
"Every tripod- / toting birder / knows it never / nests on urban / girders." — Amit Majmudar's "Save the Candor." Read it out loud to yourself!
"Aria," David Barber. "What if it were possible to vanquish / All this shame with a wash of varnish / Instead of wishing the stain would vanish?"
Late in the issue comes James Lasdun writing about Michael Hofmann, and I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with either. But I love this line because it quietly sums up many things: "As with the poems so, at first, with their maker."