September 2nd 2017 – D.H. Lawrence, The Mystic Blue
And all the manifold blue and joyous eyes, The rainbow arching over in the skies, New sparks of wonder opening in surprise.
All these pure things come foam and spray of the sea Of Darkness abundant, which shaken mysteriously, Breaks into dazzle of living, as dolphins that leap from the sea Of midnight shake it to fire, so the secret of death we see.
September 9th 2017 – Diane Seuss, There is a force that breaks the body
There is a force that breaks the body, inevitable, the by-product is pain, unexceptional as a rain gauge, which has become arcane, rhyme, likewise, unless it’s assonant or internal injury, gloom, joy, which is also a dish soap, but not the one that rids seabirds of oil from wrecked tankers, that’s Dawn, which should change its name to Dusk, irony being the flip side of sentimentality here in the Iron Age, ironing out the kinks in despair, turning it to hairdo from hair, to do, vexing infinitive, much better to be pain’s host, body of Christ as opposed to the Holy Ghost, when I have been suffering at times I could step away from it by embracing it, a blues thing, a John Donne thing, divest by wrestling, then sing.
September 16th 2017 – Alfred Lord Tennyson, Vivien’s Song
‘It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
‘The little rift within the lover’s lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
‘It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all’.
September 23rd 2017 – D.H. Lawrence, A Winter’s Tale
Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow, And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge; Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go On towards the pines at the hills’ white verge.
I cannot see her, since the mist’s white scarf Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky; But she’s waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.
September 30th 2017 – Michele Wolf, Sky Lake Redux
Photo of my youth: on fire from napalm, a naked Vietnamese girl sprinting, shrieking, as she fled Her countrymen’s blast. At home, two-inch palmetto bugs Ate crayons stashed in a shoe box bumping colored paper And pencils in a closet, burst into a psychedelic mess Whenever I thwacked one with a shoe. One time a friend Barreled out of her house in only a T-shirt. Bad mescaline. For the girls in my circle, earning A after A was a given, Our engines vrooming even in the hours allotted To lazing at Haulover Beach, a half-dozen concert venues, Discount Records, Greynolds Park. We had to get out.