Poetry

Please don't take the cemeteries. We can't sleep when the dead fidget in air, their frantic fingers hushing the wind. We'll give bread, or pastures, even the trees tucked into themselves like frightened children. But please don't take the cemeteries. For each stone there is a blossom, a tear, an empty room where someone waits…

I was talking about mutual responsibility; you had been interested in my analysis of the problems of dual control in driving lessons; having control when you had none, I said, “Remember that I am saying all this and that I am taking full responsibility for saying this,” and poured my heart out to you. That…

for Dawn Chin, a student from Korea You're barely twenty. Your last essay for me begins: “Until I realized the value of life, I sure went through a lot of anguish of the heart.” All our Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays together, I put in of and the and couldn't explain why we say, “I tried to…

What in the sour wind Made the voices come again And the trees begin To move in? Spoken to And spoken for, You were waited upon And waiting. The leaves woke On the windcombed branches, And the footed trunks Not in twos advanced But like a lightless fire From the hill descended. *     *      * You…

All identity is active statement. —George Steiner 1.      A file of dated letters and a voice      the important survivor agrees at last      to your visit, two days for your recorder.      What you know, you review, earliest      meetings, estrangements, awkward returnings,      rumors and echoes of rumors, questions,      a desire to breathe that air.      Finally hours of…

Dipping our shoulders under with each lunge we      twelve far-pregnant women      stride the shallow children's pool stretching our bulbous bodies out. Blue pool. White light. Late afternoon: the beams surge low and full. “The sun is god.” A dozen heads rock: shrugs pushing the shimmer of round into flat. Each color tends to color the…

Consider that I have loved you for forty-nine years, that I have loved you since childhood despite the storms that have wasted my life. . . . I have loved you, I love you and will continue to love you, and I am sixty-one years old, I know the world and have no illusions. —Hector…

In a dirt village near Sierra Plata, men who are their own shadows, their own wives, drive flatbeds to the taverns; sweat-stained, with gold dust stuffed in little sacks that dangle along the hard edges, the steel curves of their bodies. Tense as switchblades, they wait for the finger-touch of a woman, a thief, or…

Who in his right mind would hold the brothers to blame? They lived in their own mental torment, unrelieved by day or their own lies. The sun dropped like a stone one night and the brothers talked on. The past, the son, the younger people in their life. The garden. The heart can approach the…