Unfastened

from The New Spirit October 12, 2007

~ John Ashbery

It is very early.
The heavens only seem to be in a state of ferment.
If one might choose to see them differently there would be
Peace at the outer fringes
For their reluctance is never far away
And harmony, by the same token, is never ruled out completely.

One can accomplish the thing quite quickly
And turn toward the ruled outside space
That defines our hesitations so majestically
Though negatively.

It is necessary to go forward completing
The gesture from the beginning of life
That was worrying its shape into the trees
All this time, as though that shape were responsible
For the many fluctuating situations that fill the air.

Ultimately only one continuous bell sound
Exemplifies the crowding around of
All the things that need getting done.
They fall away like memories of the seasons.

There is no staying here
Except to pause for a breath on the peak
That night fences in
As though the spark might not be extinguished.

One of Julie Story’s Favorites by the New Laureate August 19, 2007

TWO DOGS

An old dog afraid of his own shadow
In some Southern town.
The story told me by a woman going blind,
One fine summer evening
As shadows were creeping
Out of the New Hampshire woods,
A long street with just a worried dog
And a couple of dusty chickens,
And all that sun beating down
In that nameless Southern town.

It made me remember the Germans marching
Past our house in 1944.
The way everybody stood on the sidewalk
Watching them out of the corner of the eye,
The earth trembling, death going by . . .
A little dog ran into the street
And got entangled with the soldiers’ feet.
A kick made him fly as if he had wings.
That’s what I keep seeing!
Night coming down. A dog with wings.

Charles Simic

(Note: I officially acknowledge “kendrive” for the oddly staged looking photo)

A Light Breather August 3, 2007

— Theodore Roethke

The spirit moves

Yet stays

stirs as a blossom stirs,

Still wet from its bud-sheath,

Slowly unfolding,

turning in the light with its tendrils;

Plays as a minnow plays,

Tethered to a limp weed, swinging,

Tail around, nosing in and out of the current,

Its shadows loose, a watery finger;

Moves, like the snail,

Still inward,

Taking and embracing its surroundings,

Unafraid of what it is,

A music in a hood,

A small thing,

Singing.