Saturday, April 19, 2014
Gizmos and jeremiads aside, God
romped in a fit of glee, apropos
of nothing. He had no friends
in higher places -- had no bailiwick
at all: he hadn't an inkling, a sou.
The writers, meaning business,
came calling him names.
They wanted him to say the word
was first and last -- they wanted to live
for good. But God was a fool for his own
new feet, and a few
odd monosyllables of song. As long
as he lived, they'd have to
be content. Later, they could read
themselves into his will.
Friday, April 18, 2014
From The Way It Is: new & Selected Poems, by William Stafford
HOW IT BEGAN
They struggled their legs and blindly loved, those puppies
inside my jacket as I walked through town. They crawled
for warmth and licked each other -- their poor mother
dead, and one kind boy to save them. I spread
my arms over their world and hurried along.
At Ellen's place I knocked and waited -- the tumult
invading my sleeves, all my jacket alive.
When she came to the door we tumbled -- black, white,
gray, hungry -- all over the living room floor
together, rolling, whining, happy and blind.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED
Give me more love or more disdain;
The torrid, or the frozen zone,
Bring equal ease unto my pain;
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love, or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden show'r
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd
Of heaven, that's but from hell releas'd.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.
-- Thomas Carew