Poetry

[Magical Realist]

"You're"
Sylvia Plath

"Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on."

[Magical Realist]

The "why notness" of now invertedly correlates suspiciously with the "whyness" of being born at this particular moment in history. It is the answer lying inside the question.

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[Magical Realist]

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[Magical Realist]

Apophenia

"Three times a day
the train rumbles
through my neighborhood.
It’s the run at night I wait for—
when no one is awake
to tell me there’s nothing
meant by it.

People like me
are born into symbols,
live there, die convinced.
We lie on our backs
like solar panels,
tilted toward whatever
might arrive.

We also trace the serrated spines
of mountains with our fingers—
asking if the dark
could hold the outline
of a god at rest."

[Magical Realist]

“listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.”
― Octavio Paz

[Magical Realist]

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[Magical Realist]

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[Magical Realist]

"Primary Wonder"
Denise Levertov

"Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing
their colored clothes; cap and bells.
And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng's clamor
recedes: the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void.."

[Magical Realist]

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