Poetry

[Maeve. 6635]

“There are poems

that are never written,

that simply move across

the mind

like skywriting

on a still day:

slowly the first word

drifts west,

the last letters dissolve

on the tongue,

and what is left

is the pure blue

of insight, without cloud

or comfort.”

Linda Pastan, “There Are Poems”

[Maeve. 6635]

[Maeve. 6635]

[Maeve. 6635]

Dear lost sharer

of silences,

I would send a letter

the way the tree sends messages

in leaves,

or the sky in exclamations

of pure cloud.

Therefore I write

in this blue

ink, color

of secret veins

and arteries.

It is morning here.

Already the postman walks

the innocent streets,

dangerous as Aeolus

with his bag of winds,

or Hermes, the messenger,

god of sleep and dreams

who traces my image

upon this stamp.

In public buildings

letters are weighed

and sorted like meat;

in railway stations

huge sacks of mail

are hidden like robbers' booty

behind freight-car doors.

And in another city

the conjurer

will hold a fan of letters

before your outstretched hand—

"Pick any card. . . "

You must tear the envelope

as you would tear bread.

Only then dark rivers

of ink will thaw

and flow

under all the bridges

we have failed

to build

between us.

 

LINDA PASTAN

[Maeve. 6635]

 

[Maeve. 6635]