Maureen Thorson

The Mower to the Glow-Worms BY ANDREW MARVELL Ye living lamps, by whose dear light The nightingale does sit so late, And studying all the summer night, Her matchless songs does meditate; Ye country comets, that portend No war nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grass's fall; Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame To wand'ring mowers shows the way, That in the night have lost their aim, And after foolish fires do stray; Your courteous lights in vain you waste, Since Juliana here is come, For she my mind hath so displacd That I shall never find my home.

“Ye country comets, that portend no war nor prince's funeral.” A poem by Andrew Marvell.

After Someone's Death BY TOMAS TRANSTRÖMER TRANSLATED BY PATTY CRANE Once there was a shock that left behind a long, pale, shimmering comet's tail. It shelters us. It makes the TV images fuzzy. It settles in cold droplets on the power lines. You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun through groves where last year's leaves hang on. Like pages torn from old telephone books— all of the names swallowed up by the cold. It's still pleasant to feel the heart beating. But the shadow often seems more real than the body. The samurai looks insignificant beside his armor of black dragon scales.

“It's still pleasant to feel the heart beating.” A poem by Tomas Tranströmer, translated by Patty Crane.

Garden BY |SABEL DUARTE-GRAY To be pretty for you I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes. I grafted apple to the quickest vein in either wrist. I dug a ounce of poppyseeds where teeth should be, plugged my ears with golden balls of iris. I carved a hole in either breast to swaddle dahlias overwinter, like you, so frightened of the cold. My mouth grows hot with purring, with the tunneling of bees. My tongue, become a catacomb the wings will fill with scent. My skull, for you, ceramic bowl of flowers you may hurl against the wall. I am ready. Lead the way.

“I grafted apple to the quickest vein.” A poem by Isabel Duarte-Gray.

"So many gods!" BY ÁLVARO DE CAMPOS TRANSLATED BY RICHARD ZENITH So many gods! They're like books—you can't read everything, you never know anything. Happy the man who knows but one god, and keeps him a secret. Every day I have different beliefs— Sometimes in the same day I have different beliefs— And I wish I were the child now crossing The view from my window of the street below. He's eating a cheap pastry (he's poor) without efficient or final cause, An animal uselessly raised above the other vertebrates, And through his teeth he singsa ribald show tune... Yes, there are many gods, But I'd give anything to the one whod take that child out of my sight.

“Every day I have different beliefs.” A poem by Alvaro de Campos (one of Fernando Pessoa’s heteronyms), translated by Richard Zenith.

Born Like the Pines BY JAMES EPHRAIM MCGIRT Born like the pines to sing, The harp and song in m’ breast, Though far and near, There's none to hear, I’ll sing as th' winds request. To tell the trend of m’ lay, Is not for th’ harp or me; I'm only to know, From the winds that blow, What th' theme of m' song shall be. Born like the pines to sing The harp and th’ song in m’ breast, As th' winds sweep by, I’ll laugh or cry, In th’ winds I cannot rest.

“Born like the pines to sing.” A poem by James Ephraim McGirt.

Reasons BY THOMAS JAMES For our own private reasons We live in each other for an hour. Stranger, I take your body and its seasons, Aware the moon has gone a little sour For us. The moon hangs up there like a stone Shaken out of its proper setting. We lie down in each other. We lie down alone and watch the moon's flawed marble getting Out of hand. What are the dead doing tonight? The padlocks of their tongues embrace the black, Each syllable locked in place, tucked out of sight. Even this moon could never pull them back, Even if it held them in its arms And weighed them down with stones, Took them entirely on their own terms And piled the orchard's blossom on their bones. I am aware of your body and its dangers. I spread my cloak for you in leafy weather Where other fugitives and other strangers Will put their mouths together.

“We lie down in each other. We lie down alone.” A poem by Thomas James.

History as Crescent Moon The horns of a bull who was placed before a mirror at the beginning of human time; in his fury at the challenge of his double, he has, from that time to this, been throwing himself against the mirror, until by now it is shivered into millions of pieces— here an eye, there a hoof or a tuft of hair; here a small wet shard made entirely of tears. And up there, below the spilt milk of the stars, one silver splinter— parenthesis at the close of a long sentence, new crescent, beside it, red asterisk of Mars

“Below the spilt milk of the stars.” A poem by Eleanor Wilner.

Door BY ANN LAUTERBACH World fills up imperious pace vagrant matter into the humming pooled at the feet what soul went down what inventory mud slippage tracks marked shells anointed there the ravenous real flowering above torsion of waves unexpected threshold thrown open crossed.

“What soul went down.” A poem by Ann Lauterbach.

II [What is this tint that in the shrill cress] What is this tint that in the shrill cress Will never cease to trouble us and in the fields Gives prick and praise for Beauty? And said birds that feed on berries Are pervious—and shook the snow from his thighs. I thought of nothing carefully, but of snow, and the birds. Then kissed the cup and sipped a little Though almost choked drank slowly Tickled with strange measure She faked a pretty anger I entertained the night with fantastic, empty pleasure We went as far as the ivie-bush And ivie-crowns upon our heads And carried her kiss untouched and entire Then all was fresh, inclined To wriggle and nussle and lascivious Ardent leaps. In the thickest of the wood Bid him kiss close and often And directed him to her fancie The ground had a sweeter scent, the boughs a blush One fruit, rare and rich, would outdo many together She was wild to climb the tree Nor would she be forbidden She seized the apple and put it in her bosom.

“I thought of nothing carefully.” A poem by Lisa Robertson.

Lake Mungo BY SUSAN FEALY He wants to take her where birds grew legs long as rodeos, and a reimagined giant wombat tends to disappoint. He wants to drive her to a desert where they ghosted her in ochre, buried her, standing upright by a milky singing lake. He wants to walk with her along a curve of shattered moon, where human memory unmade her long ago. He wants to wake where sand blows yesterday from her face— where there is nothing but the terror of his faith.

“A reimagined giant wombat tends to disappoint.” A poem by Susan Fealy.

Cassandra If I may have failed to follow Your instructions, Lord Apollo, So all my harping lies unstrung, I blame it on the human tongue. Our speech ever was at odds With the utterance of gods: Tenses have no paradigm For those translated out of time. Perhaps mortals should rejoice To conjugate in passive voice— The alphabet to which I go Is suffering, and ends in O. Paraphrase can only worsen: For you, there is no second person, "I want" the same verb as “must be," "Love," construed as "yield to me," The homonym of "curse" and "give," No mood but the infinitive.

“Paraphrase can only worsen.” A poem by A.E. Stallings.

MY WONDER That it is one-half degree centigrade. That I eat honeydew melon for breakfast. That I look out through the oval window. That I am able to look out through an oval window.

“I look out through the oval window.” A poem by Jane Hirshfield.

With Drizzled Warm Butter, Intensely Rendered BY DICK ALLEN What every painter knows, but most others forget is how bright colors dim in artificial light and lobster tastes most fresh the nearer to death you set your teeth into the lobster's flesh.

“What every painter knows, but most others forget.” A poem by Dick Allen.

Poisonous Plants of America BY ELIZABETH WILLIS April fool Bear's-foot Bog-onion Devil's-apple Lady's-thumb Puncture-vine Dog parsley Doll's-eyes Fairy hells Flying saucers Four o'clock Gagweed Goosefoot Hare's-ear Indian beans Inkweed Jacob's-coat Lion's-beard Locoweed Monkey-fiddle Moonseed Mother-in-law Naked lady Quaker-bonnets Rabbit-bush Smartweed Sneezeweed Snakegrass Stinking Willie Sundials Swallow-wort Wahoo Wart-cress Witches' thimbles Wolfsbane Wonder berry

“Fairy hells, flying saucers.” A poem by Elizabeth Willis.

The Up Side By Ron Padgett The pines are stately still reflecting upon themselves without knowing it in eternity upside down.

“The pines are stately still.” A poem by Ron Padgett.

Fire Bird BY RAY GONZÁLEZ After Henry Dumas The fire bird is identified again. Trees blow up in the forest where once their wings and throats were colors of forgiveness. The cottonwood outlining my window totters again. Every year, the fire bird scorches what you can't have. It is not his beauty that I regret. It is the cry to those that listen to the bird— "I burn them now. Someday, I will find you."

“It is not his beauty that I regret.” A poem by Ray González.

Autumn 2017 BY BRUCE PEMBERTON There's coffee and pie with a widow from church. Why do you sit in the back pew? she asks. I'm close enough, I say. Can I sit back there with you? I've always sat there, I tell her, with my same two friends, and their clicking oxygen pumps. One sat next to me for years, called herself my church girlfriend, who metastasized, telling me she was tired of waiting to die. Now, there's just my 88-year-old friend, his pump echoing in the sanctuary, and there's that empty space between us. I'd like to invite the widow to sit there, but I miss my dead friend's laugh, her loving stories about her husband, and how we were always glad to see one another. I tell the widow all this. What if I just sat there? she asks. It's a free country, I tell her, and she smiles.

“It's a free country, I tell her.” A poem by Bruce Pemberton.

Sea-Fever BY JOHN MASEFIELD I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gul's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

“I must go down to the seas again.” A poem by John Masefield.

LATE SUMMER PURPLE Wild aster, bee balm, hyssop, crisp chrysanthemum Proclaim bold purple in the pallid dawn, Asserting there's more blossoming to come, More purple in the prickling thistle thorn, More purple in the valley's swirling haze; Even the robin's shadow on the lawn, Even your welcome of the dew, your praise, Proclaim bold purple in the pallid dawn. Yes, purple is the color of your need To have your mood made manifest, your final flair Before October's culminating leaves exceed In parting opulence the purple air Of royalty that radiates about your head, Your mastery of mourning everywhere You move to make a purple hymn to hum: Wild aster, bee balm, hyssop, crisp chrysanthemum.

“Purple is the color of your need.” A poem by Robert Pack.

Leda and the Swan BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

“Mastered by the brute blood of the air.” A poem by W.B. Yeats.

LIGHTHOUSE Nothing, and no one, and never again. . . I want to say it's not like that—the world I mean, that darkling sea where nothing stays On course for long, where winds go mad, where things Go down and don't come back. They don't come back And don't come back and still you stand your Stony watch—a granite wall too sheer to scale, An iron door that won't unlock. I want To say it matters, but the swells blow up And drown my voice. A lighthouse rises north Of here; its beacon sweeps the night. I want To say there's comfort there for every vessel Off its course or stranded on some buried Shoal, for every lost, unlooked for sail I want to see them home. Never again, And again, and again . . . The tide returns Alone. I want to say it's dignity Has made us so alike by now I'm almost You, my fog-filmed eyes awake for anything Afloat out there, anything to save.

“I want to say there's comfort there.” A poem by Jim Simmerman.

Actual Elegy I'm trying to say something that feels like hearing your voice for the first time. It isn't working. I keep ending up at myself, the part of myself that accidentally believes in g-d sometimes, like how I killed a June bug that yesterday abruptly landed on my neck then sat up half the night in a chair asking the ceiling fan to forgive me as if all it propellered aloft might drop down and crush my every sin then and there. It didn't. Im still here. And you never are. Which is the trouble with this place

“Asking the ceiling fan to forgive me.” A poem by Jaswinder Bolina.

Wise Ease You are not missing, rather you are minded in high tossings and the best subtended brain-branch, winded bellow. Who could tell you from my hollow sounding well? The fall is lifelong, to the knees. In real told time (in subdivided sum) l am your keeper — but in one whole kingdom come I am the kept. You swipe my dream — who seem a seventh of a quarter-moon, some umpteenth heavening afoot. Missing you're not — although you went and took my breath — but oh by every hook an eye is missed. The very thought (a double-you X’d out) to death is kissed...

“The fall is lifelong, to the knees.” A poem by Heather McHugh.

Will He's uncertain if someone said “Hey” last night while he ran down the escalator that appeared miraculously on 96th Street or now as he pushes the electronic door with his arms full of last-minute things. The world is gorgeous from great heights—the geometry, punctuation, infinite lines of blurred incandescence. He's flying now, dream or real, straight for that shock of tulips on 99th Street, missing the rheumy Siamese who wonders “Me?” The clot of schoolchildren waiting for the Broadway bus. The woman who just held up Love's Pharmac. He's that concerned with color, composition, depth.

“The world is gorgeous from great heights.” A poem by Maureen Seaton.

Silent Trades The class hates when in one translation blue night ends in a lily, and in the other a man goes into a bodega. Their suffering is great when faced with no correct translation. A few hundred Venn diagrams overlapping nowhere. Always a piece seems missing. Back in the times of silent trades if two peoples did not speak a common language one party left goods in a grassy area, the other waited, got closer, felt how heavy the salt or beef was, or picked the tool they needed, left pieces of gold. Students start to translate: Some argue the plums in a poem should be plush, others fresh. In a poem, one thing is meant but that thing is meant by the totality of all language, the pure language that no one speaks. So we are left with a goose flying overhead, But in place of its shadow, a mallard swims.

“Suffering is great when faced with no correct translation.” A poem by Cynthia Arrieu-King.

Mountainal BY JANE HIRSHFIELD This first-light mountain, its east peak and west peak. Its first-light creeks: Lagunitas, Redwood, Fern. Their fishes and mosses. Its night and day hawk-life, slope-life, fogs, coyote, tan oaks, white-speckled amanita. Its spiderwebs’ sequins. To be personal is easy: Wake. Slip arms and legs from sleep into name, into story. I wanted to be mountainal, wateral, wrenal.

“To be personal is easy.” A poem by Jane Hirshfield.

[canned possum with sweet potatoes in gravy] it's just a gag gift— people who know how to can possum keep it to themselves

“It’s just a gag gift.” A poem by Buck Downs.

MY OLD MAN spoke well you could see through him like sweet water if he wore a crown it would be a slender gold diadem nothing ostentatious he loved King David with his harp and nymph tongue who loved boys could always snag a joint was offered more than what he pretended to expect by strangers I said he spoke well he taught me how to do the same I mean how to be seen by men as a window in front of what they want how to drift through hotels like panpipes bars like trumpet sound he could get anyone to talk to him affable humble and calculated bland as floral print at beach weddings how to get in anywhere act like you belong how to make enough so you can always leave town it was the news it was my dream he wasn't even beautitul he acted like glass in other ways to get what he wanted when he saw how pretty I was growing up to be he said honey love, you're gonna be a monster

“It was the news it was my dream” A poem by Apollo Chastain.

Prince of Fire Prince Though the almanac hang between us, though my brow and my hands are maps— I will encircle you as I encircle you now when my brow and my hands are ash. We will be as if chosen. Even the air will have to pretend.

“I will encircle you as I encircle you.” A poem by Jane Mead.

Vinegar BY SARAH BARBER That summer I got very thin on my diet of he-loves-me-not: kale, fried egg, a tomato melted in butter. And when I was flat enough, gin and the ring-ring- ring of that unanswered phone. Each week I bought a new bottle of vinegar—which is delicious slopped on hot white bread. Who with a tongue hasn't loved some sweet slow rot. You catch flies with it, too. Put a drop in the base of a jam jar—it was plum, I ate it straight off the spoon- cover tight with plastic wrap, with the tip of a knife make a hole too small to get out. They drown but who hasn't needed to watch some smaller thing suffer? That summer I scrubbed and rinsed with it, too. I had read somewhere you can break open even a rock if you pour enough vinegar on.

“The ring-ring-ring of that unanswered phone.” A poem by Sarah Barber.