"I think I'll go home and lie very still"

I think I'll go home and lie very still,
                feigning terminal illness.
Then the neighbors will all troop over to stare,
                my love, perhaps, among them.
How she'll smile while the specialists
                           snarl in their teeth!--

                she perfectly well knows what ails me.



"Love, how I'd love to slip down to the pond"

Love, how I'd love to slip down to the pond,
                      bathe with you close by on the bank.
Just for you I'd wear my new Memphis swimsuit,
                      made of sheer linen, fit for a queen--
Come see how it looks in the water!

Couldn't I coax you to wade in with me?
                      Let the cool creep slowly around us?
Then I'd dive deep down
                      and come up for you dripping,
Let you fill your eyes
                      with the little red fish that I'd catch.

And I'd say, standing there tall in the shallows:
Look at my fish, love,
                      how it lies in my hand,
How my fingers caress it,
                      slip down its sides . . .

But then I'd say softer,
                      eyes bright with your seeing:
                                      A gift, love. No words.
                      Come closer and
                                      look, it's all me.



"Oh, I'm bound downstream on the Memphis Ferry"

Oh, I'm bound downstream on the Memphis ferry,
                like a runaway, snapping all ties,
With my bundle of old clothes over my shoulder.

I'm going down there where the living is,
                going down there to that big city,
And there I'll tell Ptah (Lord who loves justice):
                "Give me a girl tonight!"

Look at the River! eddying,
                in love with the young vegetation.
Ptah himself is the life of those reedshoots,
                Lady Sakhmet of the lilies--
Yes, Our Lady of Dew dwells among the lilypads--
                and their son, Nefertem, sweet boy,
Blossoms newborn in the blue lotus.
                Twilight is heavy with gods . . .

And the quiet joy of tomorrow,
                dawn whitening over her loveliness:
O, Memphis, my city, beauty forever!--
                you are a bowl of love's own berries,
Dish set for Ptah your god,
                god of the handsome face.


~ From "Ancient Egyptian Literature: An Anthology," translated by John L. Foster. These poems date from the Ramesside Period (ca. 1292-1070 B.C.)

(05-25-2017, 01:33 AM)Lizzie Wrote:  "I think I'll go home and lie very still"

I think I'll go home and lie very still,
                feigning terminal illness.
Then the neighbors will all troop over to stare,
                my love, perhaps, among them.
How she'll smile while the specialists
                           snarl in their teeth!--

                she perfectly well knows what ails me.

Quote:"Love, how I'd love to slip down to the pond"

Love, how I'd love to slip down to the pond,
                      bathe with you close by on the bank.
Just for you I'd wear my new Memphis swimsuit,
                      made of sheer linen, fit for a queen--
Come see how it looks in the water!

Couldn't I coax you to wade in with me?
                      Let the cool creep slowly around us?
Then I'd dive deep down
                      and come up for you dripping,
Let you fill your eyes
                      with the little red fish that I'd catch.

And I'd say, standing there tall in the shallows:
Look at my fish, love,
                      how it lies in my hand,
How my fingers caress it,
                      slip down its sides . . .

But then I'd say softer,
                      eyes bright with your seeing:
                                      A gift, love. No words.
                      Come closer and
                                      look, it's all me.

This one is lovely.

Quote:~ From "Ancient Egyptian Literature: An Anthology," translated by John L. Foster. These poems date from the Ramesside Period (ca. 1292-1070 B.C.)

This poem has had remarkable staying power for me, pops into my head unusually often.

The Walk by trueenigma

for milo
il miglior fabbro

I will confess and tell my friend
but I will give to him in song
as frogs sing night unto its end.

Frogs sing bass, and crickets blend
their melodies - I’ll hum along,
then I’ll confess and tell my friend.

I've missed my turn, my aimless wend
has led me where I don’t belong
as frogs sing night unto its end.

I’ll meet him just around this bend,
on nights like this no turn is wrong,
I will confess and tell my friend.

But for right now I’ll just pretend
he’s walking by my side so long
as frogs sing night unto its end.

If he’s not in this marsh, well then
I’ll search beyond the wood and on.
I will confess and tell my friend
as frogs sing night unto its end.

And this pair by Tiger the Lion, I'm tired of searching the NaPM threads when I want to read them.

I’ll play the fool

I’ll play the fool again for you
if a jester is what you need.
It’s who I am. It’s what I do

when you can’t see that I’m in view.
By choice, perchance by common greed,
I’ll play the fool again for you.

When Cinderella lost her shoe
I cobbled one from gopher tree,
It’s who I am. It’s what I do—

sow the many, and hope a few
find purchase in this soil for seed.
I’ll play the fool again for you

and watch your one-plus-one-make-two,
if that is how you choose to breed.
It’s who I am. It’s what I do

when I'm convinced your garden's due
to flower past this stubborn weed.
I’ll play the fool again for you
It’s who I am. It’s what I do.


April fool's day rebuttal.


To Reach You

I will not play the fool for you;
if slapstick is your drug of choice
there’s nothing I can say or do

to sober you with words—and you
too enable my comic voice.
I will not play the fool for you

every time the thriller is too
much for you to maintain your poise.
There’s nothing I can say or do

to foil your one-plus-one-makes-two
mentality of girls and boys.
I will not play the fool for you

when he’s not home and it’s gone two;
my batteries are not for toys.
There’s nothing I can say or do

to charm you from your hole, when you
hear my flute as naught but noise.
I will not play the fool for you.
There’s nothing I can say or do.

(06-02-2017, 09:39 AM)ellajam Wrote:  This poem has had remarkable staying power for me, pops into my head unusually often.

The Walk by trueenigma

for milo
il miglior fabbro

I will confess and tell my friend
but I will give to him in song
as frogs sing night unto its end.

Frogs sing bass, and crickets blend
their melodies - I’ll hum along,
then I’ll confess and tell my friend.

I've missed my turn, my aimless wend
has led me where I don’t belong
as frogs sing night unto its end.

I’ll meet him just around this bend,
on nights like this no turn is wrong,
I will confess and tell my friend.

But for right now I’ll just pretend
he’s walking by my side so long
as frogs sing night unto its end.

If he’s not in this marsh, well then
I’ll search beyond the wood and on.
I will confess and tell my friend
as frogs sing night unto its end.

From There is no emergency, by Conchitina Cruz. Note that each paragraph occupied an entire page. The two dashes there are as is, and not my usual substitute for an em dash.


Arrest

---

She held the sentence against the open window. Sunlight passed through abduct and attack. 
Behead settled below a cable line, on which perched a trio of birds. A pedestrian's head

---

---

We woke up and she didn't, was all he said in a letter about the child they brought home
and buried two weeks later. With the letter came a photograph of M--, five days old. Over
dinner years later he said he still woke up each day seized with terror, as if he would walk
to the next room, bend over the crib, and find his child dead. Shouldn't the worst already
be over? he asked. There was no child in the next room. He was no longer a father. He was
not a father.

---

The rain arrived without warning and it swallowed every sound. She touched each machine
in the house to feel it humming. She touched her throat to feel the words out of her mouth.
There was someone at the door, she could tell, by the knob that kept turning. No knock, or
click, only the sight of it, turning. The rain was at the door. Someone was at the door. She
watched the knob and turned on the television. The rain flashed on the screen, and already,
a death toll. There was nothing to do. Nothing was about to be over soon.

---

They set the ghetto on fire and send fire trucks to put the fire out. The last siren speeds
away from the standstill. The cab driver asks her to tip him extra for the traffic and she
checks the meter, checks her money. Over beers she listens to a story about swimming with
a whale shark the size of three bars and two galleries across them. Imagine yourself beside
a breathing building, she is told. She closes her eyes and coughs up ash. Breathe like a
building, she reminds herself.

---

There were several heaves, he said. First, he could see his limbs, and then he could not. He
could see his chest, and then he could not. He could see his face, and then he could not.
He remembered the O of his mouth, the water erasing it. When the sea returned to the sea,
he pulled himself up from a field of bloated bodies. He looked for his face in each face. He
scoured the tents. He read the lists. He could be alive, he said. There was no proof otherwise.

---

They had to begin somewhere. This one had a phone in her hand. This one had a gash
on his cheek. This one wrapped her arms around her belly. This one shielded this one, it
seemed. Helicopters swarmed overhead. Names were called out. This one was stripped
of her clothes. This one was a face with no eyes. This one was a body with no head. This
one was beaten with a pipe. This one was buried under a car. This one took a bullet in the
mouth. They sweltered in the heat. They kept losing count.

---

The street was a river and she swam down the street. A natural swimmer she was unlike the
rest of them, bodies midway and by the end of the street, statistics. The city was river was
grave was ruin was monument was city again, less a bridge and neighborhood or two. Her
cheek less a scar with the right makeup on. At the beach she got stung by a jellyfish and the
boatman raised a cup to the swell of her foot. She glanced over her shoulder, sensing she had
caught the eye of a limestone cliff.

---

They take turns telling each other what they haven't been able to do since. This goes on
for a couple of beers. Together they do not sit with their backs to the door. They trade
photographs of children not named after their disappeared, for fear of the same fate. From
the recurring dream, one recounts a path to the grave, the trek to it, what wasn't there. The
other spends nights keeping watch. There have been ghosts, though never the right one.

---

His hair falling over his eyes wide open his hair can barely hide them. His mouth on
her mouth. His sound down her throat. Her body beyond coral reefs blown up in the
dark, beyond limbs thrown down a hole. Her body beyond apology. His sound inside
her stammering, softer, smoother, slick as guitar music, track five, circa speeding down the
highway to the beach, eleven years old, uncle yammering about the cost of cement and labor
for the new room, still unbuilt, for the baby, still unborn.

Just came across this today...

Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway-Car
By: Dan Pagis

here in this carload
I am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him I


http://www.yadvashem.org/yv/en/education..._pagis.asp

What I consider the best translation of this poem is in Tagalog, and I'm certain it would be pointless to have y'all GT a translation. So instead, as translated by Encarnacion Alzona and Isidro Escare Abeto, Jose Rizal's Mi Último Adiós.


Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress, laurel, lily white;
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by the home and country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, Gem of the Sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane,
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in thy mystic land to sleep through eternity!

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of thy tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see your own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, disturb not the mystery:
If thou hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover thy earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell to all I love; to die is to rest.

As Flowers Are

As flowers have wars that the philosophic eye
Stoops to behold, broils of the golden age
When honey dropped from the trees, and the bees perform
Their educated dance, we find our skins
In which to parable the act of love,
Contending, as at first, that the world might move.

Perfection caught in amber of our days
Jewels the life; on the offended thread
We hang the instants of the soul's surprise
When it is ravished by the absolute god,
Who comes in any shape that he may choose
But the expected one: as flowers tell lies.

Your lazy tongue that makes me think of bells
And soft Mediterranean afternoons
(As flowers shoot stars) rings out its heaven-changes
Till souls and gods pick clover in your lines
And what I carry through the giant grass
Mocks the profession of the comic ants.

Summer is late, my heart: the dusty fiddler
Hunches under the stone; these pummelings
Of scent are more than masquerade; I have heard
A song repeat, repeat, till my breath had failed.
As flowers have flowers, at the season's height,
A single color oversweeps the field.

~Stanley Kunitz

Tired - Langston Hughes



I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two -
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.

(08-18-2017, 05:01 PM)just mercedes Wrote:  Tired - Langston Hughes



I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two -
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.

Clever - thanks for posting

From The Magic Flute:

Two hearts that love have conjugated
cannot by man be separated.
They need not ever fear a foe,
the gods protect them where they go.

Parent's Pantoum

by Carolyn Kizer


for Maxine Kumin

Where did these enormous children come from,
More ladylike than we have ever been?
Some of ours look older than we feel.
How did they appear in their long dresses

More ladylike than we have ever been?
But they moan about their aging more than we do,
In their fragile heels and long black dresses.
They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.

They moan about their aging more than we do,
A somber group--why don’t they brighten up?
Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity
They beg us to be dignified like them

As they ignore our pleas to brighten up.
Someday perhaps we’ll capture their attention
Then we won’t try to be dignified like them
Nor they to be so gently patronizing.

Someday perhaps we’ll capture their attention.
Don’t they know that we’re supposed to be the stars?
Instead they are so gently patronizing.
It makes us feel like children--second-childish?

Perhaps we’re too accustomed to be stars.
The famous flowers glowing in the garden,
So now we pout like children. Second-childish?
Quaint fragments of forgotten history?

Our daughters stroll together in the garden,
Chatting of news we’ve chosen to ignore,
Pausing to toss us morsels of their history,
Not questions to which only we know answers.

Eyes closed to news we’ve chosen to ignore,
We’d rather excavate old memories,
Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors.
Why do they never listen to our stories?

Because they hate to excavate old memories
They don’t believe our stories have an end.
They don’t ask questions because they dread the answers.
They don’t see that we’ve become their mirrors,

We offspring of our enormous children.

^^^

Super

I'm learning a bit about the pantoum, so I'm reading as many as I can get my hands on. 


Lawless Pantoum by Denise Duhamel

Men are legally allowed to have sex with animals,
as long as the animals are female.
Having sexual relations with a male animal
is taboo and punishable by death.

As long as the fish are female
saleswomen in tropical fish stores are allowed to go topless.
Adultery is punishable by death
as long as the betrayed woman uses her bare hands to kill her husband.

Saleswomen in tropical fish stores are allowed to go topless,
but the gynecologist must only look at a woman’s genitals in a mirror.
The woman uses her bare hands to kill her husband,
then his dead genitals must be covered with a brick.  

The gynecologist must only look at a woman’s genitals in a mirror
and never look at the genitals of a corpse—
these genitals must be covered with a brick.
The penalty for masturbation is decapitation.

A look at the genitals of a corpse
will confirm that not much happens in that region after death.
The penalty for masturbation is decapitation.
It is illegal to have sex with a mother and her daughter at the same time.

To confirm what happens during sex,
a woman’s mother must be in the room to witness her daughter’s deflowering,
though it is illegal to have sex with a mother and her daughter at the same time.
It is legal to sell condoms from vending machines as long as

a woman’s mother is in the room to witness her daughter’s deflowering.
Men are legally allowed to have sex with animals—
why it’s even legal to sell condoms from vending machines, as long as
everyone’s having sexual relations with a male animal.


September Elegies by Randall Mann

          in memory of Seth Walsh, Justin Aaberg, Billy Lucas, and Tyler Clementi

There are those who suffer in plain sight,
there are those who suffer in private.
Nothing but secondhand details:
a last shower, a request for a pen, a tall red oak.

There are those who suffer in private.
The one in Tehachapi, aged 13.
A last shower, a request for a pen, a tall red oak:
he had had enough torment, so he hanged himself.

The one in Tehachapi, aged 13;
the one in Cooks Head, aged 15:
he had had enough torment, so he hanged himself.
He was found by his mother.

The one in Cooks Head, aged 15.
The one in Greensburg, aged 15:
he was found by his mother.
“I love my horses, my club lambs. They are the world to me,"

the one in Greensburg, aged 15,
posted on his profile.
“I love my horses, my club lambs. They are the world to me.”
The words turn and turn on themselves.

Posted on his profile,
“Jumping off the gw bridge sorry”:
the words turn, and turn on themselves,
like the one in New Brunswick, aged 18.

Jumping off the gw bridge sorry.
There are those who suffer in plain sight
like the one in New Brunswick, aged 18.
Nothing but secondhand details.

Randall Mann takes it for me, the form has an effect that suits the poem perfectly.

From Vita Nuova, by Dante Alighieri:


Donne ch'avete intelletto d'amore,
i' vo' con voi de la mia donna dire,
non perch'io creda sua laude finire,
ma ragionar per isfogar la mente.

Ladies who have intelligence of love,
I wish to speak to you about my lady,
not thinking to complete her litany,
but to talk in order to relieve my heart.

Io dico che pensando il suo valore,
Amor sì dolce mi si fa sentire,
che s'io allora non perdessi ardire,
farei parlando innamorar la gente.

I tell you, when I think of her perfection,
Love lets me feel the sweetness of his presence,
and if at that point I could still feel bold,
my words could make all mankind fall in love.

E io non vo' parlar sì altamente,
ch'io divenisse per temenza vile;
ma tratterò del suo stato gentile
a respetto di lei leggeramente,
donne e donzelle amorose, con vui,
ché non è cosa da parlarne altrui.

I do not want to choose a tone too lofty,
for fear that such ambition make me timid;
instead I shall discuss her graciousness,
defectively, to measure by her merit,
with you, ladies and maidens whom Love knows,
for such a theme is only fit for you.

Angelo clama in divino intelletto
e dice: «Sire, nel mondo si vede
maraviglia ne l'atto che procede
d'un'anima che 'nfin qua su risplende».
Lo cielo, che non have altro difetto
che d'aver lei, al suo segnor la chiede,
e ciascun santo ne grida merzede.

The mind of God receives an angel's prayer:
"My Lord, there seems to be upon your earth
a living miracle, proceeding from
a radiant soul whose light reaches us here."
Heaven, that lacks its full perfection
in lacking her, pleads for her to the Lord,
and every saint is begging for this favor.

Sola Pietà nostra parte difende,
ché parla Dio, che di madonna intende:
«Diletti miei, or sofferite in pace
che vostra spene sia quanto me piace
là 'v' è alcun che perder lei s'attende,
e che dirà ne lo inferno: O mal nati,
io vidi la speranza de' beati».

Compassion for His creatures still remains,
for God, who knows they're speaking of my lady,
says: "Chosen ones, now suffer happily
that she, your hope, live her appointed time
for the sake of one down there who fears her loss,
and who shall say unto the damned in Hell:
'I have beheld the hope of Heaven's blest.'"

Madonna è disiata in sommo cielo:
or voi di sua virtù farvi savere.
Dico, qual vuol gentil donna parere
vada con lei, che quando va per via,
gitta nei cor villani Amore un gelo,
per che onne lor pensero agghiaccia e pere;
e qual soffrisse di starla a vedere
diverria nobil cosa, o si morria.

My lady is desired in highest Heaven:
now let me tell you something of her power.
A lady who aspires to graciousness
should seek her company, for where she goes
Love drives a killing frost into vile hearts
that freezes and destroys what they are thinking;
should such a one insist on looking at her,
he's changed to something noble or he dies.

E quando trova alcun che degno sia
di veder lei, quei prova sua vertute,
ché li avvien, ciò che li dona, in salute,
e sì l'umilia, ch'ogni offesa oblia.
Ancor l'ha Dio per maggior grazia dato
che non pò mal finir chi l'ha parlato.

And if she finds one worthy to behold her,
that man will feel her power for salvation
when she accords to him her salutation,
which humbles him till he forget all wrongs.
Yet God has graced her with a greater gift:
whoever speaks with her shall speak with Him.

Dice di lei Amor: «Cosa mortale
come esser pò sì adorna e sì pura?»
Poi la reguarda, e fra se stesso giura
che Dio ne 'ntenda di far cosa nova.
Color di perle ha quasi, in forma quale
convene a donna aver, non for misura:
ella è quanto de ben pò far natura;
per essemplo di lei bieltà si prova.

Love says of her: "How can a mortal body
achieve such beauty and such purity?"
He looks again and swears it must be true:
that God has something new in mind for earth.
Her color is the pallor of the pearl,
a paleness perfect for a gracious lady;
she is the best that Nature can achieve
and by her mold all beauty tests itself;

De li occhi suoi, come ch'ella li mova,
escono spirti d'amore inflammati,
che feron li occhi a qual che allor la guati,
e passan sì che 'l cor ciascun retrova:
voi le vedete Amor pinto nel viso,
là 've non pote alcun mirarla fiso.

her eyes, wherever she may choose to look,
send forth their spirits radiant with love
to strike the eyes of anyone they meet,
and penetrate until they find the heart.
You will see Love depicted on her face,
there where none dare to hold his gaze too long.

Canzone, io so che tu girai parlando
a donne assai, quand'io t'avrò avanzata.
Or t'ammonisco, perch'io t'ho allevata
per figliuola d'Amor giovane e piana,
che là 've giugni tu diche pregando:
«Insegnatemi gir, ch'io son mandata
a quella di cui laude so' adornata».

My song, I know that you will go and speak
to many ladies when I bid you leave,
and since I brought you up as Love's true child,
ingenuous and plain, let me advise you
beg of anybody you may meet:
"Please help me find my way; I have been sent
to the lady with whose praise I am adorned."

E se non vuoli andar sì come vana,
non restare ove sia gente villana:
ingegnati, se puoi, d'esser palese
solo con donne o con omo cortese,
che ti merranno là per via tostana.
Tu troverai Amor con esso lei;
raccomandami a lui come tu dei.

And so that you may not have gone in vain,
do not waste time with any vulgar people;
do what you can to show your meaning only
to ladies, or to men who may be worthy;
they will direct you by the quickest path.
You will find Love and with him find our lady.
Speak well of me to Love, it is your duty.

Translated by Mark Musa, with slight emendations for the sake of versification. Retrieved from: http://etcweb.princeton.edu/dante/pdp/#

Pantoum of the Great Depression
by Donald Justice

Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.

Simply by going on and on
We managed. No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.

We managed. No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.

There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
Thank god no one said anything in verse.
The neighbors were our only chorus,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.

At no time did anyone say anything in verse.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
No audience would ever know our story.

It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
What audience would ever know our story?
Beyond our windows shone the actual world.

We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
Somewhere beyond our windows shone the world.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.

And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
We did not ourselves know what the end was.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues.

But we did not ourselves know what the end was.
People like us simply go on.
We have our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues,
But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy.

And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry.

alternate names for black boys

BY DANEZ SMITH

1.   smoke above the burning bush
2.   archnemesis of summer night
3.   first son of soil
4.   coal awaiting spark & wind
5.   guilty until proven dead
6.   oil heavy starlight
7.   monster until proven ghost
8.   gone
9.   phoenix who forgets to un-ash
10. going, going, gone
11. gods of shovels & black veils
12. what once passed for kindling
13. fireworks at dawn
14. brilliant, shadow hued coral
15. (I thought to leave this blank
       but who am I to name us nothing?)
16. prayer who learned to bite & sprint
17. a mother’s joy & clutched breath