Blog Archives
A Whirl with Benjamin
Each tiny poem begins with a phrase taken from “Work” by Benjamin Alire Sáenz
~~ 1 ~~
In any language
it is hard to sustain love
for more than an hour.
~~ 2 ~~
quiet desert nights
unable to free themselves
the stars in their chains
~~ 3 ~~
our hungry questions
crowding an empty table
in a stone-cold cave
~~ 4 ~~
without the river
wrapping her bones as a cape
the chill in her soul
~~ 5 ~~
the labor of hands
lifting a golden chalice
in the sacred haze
~~ 6 ~~
a piece of music
one strain after another
from the wheezing pipes
~~ 7 ~~
Do you say river
with or without an accent?
Do not feign surprise!
~~ 8 ~~
Difficult and dry
are the grasses where we traipse
most Sunday mornings.
~~ 9 ~~
Dream of the river,
deranged and changing its course
on the slightest whim.
~~ 10 ~~
music in silence
savoring filet de boeuf
with a well-aged wine
~~ 11 ~~
It is not the work
of nuns and priests to inflame,
but to cool passions.
~~ 12 ~~
The flowers I sent—
exchange them, if you want to,
for a crown of thorns.
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Poetry Pantry #230
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 190
Whirling with Walt
The first line of each three-line snippet comes from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman.
~~ 1 ~~
the eyes of the dead,
blind to beauty and blessing,
staring at nothing
~~ 2 ~~
knowing the perfect
candle to banish darkness—
only damp matches
~~ 3 ~~
eddies of the wind
on a mission for the storm
rising in the west
~~ 4 ~~
The shelves are crowded
with things simple and complex—
have you need of more?
~~ 5 ~~
choosing a safe spot,
perhaps your arms for the night,
before moving on
~~ 6 ~~
She owns the fine house
at the tip of the cape, where
no one is welcome.
~~ 7 ~~
on the granite floor
rivers of fresh blood flowing
from the killing spree
~~ 8 ~~
In the little wells
where the prairie meets the hill,
blind creatures huddle.
~~ 9 ~~
with me on the grass
seven ragged musicians
playing haunting tunes
~~ 10 ~~
Leaving me baskets
filled with ripe apples and rain,
she slips out to sea.
~~ 11 ~~
The little one sleeps,
caring nothing for the ghosts
that would torment her.
~~ 12 ~~
Stall in the market—
an image of St. Joseph
stirs among the spoons.
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Poetry Pantry #208
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 168
Magical Mystical Teacher 