HIS MUSIC - Stephen Dunn

It wasn’t that he liked being miserable.

He simply had grown used to wearing

a certain face, become comfortable

with his assortment of shrugs and sighs.

His friends said How are you?—

and prepared their sympathy cards.

Miserable was his style, his insurance

against life’s frightening, temporary joys.

And when the truly awful happened,

some rejection or loss,

how ready he was for its aftermath,

how appropriate his posture, his words.

Yet when she said she loved him

something silently wild and molecular

began its revolution; he would’ve smiled

if the news from the distant provinces

of his body had reached him in time.

He frowned. And did not allow the short sigh

which would have meant pleasure

but now, alone, was just old breath

escaping, the long ahhhh, that music

which soothed him, and was his song.

Lines for Winter - Mark Strand

                                                                            for Ros Krauss

Tell yourself

as it gets cold and gray falls from the air

that you will go on

walking, hearing

the same tune no matter where

you find yourself—

inside the dome of dark

or under the cracking white

of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets cold

tell yourself

what you know which is nothing

but the tune your bones play

as you keep going. And you will be able

for once to lie down under the small fire

of winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannot

go on or turn back

and you find yourself

where you will be at the end,

tell yourself

in that final flowing of cold through your limbs

that you love what you are.

"I was at this guy's house." - Henry Rollins

I was at this guy’s house. I met this girl who was hanging out

there. She was real pretty, she had brown eyes and dark hair. She

was soft-spoken and real nice. I know that everyone has their

own life and they can do what they want and you shouldn’t think

anything of it or anything. But man, I couldn’t help but flinch a

little when I saw all those needle marks in her arm, they looked

so sore. Hateful little holes. I wanted to say something, but I

didn’t.

The Swan At Edgewater Park - Ruth L. Schwartz

Isn’t one of your prissy richpeoples’ swans

Wouldn’t be at home on some pristine pond

Chooses the whole stinking shoreline, candy wrappers,

condoms

          in its tidal fringe

Prefers to curve its muscular, slightly grubby neck

          into the body of a Great Lake,

Swilling whatever it is swans swill,

Chardonnay of algae with bouquet of crud,

While Clevelanders walk by saying Look

          at that big duck!

Beauty isn’t the point here; of course

          the swan is beautiful,

But not like Lorie at 16, when

Everything was possible—no

More like Lorie at 27

Smoking away her days off in her dirty kitchen,

Her kid with asthma watching TV,

The boyfriend who doesn’t know yet she’s gonna

Leave him, washing his car out back—and

He’s a runty little guy, and drinks too much, and

It’s not his kid anyway, but he loves her, he

Really does, he loves them both—

That’s the kind of swan this is.

Action - Gösta Ågren

Every victory concludes

itself.  What remains is the way,

the same way again.  It is

possible to learn

knowledge, to conceal that

wild, nameless bird

beneath a name.  It is easy

to realise one's dreams

if one sacrifices them. And

the years, the years go by.  Yet

you must act now.

More profound than all that you do

is all that you are.  The most profound

is all that you must do

in order to be able to remain

who you are.

Transmutation - Gael Turnbull

It was as if she couldn’t know herself. Only other persons could

do that. When she searched for her image, there was always the

reminder: one green eye, one brown. Her mother had tried to

reassure that it made her attractive, interesting, that it was an asset,

not a defect

which wasn’t what troubled, or even the lack of symmetry, but that

when she looked in the mirror, she was always reversed, with her

green eye on the left, her brown on the right. Only others saw her

as she was. Only others might make the affirmation, ‘You are’. For

her, it was always the reflection, ‘Am I?’

Certain Choices - Richard Shelton

My friend, who was a heroin addict,

is dead and buried beneath trash

and broken bottles in a prison field.

He died, of course, because of the way

he lived. It wasn’t a very good way,

but it kept him alive. When it couldn’t

keep him alive any longer, it killed him.

Thoroughly and with great suffering.

After he had made certain choices,

there were no others available. That’s

the way it is with certain choices,

and we are faced with them so young.

I have few friends, and none of them

are replaceable. That’s the way it is

with friends. We make certain choices.