The hand erasing writes the real thing.
—Henri Cole

The disappearance within a painting of a woman
on a swing under a mango tree

altered by the artist to disguise her identity
just two villages away
or perhaps
their change of heart
possibly even the newer alternatives of ink

Now there is only a tree, its branches,
not even the colour of her arms

where she floats in her own gale of stillness,
just ink, watercolour, opaque paper
Kangra, India 1850

~~ 'A Disappearance' by Michael Ondaatje from 'A Year of Last Things'

#VerseThursday #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

I leave you to your ceremony of grieving
Which is also of celebration
Given when an honored humble one
Leaves behind a trail of happiness
In the dark of human tribulation.
None of us is above the other
In this story of forever.
Though we follow that red road home,
one behind another.
There is a light breaking through the storm
And it is buffalo hunting weather.
There you can see your mother.
She is busy as she was ever—
She holds up a new jingle dress, for her youngest beloved daughter.
And for her special son, a set of finely beaded gear.
All for that welcome home dance,
The most favorite of all—
when everyone finds their way back together
to dance, eat and celebrate.
And tell story after story
of how they fought and played
in the story wheel
and how no one
was ever really lost at all.
~~ 'The Story Wheel' by Joy Harjo from 'An American Sunrise'

#VerseThursday #TodaysPoem #poem @poetry

Once we had the world backwards and forwards:
—it was so small it fit in two clasped hands,
so simple that a smile did to describe it,
so common, like old truths echoing in prayers.

History didn’t greet us with triumphal fanfares:
—it flung dirty sand into our eyes.
Ahead of us lay long roads leading nowhere,
poisoned wells and bitter bread.

Our wartime loot is knowledge of the world,
—it is so large it fits in two clasped hands,
so hard that a smile does to describe it,
so strange, like old truths echoing in prayers.
~~ by Wisława Szymborska from 'Map', trans. Clare Cavanagh & Stanisław Barańczak (an early poem from the 1940s)

#VerseThursday #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

“The blow fell from the most unlikely corner…”

So might begin the account
of life’s origins on earth
or any other irreversible event
~~ 'Blow' by Ryszard Krynicki, trans. by Clare Cavanagh from 'Magnetic Point'

#VerseThursday #TodaysPoem #poetry #books

No longer at home in the world
and I imagine
never again at home in the world.

Not in cemeteries or bogs
churning with bullfrogs.
Or outside the old pickle shop.
I once made myself
at home on that street,

and the street after that,
and the boulevard. The avenue.
I don’t need to explain it to you.

It seems wrong
to curl now within the confines
of a poem. You can’t hide
from what you made
inside what you made

or so I’m told.

~~ 'Curl' by Diane Seuss from 'Modern Poetry'
#VerseThursday #TodaysPoem #poetry #books

If i can't do
what i want to do
then my job is to not
do what i don't want
to do
It's not the same thing
but it's the best i can
do

If i can't have
what i want...then
my job is to want
what i've got
and be satisfied
that at least there
is something more to want

Since i can't go
where i need
to go... then i must... go
where the signs point
though always understanding
parallel movement
isn't lateral

When i can't express
what i really feel
i practice feeling
what i can express
and none of it is equal
I know
but that's why mankind
alone among the animals
learns to cry
-- 'Choices' by Nikki Giovanni

#VerseThursday #TodaysPoem #poetry @poetry

(Art credit: Natalia Esanu)

At thirty-six
I finally stopped wanting to shower—
a caricature,
convinced I couldn’t do that right,
either.

#VerseThursday

saw this poem recently and remembered that I haven't done a #VerseThursday in a while

In Those Years, by Adrienne Rich