I read your letter today,
once, twice, thrice?
How many lifetimes have I read your letter through?
I read it in the burning sun
and in the icy waters of the Pacific,
I read it among the cool breezes
and grazing sheep,
among the cliffs of Dover.
I read your letter today
and it made me cry.
I had forgotten what tears of happiness were.
I had forgotten how much love you had for me.
I still remember your last prayer for me,
I still remember how you wished
that one day I would be loved unconditionally.
I heard all the words you never said.
I felt all the dreams you never dreamt
that and day and forever onwards.
Now all I have left is your letter,
my friend, my brother,
and I will recall those times we prayed
and ate cake.
Your kind eyes were a little bit sharper towards me.
I know you loved who I was
and I know you won't love who I am now.
I hope you are at peace, brother,
and know that I will remember you always,
at least, in the form of a letter.

You didn't know a lot of things.
You didn't know how much I cried,
and not just tears,
but fell to my knees and agonized to my God
about you.
You didn't know how for the longest time
I couldn't hear a song without thinking of you.

Hot Tub

I want to write about your lips,
your kiss,
the way your hair sparkles in the water,
flecked with grey under the fluorescent lighting.
I want to write about how I look forward to your smile
entering the hot water
while rainbow coloured visions cloud my judgement.
The water is hot around us
and we are burning up,
you more than me,
me less than you,
jets all around us
drowning our legs
our sorrows
our hopes
our love.

If she was the last person in the world,
would you defend her?
Would you stand up for her
in front of the end of the universe
or would you hide behind the sycamore tree,
a rock, big enough for you and me
and keep the peace until
all turned black?

She said,
"I really enjoy you, you know.
I really enjoy the way you are,
the way you breathe,
the way you touch,
the way you see things
in and out of shadows and corners,
bones from the grave growing and growing
into a tree."

"It really is enjoyable to watch you laugh and eat,
pleasure from tastebuds moving from your head
to your sunkissed feet outward back into the universe,
I know I don't make sense when I say this
but I really enjoy the way you seek
opportunity, employment, adventure
like a ferret on its way up a mountain."

She said a lot of strange things,
that girl,
she saw in ways that rabbits do,
some colours, some gods,
some carrots, some blues.
I miss her as much as you do.

I haven't done much, you know.
Not like the others.
I travelled when I was nine, thirteen
with my family
who liked to wake up at 7 am,
go to bed by ten,
and hated the sight of people kissing.

I haven't got a great job,
it's enough to pay bills
but not buy a house,
a dog,
a family,
a car.
I do eat well though.

I can't play the cello,
the instrument of human emotion,
and I'm not very good at that either.
I started with the piano, moved on
to the guitar
yet the notes eluded my fingers as
I avoid birds in the air that fly
frighteningly close to my face.

I guess I'm good at nothing,
and that's something
as I'm walking to my beat up car
in my beat up city
wearing my beat up jacket.
At least I can feed myself today.

Be Kind

Not merely because Henry James said
there were but four rules of life—
be kind be kind be kind be kind— but
because it's good for the soul, and,
what's more, for others; it may be
that kindness is our best audition
for a worthier world, and, despite
the vagueness and uncertainty of
its recompense, a bird may yet wander
into a bush before our very houses,
gratitude may not manifest itself in deeds
entirely equal to our own, still there's
weather arriving from every direction,
the feasts of famine and feasts of plenty
may yet prove to be one, so why not
allow the little sacrificial squinches and
squigulas to prevail? Why not inundate
the particular world with minute particulars?
Dust's certainly all our fate, so why not
make it the happiest possible dust,
a detritus of blessedness? Surely
the hedgehog, furling and unfurling
into its spiked little ball, knows something
that, with gentle touch and unthreatening
tone, can inure to our benefit, surely the wicked
witches of our childhood have died and,
from where they are buried, a great kindness
has eclipsed their misdeeds. Yes, of course,
in the end so much comes down to privilege
and its various penumbras, but too much
of our unruly animus has already been
wasted on reprisals, too much of the
unblessed air is filled with smoke from
undignified fires. Oh friends, take
whatever kindness you can find
and be profligate in its expenditure:
It will not drain your limited resources,
I assure you, it will not leave you vulnerable
and unfurled, with only your sweet little claws
to defend yourselves, and your wet little noses,
and your eyes to the ground, and your little feet.

Michael Blumenthal

The Cabbages of Chekov

Some gamblers abandon carefully built houses
In order to live near water. It's all right. One day
On the river is worth a thousand nights on land.

It is our attraction to ruin that saves us;
And disaster, friends, brings us health. Chekhov
Shocks the heavens with his dark cabbages.

William Blake knew that fierce old man,
Irritable, chained and majestic, who bends over
To measure with his calipers the ruin of the world.

It takes so little to make me happy tonight!
Four hours of singing will do it, if we remember
How much of our life is a ruin, and agree to that.

Butterflies spend all afternoon concentrating
On the buddleia bush; human beings take in
The fragrance of a thousand nights of ruin.

We planted fields of sorrow near the Tigris.
The Harvesters will come in at the end of time
And tell us that the crop of ruin has been great.

Robert Bly

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights
that anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe that Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

Jack Gilbert

The Apple Orchard

You won't remember it—the apple orchard
We wandered through one April afternoon,
Climbing the hill behind the empty farm.

A city boy, I'd never seen a grove
Burst in full flower or breathed the bittersweet
Perfume of blossoms mingled with the dust.

A quarter mile of trees in fragrant rows
Arching above us. We walked the aisle,
Alone in spring's ephemeral cathedral.

We had the luck, if you can call it that,
Of having been in love but never lovers—
The bright flame burning, fed by pure desire.

Nothing consumed, such secrets brought to light!
There was a moment when I stood behind you,
Reached out to spin you toward me...but I stopped.

What more could I have wanted from that day?
Everything, of course. Perhaps that was the point—
To learn that what we will not grasp is lost.

Dana Gioia