5/3/06 The Tyranny of Grief by Mala Hoffman The tyranny of grief grabs me in a chokehold before I have a chance to surrender. “I’m doing the best I can,” she hisses, then bursts into tears. I have no choice but to join her though I am the guilty party. She agrees, flinging the accusation at my feet as I slip falling into the hole she can’t get out of.

4/28/06

A New You by Christopher Watkins 

Who knows your body’s map

better than me, each

hidden curve, each dead end,

its peculiar

geometry,

but you need someone new,

someone whose fingertips

and lips

know nothing of you.

I’m familiar with every angle

your limbs might ever make,

their shadows

and the light they take,

how your eyes pierce

all absurdity

and your ears take note

of the slightest indignity,

all your joys

and where they’re buried,

the reserves of sorrow

your shoulders carry.

Yet,

possession

has run its course,

time for a new horse,

a new you –

my mapmaking

my love

is through.

4/20/06

I Am Too Alone in the World by Rainer Maria Rilke  

I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every hour holy.
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough
just to stand before you like a thing,
dark and shrewd.
I want my will, and I want to be with my will
as it moves towards deed;
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,
when something is approaching,
I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone.
I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,
and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere do I want to remain folded,
because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie.
And I want my meaning
true for you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use every day ,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the deadliest storm of all.

4/12/06

What the Dead Know by Robert Polito  

Air here is like water

Of an aquarium that’s been lived in for while—clear and still

Beyond the rigors

Of glass; appearing cold (and clear) as spring streams

Fed by snow and ice,

But unexpectedly warm to feel, and inviting; side-lit—

A vitality of shadows

Once you come into it, and long bars of light

Burning like spots,

Remarkable for the absence of dust in their sharp crossfires;

Heavy, as crystal

Is heavy, as if to move here would mean pushing against a force

Palpable, and strong;

Yet rich with prospects of life, comfortable

With the idea of life,

As if, put on its slide, every drop is stocked with wonders,

Swarming, about to burst—

Beautiful in a way,

One element sustaining another, our message brought home

So that the living

Might come to see. Harder to say that without them

We are nothing—

Water without air; or to speak of our isolation,

Or our special loneliness;

Or say as they look right through us, at their plants,

Pictures, books,

Windows, reflections, and blank white walls,

That we need them,

To orient ourselves and to tell us who we are;

Or that with each look

They are swimming to within our sights; or that we are always casting

Wider and wider

And that even now they are fighting to avoid our nets.

—first published in The New Yorker and published again in Polito’s collection of poems Doubles (University of Chicago Press)

4/4/06

Unleashing the Monster                                                                             by Mala Hoffman  

“You left your dog at home?”                                                                               I asked him                                                                                                          as I picked up                                                                                                 just-warm coffee                                                                                        swirling in a ceramic mug.                                                                                 He stared past my glasses.                                                                             “My dog died, at Christmas.”                                                                               I blink                                                                                                              then duck before                                                                                               he can see it,                                                                                                   the blood-red of                                                                                                  my exposed self                                                                                            blatantly straddling my eye.                                                                            Like a patch                                                                                                       or an oil slick                                                                                                gushing crude liquid,                                                                                           it sprang to the surface                                                                                through will alone,                                                                                         forcing fearful glances,                                                                                       for who wants                                                                                                    to really see                                                                                                    what lies                                                                                                  beneath the surface.

3/31

Look Out It's Poetry
by Christopher Watkins

Oh poetry’s raining all over the land
just as Shelley predicted,
I knew this day would finally come,
the human soul, at last, unrestricted.

People are such wondrous creatures,
dancing through morning,
celebrating the sun,
welcoming afternoon,
singing with the wind,
growing quiet with moonrise,
tracing its arc
through their dreams,
living poetically each day,
as graceful as roses,
as deep as the sea.

Oh look out,
it’s poetry,
as simple as Frost,
as rich as Moore,
as possible as Stevens,
as new as Li-Young Lee.

Oprah’s chanting it,
Geraldo’s descanting it,

look out it’s poetry.
It’s not Republican or Democrat,
not religion or sport,
not something to wear or sell,
it’s raining down

and we’re all finally free,
thank you Shelley,
thank you Keats,
oh look out,
it’s poetry.

3/16

New Paltz Hobo Circle
by Mala Hoffman

We collect
in the Post Office Plaza
first with a hug
then a wave
then a holler across asphalt.
We discuss
pedestrian traffic,
the likelihood of a septic tank
in the Clintons’ Chappaqua
backyard,
the disadvantages
of wearing green so close
to St. Patrick’s Day,
all the while
hoisting invisible placards
in support of one
we hope won’t leave us soon.
He, noting our impromptu circle,
cites an NPR report
on hobo culture.
It seems one only needs
to tap communal energy
to build a fire.