The old man paused on the bridge
a favorite stop
upstream of the lazy oxbow
where a boy once watched
the milky gold
afternoon light
spill through the alders
into empty space
over still water
its silent weight
filled the air
suspending dragonflies
as they patrolled the cattails
urgently
as if they knew
the lateness of the hour.
By Anya Krugovoy Silver, who died in 2018 after breast cancer diagnosis in 2015 (also the year she gave birth to her child). This poem of courage and insight is typical of Krugovoyâs lyrical poetry and her bittersweet, wise reflections on mortality as she lived with cancer. She said she saw her poems bloom during these years, and her writing helped her live with loss and grief. August, a beautiful poem.
Pain
Your absence is not what you think.
Itâs not your chair expecting company
or mail left unopened.
It can be moonlight.
I think of how I find happiness:
Iâm walking in a meadow,
sun full on my face.
It comes not because
I miss thorns and nettles.
It comes because
my feet sink into sweet clover
and I smell wild roses before
I spot them spilling
over the split rail fence.
I know you by your presence.
One day
Iâll set your phantom free
but not until
I fill your void with light.
A poem is the old house
on your street,
front door unlocked,
dark until you enter.
Let your eyes adjust,
pull aside the curtains
and leave open the door.
The poet knows how darkness obscures, and darkness magnifies.
You might find this room cozy
or cavernous and cold.
Youâll move room to room.
Some rooms enlighten or confuse;
this house holds artifacts of another life.
An old piano fills one lilac-scented room;
on the worn plank floor, sheets of ragtime and Bach
waiting for you.
After an unsettling turn, youâll find a grand room,
one staircase candlelit, the other dark.
Explore them now, or return
with a friend.
When you are ready,
the doorâs unlocked.
The poet built the house;
you bring light.
Fidelity These days are not grey as I will remember. These days of low fresco skies watercolor apples bruised life, still life. These nights not empty as I will remember, of silver moons, cinnamon light. So much depends on forgetting. But one promise I will remember every day each jewel of light grinds down to cool darkness.
This masterpiece “One Art” by Ellen Bass (1976) taught me about loss as well as the possibilities of a poem.
I’ve been thinking about why I read and write poems, and what they mean to me. Aren’t those questions as old as poetry?
Matsuo BashÅ was a 17th century Japanese master of haiku and poetry. This line comes from a passage he wrote on the meaning of poetry.
