When to Slap a Woman

When loose-strife, in flower, line

one bank with ages of purple candles,

and grape vines hide the tall trees

on the other, leaves dipped into the water,

motionless, shallow, and clear. . .

the pebbled bed curved and ridged,

colors folded by the imperceptible flow;

when, in the middle of all this, here

in the wide bend of the stream,

under such stillness it seems every

thing is finally where it wants to be,

all bafflement and loveliness; the still air

white, or blue above the haze, the same

gentle blue of windows scattered star-like

in a skyline whose edge is lost in the night;

when, high above the dull and humid street

on cumulus sheets as fresh and cool

and welcome as the scent of rain,

or even at night above the incinerator's

pall when you lick your fingertips

to snuff a candle and then pinch the flame

as you would choose any flowers to toss

on the black couch; the clothes and coins

spilled across the rug in a tide line,

coins cool under bare feet in the dark,

cool your thighs, a silver wish to mine,

when shadows and shadowy lights streak

the windows and flood, and sadness, like

the moon this time, can come near enough

to feel but not close enough to touch.

--Paul Violi, 1988

Permanently

One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.

An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.

The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.

The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.

Each Sentence says one thing -- for example, "Although it was a dark rainy day when the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure and sweet expression on her face until the day I perish from the green, effective earth."

Or, "Will you please close the window, Andrew?"

Or, for example, "Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window sill has changed color recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from the boiler factory which exists nearby."

In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass.

A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, "And! But!"

But the Adjective did not emerge.

As the adjective is lost in the sentence,

So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat --

You have enchanted me with a single kiss

Which can never be undone

Until the destruction of language.

--Kenneth Koch, 1962

Shoveling Snow With Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok

you would never see him doing such a thing,

tossing the dry snow over a mountain

of his bare, round shoulder,

his hair tied into a knot,

a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word

for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.

In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?

Is this not implied by his serene expression,

that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,

one shoveful at a time.

We toss the light powder into the clear air.

We feel the cold mist on our faces.

And with every heave we disappear

and become lost to each other

in these sudden clouds of our own making,

these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,

I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.

This is the true religion, the religion of snow,

and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,

I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow

as if it were the purpose of existence,

as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway

you could back the car down easily

and drive off into the vanities of the world

with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,

me with my commentary

and he inside his generous pocket of silence,

until the hour is nearly noon

and the snow is piled high all around us;

then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,

can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk

and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table

while you shuffle the deck

and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes

and leaning for a moment on his shovel

before he drives the thin blade again

deep into the glittering white snow.

Nothing To Save

There is nothing to save, now all is lost,

but a tiny core of stillness in the heart

like the eye of a violet.

--D.H. Lawrence

More and More

More and more frequently the edges

of me dissolve and I become

a wish to assimilate the world, including

you, if possible, through the skin

like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen

and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume

you or ever

finish, you would still be there

surrounding me, complete

as the air.

Unfortunately I don't have leaves.

Instead I have eyes

and teeth and other non-green

things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,

I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws

everything into its own

space; nor can we

talk it all over, have a calm

rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only

a starved dog's logic about bones.

--Margaret Atwood

To The Desert

I came to you one rainless August night.

You taught me how to live without the rain.

You are thirst and thirst is all I know.

You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky,

The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand

Your breath into my mouth. You reach- then bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

You wrap your name tight around my ribs

And keep me warm. I was born for you.

Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.

I wake to you at dawn. Never break your

Knot. Reach, rise, blow, Sálvame, mi dios,

Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me,

I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.

--Benjamin Alire Sáenz

The World and I

This is not exactly what I mean

Any more than the sun is the sun.

But how to mean more closely

If the sun shines but approximately?

What a world of awkwardness!

Perhaps this is as close a meaning

As perhaps becomes such knowing.

Else I think the world and I

Must live together as strangers and die--

A sour love, each doubtful whether

Was ever a thing to love the other.

No, better for both to be nearly sure

Each of each-- exactly where

Exactly I and exactly the world

Fail to meet by a moment, and a word.

--Laura Riding, 1938