Victory Sort Of

Van Gogh's Prayer

by János Pilinszky

A battle lost in the cornfields
and in the sky a victory.
Birds, the sun and birds again.
By night, what will be left of me?

By night, only a row of lamps,
a wall of yellow clay that shines,
and down the garden, through the trees,
like candles in a row, the panes;

there I dwelt once and dwell no longer—
I can't live where I once lived, though
the roof there used to cover me.
Lord, you covered me long ago.

New Corn

Roots

by John Piller

Mendota, Illinois

It's easy to believe you can go back
Whenever you desire, jump in the car
And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour

   You recall most vividly—and walk
Among the buildings spread across the farm,
Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.

   There is music in the leaves, in the dense
Columns of green corn. The wind lays down
The tune. You can play it, too, simply

   By walking with eyes closed, arms
Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.
Who wouldn't desire, like the children

   Lost in so many similar fields,
To sit down on the turned earth and drift
Away on the rhythms of his own

   First possible death? Rescuing
Voices come closer, veer off. Flashlight beams
Strobe over your head. You do not care.

   Each building you remember—hen house,
Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,
The walls and roofs collapsing with a final

   Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.
No one you will ever know works that land now.
It is as green as Eden. Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.

Brain Chops

The Preface

by Philip Whalen

A continuous fabric (nerve movie?) exactly as wide as these lines—
"continuous" within a certain time-limit, say a few hours of total
attention and pleasure: to move smoothly past the reader's eyes,
across his brain: the moving sheet has shaped holes in it which
trip the synapse finger-levers of reader's brain causing great sections
of his nervous system—distant galaxies hitherto unsuspected (now
added to International Galactic Catalog)—to LIGHT UP. Bring
out new masses, maps old happy memory.

No Vacancy

The Other Place

by William Logan

The leaves had fallen in that sullen place,
but none around him knew just where they were.
The sky revealed no sun. A ragged blur
remained where each man's face had been a face.

Two angels soon crept forth with trays of bread,
circling among the lost like prison guards.
Love is not love, unless its will affords
forgiveness for the words that are not said.

Still he could not believe that this was Hell,
that others sent before him did not know;
yet, once his name and memory grew faint,
it was no worse, perhaps, than a cheap motel.
It is the love of failure makes a saint.
He stood up then, but did not try to go.

Sirens

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Margaret Atwood

Sea and Land

Fog Horns

by David Mason

The loneliest days,   
damp and indistinct,   
sea and land a haze.   
   
And purple fog horns   
blossomed over tides—   
bruises being born   
   
in silence, so slow,   
so out there, around,   
above and below.   
   
In such hurts of sound   
the known world became   
neither flat nor round.   
   
The steaming tea pot   
was all we fathomed   
of   is and   is not .   
   
The hours were hallways   
with doors at the ends   
opened into days   
   
fading into night   
and the scattering   
particles of light.   
   
Nothing was done then.   
Nothing was ever   
done. Then it was done.

Scoreless

Baseball and Classicism

by Tom Clark

Every day I peruse the box scores for hours
Sometimes I wonder why I do it
Since I am not going to take a test on it
And no one is going to give me money

The pleasure’s something like that of codes
Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say
So as brightly to picturize Eurydice
In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day

The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

Hartline Washington,USA

<!–StartFragment–>Don't wanna live in the city,
City is way too full.
I just wanna be where I can sleep
with both of my eyes closed.

Don't wanna live in the country,
I can't afford no farm.
So I'm in this little town, and I look around,
And there ain't that much to do.

[chorus:]
Let's go down to the cafe and count feedcaps,
and count feedcaps, in a row.
Red and blue and green over the coffee cups,
Stirrin' easy, fadin' slow.

JoAnn, you know how much I love you,
That's why I brought you here.
Where the rent is cheap and the fishin's good,
When it don't rain too much.

What is this look in your eyes, dear?
Are you tired of me?
You don't wanna read; nothin's on TV,
Don't look at your suitcase like that.

 

 Greg Brown  'Counting Feedcaps'

Another Country

Whoso list to haunt could do worse than to Obtain the license, get the picture. Spook finders must find spooks to put the face, Name and space coordinates together. What is kept in the mind perimeter Retains a wild autonomy through fate. I will retreat to the precorporate. Let fate have what is fate’s and allow This spirit to slip through time’s difficult Nets with the devious fingers of A wild wind, while I run along behind.

  The Domestic Life of Ghosts
by Tom Clark

 

Cliff Ave

Home Fire

by Linda Parsons Marion

Whether on the boulevard or gravel backroad,
I do not easily raise my hand to those who toss
up theirs in anonymous hello, merely to say
“I’m passing this way.” Once out of shyness, now
reluctance to tip my hand, I admire the shrubbery
instead. I’ve learned where the lines are drawn
and keep the privet well trimmed. I left one house
with toys on the floor for another with quiet rugs
and a bed where the moon comes in. I’ve thrown
myself at men in black turtlenecks only to find
that home is best after all. Home where I sit
in the glider, knowing it needs oil, like my own
rusty joints. Where I coax blackberry to dogwood
and winter to harvest, where my table is clothed
in light. Home where I walk out on the thin page
of night, without waving or giving myself away,
and return with my words burning like fire in the grate.

Surf City

Well all be planning that route
Were gonna take real soon
Were waxing down our surfboards
We cant wait for june
Well all be gone for the summer
Were on surfari to stay
Tell the teacher were surfin
Surfin u.s.a.

   From Surfin.USA

    THe Beach Boys