Just Poetry, Four

THE ANGELS
—Rainer Maria Wilke

They all have tired mouths
and bright seamless souls.
And a longing (as for sin)
sometimes haunts their dream.

They are almost all alike;
in God's gardens they keep still,
like many, many intervals
in his might and melody.

Only when they spread their wings
are they wakers of a wind:
as if God with his broad sculptor-
hands leafed through the pages
in the dark book of the beginning.

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SONG
—Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (Spanish, 1364-1404)

That tree with trembling leaves
is longing for something.

That tree, so lovely to look at,
seems to want to give away flowers:
it is longing for something.

That tree, so lovely to see,
seems to want to flower:
it is longing for something.

It seems to want to give away flowers:
they are already showing; come and see them:
it is longing for something.

They are already showing: come and look at them.
Let the women come to pick the fruit:
it is longing for something.

__________________

Sometimes I go about pitying myself,
and all the time
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.

—Anonymous Chippewa

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Don't be shy about sending poems to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting in Medusa's Kitchen; like most pets, the Snake needs daily feeding. Send in notice of your events, too: readings, bar mitzvahs—whatever.

And tune in tomorrow for the launch of another rattlechap give-away!

—Medusa