Rooftop Mannequin Gathering
Photo by Bob Dreizler
STRIP MALL PASTORAL
—Robert Grossklaus
The grasses yawn in
the streetlights; the night
air thick with insomnia.
Every tree planted firmly
in asphalt pits, illuminated
by corporate logos. Each
subtle variance betrays
similarities and agendas;
intentional landscapes.
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THE FACT OF PRESENCE
—Robert Grossklaus
The hollowed eyes
of the night streets
bore into mine with
fevered gore. An
absence of presence
passing me in phantoms
one after another...
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MY FAVORITE SIN
—Robert Grossklaus
My favorite sin
is in your eyes,
ecumenical.
Where skin and
shadow converge.
Pull me back
into myself
and release me.
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Thanks, Robbie, for the poems! Tonight (Thurs. 7/23, 8 PM), Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sacramento) presents Phillip T. Nails, Robert Grossklaus, Julie Valin. Open mic before and after.
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SHE WROTE IN DARKNESS
—Adam Zagajewski
(To Ryszard Krynicki)
While living in Stockholm Nelly Sachs
worked at night by a dim lamp,
so as not to waken her sick mother.
She wrote in darkness.
Despair dictated words
heavy as a comet's tail.
She wrote in darkness,
in silence broken only
by the wall clock's sighs.
Even the letters grew drowsy,
their heads dropping on the page.
Darkness wrote,
having taken this middle-aged woman
for its fountain pen.
Night took pity on her,
morning's gray prison
rose over the city,
rosy-fingered dawn.
White she dozed off
the blackbirds woke
and there was no break
in the sorrow and song.
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THE ROOM I WORK IN
—Adam Zagajewski
The room I work in is as foursquare
as half a pair of dice.
It holds a wooden table
with a stubborn peasant's profile,
a sluggish armchair, and a teapot's
pouting Hapsburg lip.
From the window I see a few skinny trees,
wispy clouds, and toddlers,
always happy and loud.
Sometimes a windshield glints in the distance
or, higher up, an airplane's silver husk.
Clearly others aren't wasting time
while I work, seeking adventures
on earth or in the air.
The room I work in is a camera obscura.
And what is my work—
waiting motionless,
flipping pages, patient meditation,
passivities not pleasing
to that judge with the greedy gaze.
I write as slowly as if I'll live two hundred years.
I seek images that don't exist,
and if they do they're crumpled and concealed
like summer clothes in winter,
when frost stings the mouth.
I dream of perfect concentration; if I found it
I'd surely stop breathing.
Maybe it's good I get so little done.
But after all, I hear the first snow hissing,
the frail melody of daylight,
and the city's gloomy rumble.
I drink from a small spring,
my thirst exceeds the ocean.
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Today's LittleNip:
A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit.
—Richard Bach
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—Medusa