Sad By Jeremy Radin

Sad

It is sad to tip the kettle over the cup & discover
there is no more tea in the kettle. It is sad when the
diner is closed. It is sad when the hawk seizes the
rat & sad when the hawk misses. It is sad when the
child encounters too early. It is sad when a mother
apologizes. It is sad when the aphids have chewed
holes in the lacinato kale. It is sad when there is a
shopping list taped to a refrigerator. It is sad in the
morning, Bach or no Bach. It is sad in winter &
depending on the city sadder in summer. It is sad to
finish a book & sad to not finish. It is sad to make
love imperfectly. It is sad when the body is ready
but not the mind. It is sad when [ ] has left the
group chat. It is sad when the wrong thing dies. It is
sad when it is three in the morning & the wind is
howling & the moon is like a burning umbrella oh
god who will put up with me

sad by Jeremy Radin

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Ray at 14

BY DORIANNE LAUX

Bless this boy, born with the strong face
of my older brother, the one I loved most,
who jumped with me from the roof
of the playhouse, my hand in his hand.
On Friday nights we watched Twilight Zone
and he let me hold the bowl of popcorn,
a blanket draped over our shoulders,
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“Note to self: You’ve gotta do this for you. This is for you. This isn’t about anybody. Live for you. Honour you. Never lose sight of that.”

— Unknown

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text reads in a bit of a traditional poem format: "Before my grandfather died, I asked him what kind of horse he had growing up. He said. [words in italics]: "Just a horse. My horse, [end of words in italics]: with such a tenderness it rubbed the bones in the ribs all wrong. I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers. I am the hunting kind. I keep searching for proof."

The Hunting Kind - Ada Limón

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1 month ago

In the un-story
of my life
I am three years old
and my father
lifts me
into the air

and then catches
me again and again,
pulling me into him.
Or

I am thirteen
years old and my father
sits on the porch
with his arm around

me and says yes, yes,
look, everything
will be fine, I’m here.
In the un-story

he has his ties
and pressed shirts
hanging in
the closet next to

my mother’s blouses.
The smell of his

cologne washes over
everything like a pot roast
roasting all
Sunday. But in the story
of my life my father’s
sons have to

call him again
and again and again
and again
like small children

hitting a drum
they can’t stop hitting.
They have to beg
for his attention,
and one even dies,
in his way, for him,

and like life, is buried
without him.

In the story
of my life I inherit
the fathers
of other kids, other
sons. How lucky
am I?

Fathers with names
like Joseph,
Yosef, Josiah, Yasef,
meaning he will add.
Meaning he will
lift you up and catch you.
Meaning he will
sit with you, and your
sorrow will be his
too. Fathers with names

like Ernie, Ernest, Ernesto,
Arnošt, meaning kindness.
Meaning he will walk
among the lepers

of your actions
and listen to them.

Meaning he will not fail you
even as you fail yourself.
Right now dusk is moving
around the house

like a bad babysitter
waiting for her boyfriend
to come over, re-applying
her eyeliner. Outside
some coyotes are lighting
up the air like teenagers.
Meanwhile in the story
of my life

I lift my three-
year-old up into the air

and then catch
him but also catch

myself. In the story of
my life I put
my arm around
my thirteen-year-old

But also around
myself. When I feed
them I feed
myself. When I cool
a fevered forehead
with a cold

rag I cool my own
anger. When I leave
I also return to them
and return

to myself. I know
there are

really three children
in the story of my life.
I must make a home
for each of them.

father by Matthew Dickman

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An Ode to 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' by David Gate

The real multiverse is not the other side of a sci-fi story mechanic but it is all the lives we live at once: mother, daughter, partner, business owner, immigrant & citizen of the state who fills out tax forms. Somewhere in the gaps between those lives are the crumpled expectations of the dreams that once animated us. One thing becomes inevitable: all the different versions of ourself must reconcile. That can happen either by floating into the bagel-shaped void or by accepting we live within a life shaped by the consequences of all our decisions — everything, everywhere, all at once. We can feel crushed by the outcomes from a life’s worth of decisions weighing upon us, but they are not as heavy as the weight of the choices that we now face. Who am I going to be? What shall I become? I know who I wanted to be and that didn’t happen. But I don’t have to be stuck here. I can still disrupt the pattern. I can say sorry. I can name the desires unfulfilled. I can cherish what I have. I can forgive myself — a million different versions of myself — a million times over.

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Poem of the Week
Everything All at Once
Oliver Baez Bendorf

right now,
someone is having sex and someone
is dying and someone is trying to find
a lid so they can, before bed, put away
the soup and someone is dreaming
of that made meadow and someone
is gazing through a hospital window
to a faraway peak
and someone can’t decide what
to watch so they remain

on the menu screen for company
and someone wants to call but

can’t and someone wants to answer
but won’t and someone is studying
to become a moth scientist and someone
is dizzy and doesn’t know why
and someone is, after work, practicing
the vocal techniques of opera
and someone receives
a phone call saying listen it’s my

neighbor I told you about the singing one can you
hear it and someone
is clutching the heavy still warm hand
of a lover and someone is digging
a hole and someone is waxing
their back and someone
is remembering a poem permitting
bits and pieces to return
and someone
would do almost anything to forget

Oliver Baez Bendorf, “Everything All at Once”

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b-luish - you've got to believe in the poetry

b-luish

you've got to believe in the poetry

because everything else in your life will fail you, including yourself

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