Jay Hopler The last two lines break me every time.

In a war situation or where violence and injustice are prevalent, poetry is called upon to be something more than a thing of beauty.

Seamus Heaney

Jim Harrison

Joseph Fasano

This poem destroys me.

“It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen. Or sunshine, love, salvation.”

— William Stafford

Larry Levis

For everyone who needs this today—especially today, especially me—here is David Wagoner’s poem, ‘Lost’

Seamus Heaney’s “Cassandra”

from “Mycenae Outlook”

II. Cassandra

No such thing as innocent bystanding.

Her soiled vest, her little breasts, her clipped, devast-

ated, scabbed punk head, the char-eyed

famine gawk— she looked camp-fucked

and simple. People could feel

a missed trueness in them focus,

a homecoming in her dropped-wing, half-calculating

bewilderment. No such thing as innocent.

Old King Cock- of-the-Walk was back,

King Kill- the-Child- and-Take

What-Comes, King Agamem- non’s drum-

balled, old buck’s stride was back. And then her Greek

words came, a lamb at lambing time,

bleat of clair- voyant dread, the gene-hammer

and tread of the roused god. And a result-

ant shock desire in bystanders to do it to her

there and then. Little rent cunt of their guilt:

in she went to the knife, to the killer wife,

to the net over her and her slaver, the Troy reaver,

saying, ‘A wipe of the sponge, that’s it.

The shadow-hinge swings unpredict- ably and the light’s

blanked out.’

—Seamus Heaney