The Moon Is in Labour

Gail Wronsky

At least she’s pretending to be,

in sisterly solidarity.

It’s not a joke, but the whole

world’s taking it badly. Meanwhile

I sit here pretending to be a flame 

in a thrown bottle. I pretend

that curved horns grow out of my ears 

when I hear of injustices. And 

meanwhile like the faint cigar 

lights of the darkened 

lounges where world leaders 

fraternize, the moon’s light glows

then fades. Her labour proves to be, 

well, laborious. Mine was too,

although this poem burst forth 

from my brain like a boot

or a god: furious.

Rodin's 'Adam'

John Moessner

…the tragic pleasure of admiration.                                                 Rodin

He emerges from that stone womb stumbling, yet still, with rocky sleep in his eyes, a lingering curl in the toes. Life-struck, he’s cast into the bronze light of first morning. The wild beauty of a fig tree seen for the first time, the strange softness of grass, sharp contrast from the rock his foot is anchored to. Rodin captured the spastic flex in the unfolding, the softening of metallic lines into the run of the calf, the blooming tufts of hair. He’s the best and the worst of us. The first to feel alone, the first to cast blame, the last to know the light of eternal day. His eyes contain both the blank gaze and the shadow from his brow furrowed in ugly confusion. Does he feel death in the marrow, buried in his breath? Does he sense his capacity for grief, the sunken joy in that first place? The knowing finger points down. Hiding in the clay, there is always something holding us back, a catch in the breath, the muscles never relax. 

Rodin's 'Adam'

John Moessner

…the tragic pleasure of admiration. Rodin

He emerges from that stone womb stumbling, yet still, with rocky sleep in his eyes, a lingering curl in the toes. Life-struck, he’s cast into the bronze light of first morning. The wild beauty of a fig tree seen for the first time, the strange softness of grass, sharp contrast from the rock his foot is anchored to. Rodin captured the spastic flex in the unfolding, the softening of metallic lines into the run of the calf, the blooming tufts of hair. He’s the best and the worst of us. The first to feel alone, the first to cast blame, the last to know the light of eternal day. His eyes contain both the blank gaze and the shadow from his brow furrowed in ugly confusion. Does he feel death in the marrow, buried in his breath? Does he sense his capacity for grief, the sunken joy in that first place? The knowing finger points down. Hiding in the clay, there is always something holding us back, a catch in the breath, the muscles never relax.

Adam, by Rodin.

The Victory

Anne Stevenson

I thought you were my victory

though you cut me like a knife

when I brought you out of my body

into your life.

Tiny antagonist, gory,

blue as a bruise. The stains

of your cloud of glory

bled from my veins.

How can you dare, blind thing,

blank insect eyes?

You barb the air. You sting

with bladed cries.

Snail. Scary knot of desires.

Hungry snarl. Small son.

Why do I have to love you?

How have you won?

Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Tornado Child

Kwame Dawes - a poem for Rosalie Richardson

I am a tornado child.         I come like a swirl of black and darken up your day;         I whip it all into my womb, lift you and your things,         carry you to where you've never been, and maybe,         if I feel good, I might bring you back, all warm and scared,         heart humming wild like a bird after early sudden flight. I am a tornado child.         I tremble at the elements. When thunder rolls my womb         trembles, remembering the tweak of contractions         that tightened to a wail when my mother pushed me out         into the black of a tornado night. I am a tornado child,         you can tell us from far, by the crazy of our hair;         couldn't tame it if we tried. Even now I tie a bandanna         to silence the din of anarchy in these coir-thick plaits. I am a tornado child         born in the whirl of clouds; the center crumbled,         then I came. My lovers know the blast of my chaotic giving;         they tremble at the whip of my supple thighs;         you cross me at your peril, I swallow light         when the warm of anger lashes me into a spin,         the pine trees bend to me swept in my gyrations. I am a tornado child.         When the spirit takes my head, I hurtle into the vacuum         of white sheets billowing and paint a swirl of color,         streaked with my many songs.

Destiny

Emma Lazarus bigs up the Prince Imperial. Born this day in 1856. Didn't turn out quite as billed.

Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass,

Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells,

And martial strains, the full-voiced pæan swells.

The air is starred with flags, the chanted mass

Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm

With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pass,

In holiday confusion, class with class.

And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm!

In the Imperial palace that March morn,

The beautiful young mother lay and smiled;

For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child,

Heir to an empire, to the purple born,

Crowned with the Titan’s name that stirs the heart

Like a blown clarion—one more Bonaparte.

The little horse is newlY

ee cummings - stranGe beautY of BEGinningS

the little horse is newlY

Born)he knows nothing,and feels everything;all around whom is

perfectly a strange ness(Of sun light and of fragrance and of

Singing)is ev erywhere(a welcom ing dream:is amazing) a worlD.and in

this world lies:smoothbeautifuL ly folded;a(brea thing a gro

Wing)silence,who; is:somE

oNe.