Poem of The Day: Water

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Water

The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily,
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.

Meus Poemas: combateremos a sombra

Mas não é por desconhecermos aquilo que nos diz respeito que deixamos de fazer parte do desconhecido.

Lídia Jorge, Combateremos a Sombra

combateremos a sombra

Quando me chamas

Perdida num deserto de chamas

E tudo começa de novo

Dormimos sem rumo

Sem contemplar a nossa aproximação

E que nos cega

Perante esta nova luz

E se a tua voz depois se cala

No ritmo sincopado dos nossos silêncios

Para me sorrir mentindo

Sobre o que não podemos ser

Mas não podemos parar

Porque já nos temos

Esquecido antes

Debaixo desta iluminação perfeita

Mas podemos deixar-nos cair

Na imperfeição

E comprometer o que prometemos

Porque mesmo quando o desconhecido se abre finalmente

E acelera atravessando o vazio

E esta poeira se levanta sobre nós

Não é por isso que nos descobrimos menos

Poem of the day: Again a Solstice

Jennifer Chang

Again a Solstice

It is not good to think
of everything as a mistake. I asked
for bacon in my sandwich, and then

I asked for more. Mistake.
I told you the truth about my scar:

I did not use a knife. I lied
about what he did to my faith
in loneliness. Both mistakes.

That there is always a you. Mistake.
Faith in loneliness, my mother proclaimed,

is faith in self. My instinct, a poor polaris.
Not a mistake is the blue boredom
of a summer lake. O mud, sun, and algae!

We swim in glittering murk.
I tread, you tread. There are children

testing the deep end, shriek and stroke,
the lifeguard perilously close to diving.
I tried diving once. I dove like a brick.

It was a mistake to ask the $30 prophet
for a $20 prophecy. A mistake to believe.

I was young and broke. I swam
in a stolen reservoir then, not even a lake.
Her prophesy: from my vagrant exertion

I'll die at 42. Our dog totters across the lake,
kicks the ripple. I tread, you tread.

What does it even mean to write a poem?
It means today
I'm correcting my mistakes.

It means I don't want to be lonely.

Poem of the day: Mirrors

Mirrors

by Tada Chimako
translated by Jeffrey Angles

The mirror is always slightly taller than I
It laughs a moment after I laugh
Turning red as a boiled crab
I cut myself from the mirror with shears

*

When my lips draw close, the mirror clouds over
And I vanish behind my own sighs
Like an aristocrat hiding behind his crest
Or a gangster behind his tattoos

*

Oh traveler, go to Lacedaemon and say that in the mirror,
Graveyard of smiles, there is a single gravestone
Painted white, thick with makeup
Where the wind blows alone

Now wouldn't that be great?

Drapetomania

I always have to remember the things that make me me