Some poems

And the Othersby David Berman

Some find The Light in literature;
Others in fine art,
And some persist in being sure
The Light shines in the heart.

Some find The Light in alcohol;
Some, in the sexual spark;
Some never find The Light at all
And make do with the dark,

And one might guess that these would be
A gloomy lot indeed,
But, no, The Light they never see
They think they do not need.

———-

Lament of the Makerby Jan Schreiber

What wonders I’ve performed, with leaping mind,
imagining the fruit while eyeing the seed,
conjuring what’s ahead while still behind,
savoring praises for the undone deed.

I have esteemed my skill so highly that
I stroll through mansions I have yet to build
and, like the seigneur or the plutocrat,
reap harvests from rich fields I have not tilled.

But when I face the drudgery of art,
bright mirrors where misunderstandings lurk,
my faltering strength just when the need is great,
I faint before the task—or rashly start,
push through to make an end, survey my work,
and smile—how fine, how small, how light in weight!

———

Careby Kate Light

is a painting you return to every day;
to add another stroke, to follow another line;
to make it real by the way
you consider; to make me yours, to make you mine.
… is a sculpture peeled from the nothingness,
marble, clay; here a fingerprint, here a swirl.
Here—(I need your eyes to look at this—)
a questionmark; what is it now? A girl?
A dream, a weight? A body watched and pressed
into life? You watch and press, breathe
me back—sometimes barely touched, sometimes caressed.
Carefully circling, you gradually unsheath
(it, her, me). For all this labor, love, in the end,
will be the prize; love of an art, love of a friend.

—–

Abidingby Robert Crawford

Come sit with me and tell me of
Your sense of what is and isn’t love.
Keep talking as we bide our time;
Keep talking; wile away the hours.
Though certain, sure, of reason’s powers,
I’ll listen for the slanted rhyme
That every hesitation makes
When calculating mortal stakes;
It is the lingering of an eye,
Or maybe the lingering of a sigh,
Or the lingering of a careless touch
That lingers there a bit too much.
I think I’ll stay regardless of
What you say is and isn’t love.

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