poetry, biscuits, Republicans

I'm waiting for some biscuits to finish baking and watching the Republicans debate. They're a new addiction. Buttermilk biscuits, I mean. Not Republicans.

In other news, I spent the morning commenting on drafts and these poems came to mind but I'm only getting to post them now.

By the way, if you need a reader for anything you've written, I'm more than happy to take a look. Shoot me an e-mail: joshrobbins[at]yahoo[dot]com.

And now, back to the debate. Hopefully I'll be able to keep the biscuits down.

Oh, yeah. Remember what Carl Sandburg said? "Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits."

_______

Cherish

From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes

given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish—
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling—scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried petal
can still find her.

Raymond Carver
from All of Us


Duende

I can't remember her name.
It's not as though I've been in bed
with that many women.
The truth is I can't even remember
her face. I kind of know how strong
her thighs were, and her beauty.
But what I won't forget
is the way she tore open
the barbecued chicken with her hands,
and wiped the grease on her breasts.

Jack Gilbert
from Refusing Heaven


Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
On the other side of the island while
Love was fading out of her, the stars
Burning so extravagantly those nights that
Anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
Like a visitation, the gentleness in her
Like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
Through the hot stony field after swimming,
The sea light behind her and the huge sky
On the other side of that. Listened to her
While we ate lunch. How can they say
The marriage failed? Like the people who
Came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
And said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
But just coming to the end of his triumph.

Jack Gilbert
from Refusing Heaven