poetry
EDITED BY Phillip X Levine
Wildfire
Today Only One Face (11/3/2020)
It Is Better To Be Angry
These mornings I wake with an alarm bell in my throat, wild
What happens if all rumors are true. Don’t ask me where it comes from. It is in the smell of morning air.
people make me angry but it is better to be angry at people than to rail at clouds or at gods isn’t it because if a man sees your anger he might regret what he did that brought your anger on next time he won’t do that thing whereas a cloud goes on about its business indifferent to your emotions gods, I’m told really, really care what you think of them whether you—at the most basic—even believe in their existence whether you—and this seems to be the demand—love them praise them surrender yourself to them and don’t ever fucking get angry with them because otherwise or else you know it’s you who’ll regret it right? so it’s better to be angry at people this logic goes than to be angry at gods or at clouds
with dread. Two thousand miles away, the sky turns orange and then black with smoke. When my mother calls to tell me the ranchers set all their fifty horses free along the highway, police cars ushering their frightened shapes across the lanes through the dark mouth of the canyon, away from the flames I am in my kitchen in New York holding in my hands an egg I am afraid to break and afraid to set back down. I hold it as though the rain depends on it. —Kate Levin Deer in the Yard I once heard someone say they’re nothing but giant rats with hooves. He has a point. They’re pests all right. They eat practically everything, including what the gardening books say they don’t. And there’s no denying that they’re hazards on the roads. I see them everywhere, especially now in the middle of autumn, their dead bodies contorted every which way. But look at this one. Look at how she looks at me. Look at how she stands there. Look at how she holds her ground. Look at how the right foreleg starts to move, then stops moving. Look at how she wants to take one step forward, one step toward me, but doesn’t. This is my ground, she says. Look at how I hold it. —JR Solonche The Beauty of Resilience My son once found A cherry tomato plant Growing out of the cracks Of a sidewalk at the Local chain department store He thought it was The most beautiful thing Like what I see When I look at him —Jason Gabari
In the silence, conscience speaks out. Something in the throat. Line after line, are they in the same boat? Many voices: howls, murmurs, whispers. Many colors: white, black, yellow, brown... Many ages: young, old, very old. Many faces, and each person wears many of them. Today, only the same year-long worn-out face; Like hat, dust laden, rugged trace of washing, like shoe, uneven bottom, cushion depressed, suffocated, air is gone. Like pant, seams split, thread disappears. Like glove, fingers poking out of holes. Like old clothes, like that everyday jacket, color faded. Like old zipper, out of half step. Like hair, decide to bid farewell and you wish the good-bye hug will last longer. Like saggy sock. Like beaten-down brush of toothbrush. Like mirror, always numerous spots. Like that very old car, maybe next year. Many voices, many colors, many ages, many faces. It has been a long journey. Today, only one face.
–Glenn Ingersoll
—Livingston Rossmoor
Dream On
Low Level Prophet I’m not even a low-level bargain basement prophet. I can’t see into the future at all. The best I can do is look at a calendar. Okay, how about the past? I can see into the past a little bit. I can see it clearly every time I watch TV especially, re-runs. It’s the present I’m having problems with. What is happening now, that’s what I can’t explain. —John Blandly
Suddenly, in the middle of the night— to be Clutched like a Pen, and hear the Celestial Voices Sweetly Singing through your Nerves— with such Richness and Splendor, as could never be truly represented in any Earthly Form… and then, To slowly Awaken as this Vision is Dissolving, and to know full well that— The Greatest Foolishness of all would be trying to write it down… —Bob Grawi This Season the metal is cold so cold it burns it turns the skin red brings upon that dry scale one more season I tell myself this is the last one but here we are the last one —Cody McAvey
58 POETRY CHRONOGRAM 2/21
