Young People, by John Ashbery

                 Young People

Slowly he is eating the stars--

they are like the spines of books to him,

but don't throw two ladies or locations at him.

He called this Nomad's Land.

Yet it was clean and serious. Not, it is true,

cheerful. Not by any means. Yet the old men

in pajamas made a leisurely appearance.

Good times were on the phonograph.

Surely somebody can be his wife,

surely there are strong husbands for such women,

who keep a rifle in the broom closet

and never ask for i.d. Their colors:

those of a saffron strand at evening

in disappointed August. We rise with the swifts,

never to know what cut us loose.

An Interview and Poem

I recently did an interview with the Brooklyn Arts Press for their Brooklyn Poets series, and I thought I would share it. They also published one of my recent poems, as well as a recording of me reading it. This is just optional reading in case anyone is interested.

Memories

--by Sophia Baradarian

The unapologetic snap
sizzle of
sun-bleached photos
seared in the candle’s flame.
You turn them over
flip, swish,
switch, repeat,
deciding which to keep.
Until you know every touch and corner.
Until you’ve palmed sepia cheeks
and auburn curls.
Until the names and places
where you’d held them meld,
melt on your tongue,
tumble and fuse
with the age-old blues
which take bitty
bites of the sounds and
sights they’ve
savagely left behind to
swallow you entire.
There you sit,
bottle of bitter wine in hand
and rummaging through,
if only to
down the remaining dregs
of a fading
dimpled smile.
Or to pluck what's
left of the dying
times when tinny
tines forked plump
cubes of watermelon
into mooching
little mouths
by the pool.
You’ve given up,
a creature hunted,
haunted by a past
which has yet to pass.
Not knowing whether to
caress or
crumple the tattered square
displaying three
picturesque children
hugging the skirts
of a long lost wife.
A long lost life.
Burn it or
turn it
between worn
fingers, still you’ll
find its eager
edge will slice
through any callus.

Haikus

--by Efrat Malachi


The more you give love
The more an angel's cup fills
The more holy wills


The moon rises bright
Not to replace the sun’s height
Both work day and night


Cradles me asleep
The sea is a lullaby
Rocking back and forth


The jungle runs wild
Beastly freedoms take control
Running forever



A tall tree bending
Feeling the downs of the day
Meeting me in pain



Colors shedding through
Along the rainy pavement
Now searching for gold



Seeing the sign up
Doesn’t mean being fluent
Speaking its language

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner

I really enjoyed this NYT article about a public reading of Coleridge's famous poem, "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner." People famous and not so famous recently gathered online for a dramatic reading of the poem, which featured sections by stars like Jeremy Irons, Hilary Mantel, Lemn Sissay, Marianne Faithfull, Iggy Pop and Tilda Swinton. Poetry scholars make a good case for the poem as emblematic of our modern moment:

“It’s the first modern work of literature to address the idea of isolation, in the most intense and visceral and scary, but yet strangely uplifting way,” said Hoare. “The Mariner’s cri de cœur of ‘alone, alone’ is part of us now.” 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is “a founding fable of our modern age”, he said. “We are the wedding guests, and the albatross around the Mariner’s neck is an emblem of human despair and our abuse of the natural world. Yet in its beautiful terror there lies a wondrous solution: that we might wake up and find ourselves saved.”

You can access this dramatic reading by clicking here. 

5-7-5

Waiting Out the Virus

This poem from Bruno K Öijers Trilogy (trans Öijer and Victoria Haggblom) captures a certain feeling relevant to present times, so I thought I would share it here: