Bellringers 4/5-4/9 #10-#14 4/5/10 #10 The Partial Explanation Charles Simic Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order. Grimy little luncheonette, The snow falling outside. Seems like it has grown darker Since I last heard the kitchen door Behind my back Since I last noticed Anyone pass on the street. A glass of ice-water Keeps me company At this table I chose myself Upon entering. And a longing, Incredible longing To eavesdrop On the conversation Of cooks. 4/6/10 #11 Remora, Remora Thomas Lux Clinging to the shark is a sucker shark, attached to which and feeding off its crumbs is one still tinier, inch or two, and on top of that one, one the size of a nick of gauze; smaller and smaller (moron, idiot, imbecile, nincompoop) until on top of that is the last, a microdot sucker shark, a filament’s tip – with a heartbeat – sliced off, and the great sea all around feeding his host and thus him. He’s too small to be eaten himself (though some things swim with open mouths) so he just rides along in the blue current, the invisible point of the pyramid, the top beneath all else. 4/7/10 #12 Tour Carol Snow **Today's very short poem reminds us there are two ways of looking at things. Note: This is such a short poem, it should be read twice. Near a shrine in Japan he'd swept the path and then placed camellia blossoms there. Or -- we had no way of knowing -- he'd swept the path between fallen camellias. 4/8/10 #13 After Us Connie Wanek ** This poem creates a mysterious atmosphere. Rain is falling through the roof. And all that prospered under the sun, the books that opened in the morning and closed at night, and all day turned their pages to the light; the sketches of boats and strong forearms and clever faces, and of fields and barns, and of a bowl of eggs, and lying across the piano the silver stick of a flute; everything invented and imagined, everything whispered and sung, all silenced by cold rain. The sky is the color of gravestones. The rain tastes like salt, and rises in the streets like a ruinous tide. We spoke of millions, of billions of years. We talked and talked. Then a drop of rain fell into the sound hole of the guitar, another onto the unmade bed. And after us, the rain will cease or it will go on falling, even upon itself. 4/9/10 #14 Before She Died Karen Chase When I look at the sky now, I look at it for you. As if with enough attention, I could take it in for you. With all the leaves gone almost from the trees, I did not walk briskly through the field. Late today with my dog Wool, I lay down in the upper field, he panting and aged, me looking at the blue. Leaning on him, I wondered how finite these lustered days seem to you, A stand of hemlock across the lake catches my eye. It will take a long time to know how it is for you. Like a dog's lifetime -- long -- multiplied by sevens.
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