Poetry

Snowflakes surprise us,small and aimless as we ourselves,so light they sift upwardsin random puppetry. Yesterday we arrived in Englandon the edge of April.Workers in orange suitshad de-iced the plane in Chicago. As we’d changed planesin Dublin, yellow hoses uncoiledon juddering machi

At dawn the panther of the heavens peers over the edge of the world.She hears the stars gossip with the sun, sees the moon washing her leandarkness with water electrified by prayers. All over the world there are thosewho can’t sleep, those who never awaken. My granddaughter sleeps on the

It always seems to be night—our floatingThrough darkness, the clouds parted likeCurtains woefully. We take to twilightLike children on the road back fromSomewhere, past places that are scarcelyThere even in sheer daytime. LackingTrysts, travelers weave their own bareSteps out amongst the fores

Furred, the horizonsare both calling and escaping:there must be an edge.Near the bases on the prairiethe farms in silhouette seem homesick;one can imagine entering their kitchensand from the stubbled fieldsbirds rise up, hopeful.Someone stands at a windowlooking for a limit to visionbut the fields p

for the night, we decidewe must go nowwhile we can. New York is sinking,we go to Pompei,itself a reminderthat nothing is permanent. Vesuvius erupted yesterday,volcanic ash blanchingthe air above Naples. At the airport, we rent a car,and suddenly we can smellthe sea, feel distended lig

Seeing this we fall to our knees. WeWouldn’t be willing to stop beingHuman he became willing to stopBeing wholly of light approachableTo become human and die as aHelpless creature died in thatJewish rite so that its drenchingBlood could besprinkle in itsDeep cleansing. How can weUnderstan

This ruse, enduring for days,will eventually cease, but noweven the birds mistake him for a log,or a stone the fleeting droughthas lifted above the current.Because there is a current, even in this cocoa-dark side-pool, and the solution to hidingso plainly under the sun is to glide asthe magnoli

They have the storm of the centuryevery winter in Buffalo. Buffalo is like a pilgrim site for snow.Buffalo is Capistrano for blizzards. Think of the word, “snow-bank.”Think of Buffalo as the Federal Reserve. Imagine Lake Erie as your in-lawsand know how Buffalo feels 

This is a fearful night.The cloud-wrack scudsHundreds of feet above us, on a blastThat shrieks of war.Wind rips at mighty oaksAnd threatens roof-tops cowering at their feet.Men feel its fingers in their very soulsAnd barricade the entrance, lest the dogWithin, half-tamed, leap up at sound of roaring

A poem by Jessica Powers from The Second “America” Book of Verse, a collection of the best of America poetry, 1930 to 1955.