Sunset, July 5th, Long Island, New York

Photo by Michael Fallon. Used by permission.

——

That’s like a poem.
About pink.
And warm.
And ending.
And ice cream, peach.
And laughter dying out
Slowly from every summertime
Get-together everyone
In the whole wide world
Ever had on a holiday
With family and pinwheels
And little red white and blue flags
Sticking out of the short green grass.
Its peachfuzz voice says:
We’re still free, People.
And then it goes to bed.
And we’re tired, too—
After all the talking and children
Playing and ladies laying
Out for the first suntan
Of the season…
Where you fall asleep
Right there
In that cocktail light
With or without
A reason.

—(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods

“Try to Praise the Mutilated World”—A Poem by Adam Zagajewski (trans. Clare Cavanagh)

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Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutiliated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

– Adam Zagajewski, How Lovely the Ruins, 2017

Image: Pinterest

the firestarter, a Poem by Sanguine Woods

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Dedicated to Curt Jarrell…

the firestarter

deem not tomorrow
sentient or flesh
quick flash
then none
torment not a
somber hope a
promised light
forever burning—
measure fire
wisdom’s tool
resurrection’s
golden wire
ancient touchstone
searing night
strike!
strike!
flint to flame
one small tool
breath be quick
bellow tame
dawn-light curl
dry and crackle
strike!
strike!
each spark—one day
handful’s hours
all you own—
one day—not hope
one strike
torn yoke
cleft night—
prophets’ yearning—
every breath
from you
its burning

(c)2017 by Sanguine Woods. All rights reserved.

(gif: Google Images)

The Book, a Poem by H. P. Lovecraft

The place was dark and dusty and half-lost
In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,
And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.
Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,
Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees,
Rotting from floor to roof—congeries
Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.

I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap
Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it through,
Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep
Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.
Then, looking for some seller old in craft,
I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.

– Howard Phillips Lovecraft, ca. 1930

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Illustration by Eric Yorke. Lovecraft’s poetry is free to use and dwells in the Public Domain. (Source: Facebook, The Lovecraft Eternal Community)