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Today's Quote
  • Epicurus
    "It is not so much our friends' help that helps us, as the confidence of their help."
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Poem of the Day
  • Poem of the Day: To Those of You Alive in the Future
    who somehow have found a sip of water,
    on this day in the past four syndicated
    series involving communication with the dead
    were televised and in this way we resembled
    our own ghosts in a world made brief with flowers.
    To you, our agonies and tizzies
    must appear quaint as the stiff shoulders
    of someone carrying buckets from a well
    or the stung beekeeper gathering honey.
    Why did we bother hurrying from A to B
    when we’d get no further than D, if that?
    On Monday, it sleeted in Pennsylvania
    while someone’s mother was scoured further
    from her own mind. A son-in-law smoked
    in the parking lot, exhaling white curses
    torn apart by the large invisible indifference.
    The general anesthetic wore off
    and someone else opened her eyes to the results.
    In this way our world was broken and glued.
    But why did we bother shooing away the flies?
    Did we think we could work our way
    inside a diamond if we ground more pigment
    into the paper’s tooth, tried to hold fire
    on our tongues, sucked at the sugars of each other?
    Many the engagement rings in the pawnshop.
    Many the empties piled at the curbs.
    A couple paused on a bridge to watch
    chunks of ice tugged by bickering currents.
    One who slept late reached out
    for one who wasn’t there. Breads, heavy
    and sweet, were pulled from wide infernos
    of stone ovens. My name was Dean Young,
    I wrote it on a leaf. Sometimes
    I could still manage to get lost,
    there was no guidance system wired inside me yet.
    Laughter might have come from a window
    lit far into the night, others were dark
    and always silent.

    Source: Poetry October 2009

    Dean Young

    Biography
    More poems by this author


    

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