Posts Tagged ‘Persoonlike gunstelinge’

Persoonlike gunstelinge – ‘Coyotes’ deur Ted Kooser & ‘Watch Repair’ deur Charles Simic

Tuesday, September 1st, 2009

Ted Kooser

My pup steps to the edge
of the light from our porch
and barks her obbligato
into the huge auditorium
of the winter night. Out there,
critics with yellow eyes,
dressed in snow-sparkled furs,
turn to each other and, without
a sound, curl up their lips.


Watch Repair
Charles Simic

A small wheel
Shivering like
A pinned butterfly.

Hands thrown up
In all directions:
The crossroads
One arrives at
In a nightmare.

Higher than that
Number 12 presides
Like a beekeeper
Over the swarming honeycomb
Of the open watch.

Other wheels
That could fit
Inside a raindrop.

That must be splinters
Of arctic starlight.

Tiny golden mills
Grinding invisible
Coffee beans.

When the coffee’s boiling
So it doesn’t burn us,
We raise it
To the lips
Of the nearest


Persoonlike gunstelinge: ‘Dragonfly’ – Andrew Hudgins

Monday, August 17th, 2009

Andrew Hudgins

Book says “most predacious.” Book
says “fastest
    flying insect,” says it eats
its body weight in half an hour.
Mother called it
                the devil’s
darning needle. Book adds “darner”
and “devil’s arrow.” Mother said
it would stitch shut the eyes,
                              ears, lips,
of sleeping children, and Book confirms
that mothers would say that.
                              Book says
dragonflies can
                snap a gnat
in mid-
       air, eat it on the wing,
and Book says that what I’ve always called
a dragonfly is really, with its
            slender body, a
which strafes the pond clot, soars,
                       hovers, sideslips, loops,
                           and twists,
sunlight revealing a new glint
of iridescent
              shimmer – purple, red,
green, turquoise, gold, gunmetal blue –
with every pass.
                It’s hunting: a whip
              cracking gnats out of the air
so quick I can’t see it happen
and wouldn’t know except I trust
Book, Book,
           the goddamn book, because
I cannot see the hunting. See
what looks like pleasure
                         and soar),
but isn’t. Book insists on purpose.
Not even blood sport. Work. But its purpose
is not my purpose: pleasure
                      (dive, jink, roll,
then stillness at great speed)
                              beside black water.

Andrew Hudgins is professor of English at the University of Cincinatti. His most recent collection of poems is The Glass Hammer (1994).

Persoonlike gunstelinge: After reading ‘Mickey in the night kitchen’ for the third time before bed – Rita Dove

Monday, July 20th, 2009

After reading Mickey in
the night kitchen
for the
third time before bed

I’m in the milk and the milk’s in me! … I’m Mickey!

My daughter spreads her legs
to find her vagina:
hairless, this mistaken
bit of nomenclature
is what a stranger cannot touch
without her yelling. She demands
to see mine and momentarily
we’re a lopsided star
among the spilled toys,
my prodigious scallops
exposed to her neat cameo.

And yet the same glazed
tunnel, layered sequences.
She is three; that makes this
innocent. We’re pink!
she shrieks, and bounds off.

Every month she wants
to know where it hurts
and what the wrinkled string means
between my legs. This is good blood
I say, but that’s wrong, too.
How to tell her that it’s what makes us-
black mother, cream child.
That we’re in the pink
and the pink’s in us.

Rita Dove