memory & desire

measured out in coffee spoons

Toast
- by Leonard Nathan -

There was a woman in Ithaca
who cried softly all night
in the next room and helpless
I fell in love with her under the blanket
of snow that settled on all the roofs
of the town, filling up
every dark depression.

Next morning
in the motel coffee shop
I studied all the made-up faces
of women. Was it the middle-aged blonde
who kidded the waitress
or the young brunette lifting
her cup like a toast?

Love, whoever you are,
your courage was my companion
for many cold towns
after the betrayal of Ithaca
and when I order coffee
in a strange place, still
I say, lifting, this is for you.

negative space

Keeping Things Whole
- by Mark Strand -

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

the iceberg theory

The Iceberg Theory
- by Gerald Locklin -

  all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
  you'd think romaine was descended from
  orpheus's laurel wreath,
  you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
  benefits attributed to it by popeye,
  not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
  veriaine and debussy.
  they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
  just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

  I guess the problem is
  it's just too common for them.
  It doesn't matter that it tastes good,
  has a satisfying crunchy texture,
  holds its freshness
  and has crevices for the dressing,
  whereas the darker, leafier varieties
  are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
  It just isn't different enough and
  it's too goddamn american.

  of course a critic has to criticize;
  a critic has to have something to say
  perhaps that's why literary critics
  purport to find interesting
  so much contemporary poetry
  that just bores the shit out of me.

  at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
  with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
  the more the merrier,
  drenched in an Italian or roquefort dressing.
  and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
  to pretend that I'm enjoying.