Some Feel Rain BY JOANNA KLINK

Some feel rain. Some feel the beetle startle

in its ghost-part when the bark

slips. Some feel musk. Asleep against

each other in the whiskey dark, scarcely there.

When it falls apart, some feel the moondark air

drop its motes to the patch-thick slopes of

snow. Tiny blinkings of ice from the oak,

a boot-beat that comes and goes, the line of prayer

you can follow from the dusking wind to the snowy owl

it carries. Some feel sunlight

well up in blood-vessels below the skin

and wish there had been less to lose.

Knowing how it could have been, pale maples

drowsing like a second sleep above our temperaments.

Do I imagine there is any place so safe it can’t be

snapped? Some feel the rivers shift,

blue veins through soil, as if the smokestacks were a long

dream of exhalation. The lynx lets its paws

skim the ground in snow and showers.

The wildflowers scatter in warm tints until

the second they are plucked. You can wait

to scrape the ankle-burrs, you can wait until Mercury

the early star underdraws the night and its blackest

districts. And wonder. Why others feel

through coal-thick night that deeply colored garnet

star. Why sparring and pins are all you have.

Why the earth cannot make its way towards you.

At Black River by Mary Oliver

All day 

its dark, slick bronze soaks 

in a mossy place,

its teeth, 

 

a multitude

set 

for the comedy

that never comes —

 

its tail

knobbed and shiny, 

and with a heavy-weight's punch

packed around the bone. 

 

In beautiful Florida 

he is king 

of his own part

of the black river, 

 

and from his nap 

he will wake 

into the warm darkness

to boom, and thrust forward,

 

paralyzing 

the swift, thin-waisted fish,

or the bird 

in its frilled, white gown, 

 

that has dipped down 

from the heaven of leaves 

one last time,

to drink.

Some Kiss We Want by Rumi

There is some kiss we want with 

our whole lives, the touch of 

spirit on the body. Seawater

begs the pearl to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately

it needs some wild darling! At

night, I open the window and ask

the moon to come and press its

face against mine. Breathe into

me. Close the language- door and

open the love window. The moon

won't use the door, only the window.

Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-De-La-Mer (On Van Gogh's painting) - Jude Goodwin

One of these boats carried Mary,
    put to sea by the Romans,
    the crying woman, hands wrapped with rags
    that smell of myrrh. And a tomb angel
    guards the beach. All the fishers have fled in fear
    except the one who stayed to spread his cloak
    over the water. For the women
    in the boat, no sail, no paddles.
    And the mourning Mary. Miracles,
    she tells him, are untouchable.
    

The fisher guides her hand
    to the red boat's prow,
    the old wood thick
    with loving paint. Hold fast
    mother, he says
    and the women are gone.
    

Flat sea. Four boats
    returned to shore. Curdled cod's breath
    sky. A yellow mast, yellow grass.
    Some kind of large grey wing
    floating in the water,
    washing up against the rock.

After La Siesta (On Van Gogh's Painting) - MR James

(Subject's perspective)    

    Morning's hard labour in field done,
    we lie down, he and I, sickles and shoes
    shed for a spell. High noon sun
    bears down from cloudless sky
    while cicadas shriek a lullaby.
    We shelter in haystack's shadow,
    deep in black sleep drawn
    no sooner than head hits straw,
    its sweet smell melding with earth,
    dung, fresh cut grain, and sweat. I dream
    not of the reaping behind us,
    or before us upon rising.

    
(Painter's perspective)    

They say I said, "No blue
    without yellow, without orange."
    Perhaps I did once, but here
    on this day, who can deny
    such shades of distinction?
    

As surely as the sky wears violet-blue,
    her sun irradiates the field beneath
    in gold - labourers need respite
    from its hot bright hue,
    their garb more gorgeous
    for its drab simplicity,
    toil-polished tools nearby
    mirroring the pair's unwitting harmony.

    

How I long to lie with them,
    share rough pleasure after pure toil,
    bones and muscles aching
    earn a measure of relief
    on wakening.
    

This painter, for all his wealth of oil,
    finds no rest on canvas,
    no stillness in his landscape,
    no reprieve but the fevered glow
    of brushstroke.

Christina of Denmark (On Holbein's Painting) - Josie Turner

 

The Queen must be beautiful, I understand.
    Even a candidate must have qualities
    not insulting to the throne. The King's hand
    discriminates. I've watched it hovering
    over this canvas or that, assessing
    fearful calculated veracity.

    

I made her beautiful, to be worth the trip.
    It worked - the likeness endures,
    clear of cast and sensuous of lip;
    my warnings heeded. The court is wise.
    

The girl's writhing hands and very shadow advise
    of my three hours bent to her allure.

    The sable collar of her mourning coat
    lolls like a noose, its falling swags
    disguise her form, my lady floats
    across the vermilion floor (I stood her
    on two books). Her smile recurs.
    

One husband down, gloves twisted to wet rags,

    eyes that never leave me, sardonic
    brow that never falls, a face
    propped like a mask on a stiffened tunic -
    my silence as I knelt, Henry's silence,
    the caw of birds, the signalled violence -
    the blackened edges of her exquisite lace.

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” Edna St Vincent Millay

 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.