It’s Past Midnight and I’m Reading Poems

to my beloved. Absent still.

My eyes cloud these nights

not from lack of sleep,

but from not resting upon her instead.

Sweet apparition of mine, completion

of life, a full century between us,

a warm, undulating sea between us,

wet-kissing

the stoic rocky coastline north and

south the deserted beach.

Continents have been known to drift,

—apart some, yet others

a fused land mass become,

diamonds for offsprings,

new moon lighting their path.

It’s past midnight

the new day has begun—

light awaits its turn in the dark.

Richard Blanco, 2013 Inaugural Poet

From the New York Times:

From the moment Barack Obama burst onto the political scene, the poet Richard Blanco, a son of Cuban exiles, says he felt “a spiritual connection” with the man who would become the nation’s 44th president.

Like Mr. Obama, who chronicled his multicultural upbringing in a best-selling autobiography, “Dreams From My Father,” Mr. Blanco has been on a quest for personal identity through the written word. He said his affinity for Mr. Obama springs from his own feeling of straddling different worlds; he is Latino and gay (and worked as a civil engineer while pursuing poetry). His poems are laden with longing for the sights and smells of the land his parents left behind.

Now Mr. Obama is about to pluck Mr. Blanco out of the relatively obscure and quiet world of poetry and put him on display before the entire world.

There’s more…

WHO ARE YOU?!!! You Asked.

I am the light behind your clouds,
a true believer at your church,
the earliest singer celebrating
what your life would become.

I am each distinctive brushstroke
in the portrait of your hands,
as they pray to know the answer
to the questions that you face.

I am the last few pages of a book
you read alone in bed. The words
you remember the next morning,
when the blue of your eyes awake.

A childhood friend, a lost pet found
a decade later in the afternoon rain.
A forgiving thought for an old hurt,
the healed wound, this is who I am.

Your Sunday paper. The roll of waves
laying their passion at Jersey’s edge.
The morning craving of coffee.
Long afternoon walks by yourself.

I’m laughter now. Tears then.
We met before and meet today.
Apart we walked these roads—
together we’ll walk them again.

I am the cabin that sits by your lake,
the light when the dawn breaks.
The voice you trust, the hand you held.
Yesterday. Tomorrow. And today.

I am your eternal companion.
An optimist blessing your fate.
Your improvised poet. Your expert lover.
Your tireless supporter. Your soul mate.

A Friend Was Feeling Down. I Read Her A Poem.

A dear friend called. She was feeling a bit depressed, aggravated, like life was not being fair on this particular day. “On this particular decade,” I think she would interject. I listened. I empathized.

When I ran out of supportive words, I offered to read her a Wislawa Szymborska poem. She agreed, which is one of the reasons I love her–she knows what she needs. I said I was just going to open the book and read whatever I open it to.

“It might depress you even more…”

“Go ahead. Read.”

This is where we landed:

            
It could have happened. 
It had to happen. 
It happened sooner. Later. 
Nearer. Farther. 
It happened not to you. 

You survived because you were the first. 
You survived because you were the last. 
Because you were alone. Because of people. 
Because you turned left. Because you turned right. 
Because rain fell. Because a shadow fell. 
Because sunny weather prevailed. 

Luckily there was a wood. 
Luckily there were no trees. 
Luckily there was a rail, a hook, a beam, a brake, 
a frame, a bend, a millimeter, a second. 
Luckily a straw was floating on the surface. 

Thanks to, because, and yet, in spite of. 
What would have happened had not a hand, a foot, 
by step, a hairsbreadth 
by sheer coincidence.
So you're here? Straight from a moment still ajar? 
The net had one eyehole, and you got through it? 
There's no end to my wonder, my silence.
Listen 
how fast your heart beats in me.

“Beautiful,” she said and then added. “They should read that poem to returning soldiers.”

She thanked me. I thanked the poet.

A Poem (And A Photograph)

NICOLAS

My five-year-old brother hands me my mail,
Happy Birthday, he says while smiling
content to be eating pretzels and peanut butter
before dinner. I flip through the stack
of unopened bank statements.
Nicolas has decided that uncooked pasta
is worth trying. He offers me some.
No, thank you. I’m not hungry, I say.
He reaches for the sugar bowl, the teapot,
the clock: they are companions, belong together.

He thinks of home. Mama? Papa? he asks.
I explain they are near, at The Mermaid Inn.
I distract him by changing a light bulb.
We agree the kitchen is too bright.

And, later, when asked by our father
the child says, yes, in fact he would
like to thank god for something:

cupcakes.

—Sherisse Alvarez

A Poem (And A Photograph)

Waiting

New York, like my heart, is desolate since you left
and the presence of yesterday remains encrusted
to the lining of my lungs.

You’re not here and I can’t think of much else
or find solace in the corners bent on hiding
the face of hope from my face.

I cant stand being inside this skin
you’ve not caressed in an eternity of loss.
I’ve tried escaping through the surface cracks.

Waiting is a foreign game I never learned to play
and yet, waiting seems to be the only way to get
to where love patiently awaits.

A Poem (And A Drawing)

My Idol

I’ve searched for an idol colorful and fat

to sit with me at my table and smile

a reassuring smile at my plight.

This idol of mine should know

what my needs are, without the need

of any confessional crap — anticipate them even –

in keeping me satisfied.

The empty feelings I’ve had by my side

will magically disappear,

my idol must make sure of that.

He’s to provide comfort, look out for my interests,

and correct all shortcomings

that might get in the way

of a full enjoyment of life.

My savior. My hope. My pal.

A Poem (And A Drawing)

Grace

I entered the cathedral
of the sungod, slash sungodess
—their mythological names
escape me now— barefoot and
weary, under branched arches
of ash, maple and oak.
On a bell tower of tall clouds,
birds of color clang in unison,
the scattered flock called
to worship in the lit afternoon.

We gather, silently,
under the celestial dome
emptied of all need for repentance
because we did not sin,
in confidence, I’ve been told.
A priestess of sincere smiles,
like ripe fruits, blesses herself
and tells us to bless each other,
before yielding the altar
to a choir of youth.
A spiritual joins our voices
in joyous exuberance, clapping
to unrehearsed notes, clapping
bodies swaying in the wind,
tasting the certainty of heaven
in scales flavored with honey and milk.

The celebration winds down,
the service will soon fade
–as dew by early morning rays.
I sit in quiet reverence, breathing
ecstasy, eating truth. On this day,
in the majestic simplicity of nature,
on fiery wings, I saw grace descend
onto the shoulders of earth.