thesefevereddays

[thesefevereddays]

Prophecy

By Pauli Murray

I sing of a new American

Separate from all others,

Yet enlarged and diminished by all others.

I am the child of kings and serfs, freemen and slaves,

Having neither superiors nor inferiors,

Progeny of all colors, all cultures, all systems, all beliefs.

I have been enslaved, yet my spirit is unbound.

I have been cast aside, but I sparkle in the darkness.

I have been slain but live on in the rivers of history.

I seek no conquest, no wealth, no power, no revenge;

I seek only discovery

Of the illimitable heights and depths of my own being.

Cambridge, 1969

[thesefevereddays]

Altitude

By Airea D. Matthews

Icarus, he advised,

heed the warning: don’t fly

too near the sun or sea;

stay the path.

But I mistook the sky for an iris,

and entered at the northern horizon,

where map edges blister,

and the compass wasps.

I was dutiful but unwooed

by chisel and bench, contracts

scribbled in fig sap, or watching

Ariadne ungold time.

What awe is there

in earthen labyrinths?

Wax molds itself sublime,

shapes wings each night.

Light refracts my name in

dialect only moths comprehend.

I belong elemental, where trees

chance to become constellations,

where the bar-headed goose flies

past with the heart of a clock and

Zeus is a silver kite tethered

to Olympus by harp strings

trembling an offering.

Of bliss? To remember

the why of it all.

Bliss is a body absconding

warp speed toward

a dwarf star whispering,

Unsee the beheld.

My fall, well, yes,

those depths matter less.

What I learned by height—

that’s the story.

[thesefevereddays]

Today We Will Not Be Invisible Nor Silent

By Victoria Lena Manyarrows

today

we will not be invisible nor silent

as the pilgrims of yesterday continue their war of attrition

forever trying, but never succeeding

in their battle to rid the americas of us

convincing others and ourselves

that we have been assimilated and eliminated,

but we remember who we are

we are the spirit of endurance that lives

in the cities and reservations of north america

and in the barrios and countryside of Nicaragua, Chile

Guatemala, El Salvador

and in all the earth and rivers of the americas.

[thesefevereddays]

ANNA ANCHER

Interieur, 1899.

[thesefevereddays]

from Nothing Stays Put

By Amy Clampitt

Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel.

All that we know, that we're

made of, is motion.

[thesefevereddays]

MARTINUS RØRBYE

View From the Artist’s Window, 1825.

[thesefevereddays]

How I go to the woods

By Mary Oliver

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.

[thesefevereddays]

MARY CASSATT

Woman With a Fan, 1878.

[thesefevereddays]

The Comfort

By Alice Notley

I needed a long bus ride up-

town like a new hole oh well

my only comfort the possibility

you’re unhappy, insane, etc

[thesefevereddays]

GEORGIA O’KEEFE

Red Poppy, 1927.

[thesefevereddays]

Wait Until It Grows Roots

By Tarfia Faizullah

for Alex T.

a golden shovel after a line in ‘Gitanjali 73’ by Tagore

The plant trimming requires no

less than its water to be changed weekly. I

ask my friend who gifted it to me: when will

I be able to transfer it into soil? She has never

told me anything but the truth. I don’t shut

the window blinds now; my Plant-Friend loves the

sun too much. I’ve been leaving the doors

open too; the spirits flit more freely now. Yes, of

course I’m afraid of death, but no less so my

own life. A friend can bring you back to sweeter senses.

[thesefevereddays]

LILLA CABOT PERRY

Lady With a Bowl of Violets, 1910.

[thesefevereddays]

Bavaria

By Mary Ruefle

The mountain skies were clear

except for the umlaut of a cloud

over the village.

The little girl wore yellow gloves.

She looked in the peephole and saw

a stack of unused marionettes.

Yet, she wondered.

[thesefevereddays]

GWEN JOHN

A Lady Reading, 1910–11.

[thesefevereddays]

My Therapist Wants to Know about My Relationship to Work

By Tiana Clark

I hustle

upstream.

I grasp.

I grind.

I control & panic. Poke

balloons in my chest,

always popping there,

always my thoughts thump,

thump. I snooze — wake & go

boom. All day, like this I short

my breath. I scroll & scroll.

I see what you wrote — I like.

I heart. My thumb, so tired.

My head bent down, but not

in prayer, heavy from the looking.

I see your face, your phone-lit

faces. I tap your food, two times

for more hearts. I retweet.

I email: yes & yes & yes.

Then I cry & need to say: no-no-no.

Why does it take so long to reply?

I FOMO & shout. I read. I never

enough. New book. New post.

New ping. A new tab, then another.

Papers on the floor, scattered & stacked.

So many journals, unbroken white spines,

waiting. Did you hear that new new?

I start to text back. Ellipsis, then I forget.

I balk. I lazy the bed. I wallow when I write.

I truth when I lie. I throw a book

when a poem undoes me. I underline

Clifton: today we are possible. I start

from image. I begin with Phillis Wheatley.

I begin with Phillis Wheatley. I begin

with Phillis Wheatley reaching for coal.

I start with a napkin, receipt, or my hand.

I muscle memory. I stutter the page. I fail.

Hit delete — scratch out one more line. I sonnet,

then break form. I make tea, use two bags.

Rooibos again. I bathe now. Epsom salt.

No books or phone. Just water & the sound

of water filling, glory — be my buoyant body,

bowl of me. Yes, lavender, more bubbles

& bath bomb, of course some candles too.

All alone with Coltrane. My favorite, “Naima,”

for his wife, now for me, inside my own womb.

Again, I child back. I float. I sing. I simple

& humble. Eyes close. I low my voice,

was it a psalm? Don’t know. But I stopped.

[thesefevereddays]

ANNA ANCHER

Red Hollyhocks in the Garden, 1916.

[thesefevereddays]

HENRI MATISSE

La Musique, 1939.