Poem 16 from “18 Poems”
~ Tano Festa
Rome, July 28, 1979

My alabaster forbear
told me
about Georgian
cows
about cold nights
in Leningrad
where the moon is
like a silver
plate
and wind sweeps
snow that
turns to
blue, compact
crystal

Blue Snow—Photo from FreePik.com

From “Literary Sexts”
~ Caitlyn Siehl

Do not fall in love with people like me.
I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments,
and kiss you in every beautiful place,
so that you can never go back to them
without tasting me like blood in your mouth.
I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible.
And when I leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.

Image: Mike Jones (mrjones131 on Flickr)

Canto
~ Andrzej Kotański

A man should not spend his life at work
as it’s a sin
God gave us Paris, Venice,
art nouveau architecture, art deco
watches and clocks,
gave us wild strawberries
misty dawns outside of cafés’ windows,
shops,
gave us Thomas Mann and Proust,
and moors of Ireland,
created pool and teenagers,
and a thousand of other things
like waterfalls, Divine Comedy,
cigarettes and poems by Rilke,
streets lined with trees
in the South, American
cars from 1940s,
Mont Blanc pens and guidebooks
to Grenada, and
cognac, gin, whisky and Bordeaux
surely not in order for me
to sit
for eight hours daily
at work
like some wanker.

Cube Farm

Hands
~ Elaine Feinstein

We first recognised each other as if we were siblings,
and when we held hands your touch
made me stupidly happy.

           Hold my hand,  you said in the hospital .

You had big hands, strong hands, gentle
as those of a Mediterranean father
caressing the head of a child.

           Hold my hand , you said.  I feel
           I won't die while you are here.

You took my hand on our first aeroplane
and in opera houses, or watching
a video you wanted me to share.

             Hold my hand, you said. I'll fall asleep
             and won't even know you're not there.

The Nude Swim
~ Anne Sexton

Water so clear you could

read a book through it.

Water so buoyant you could

float on your elbow.

I lay on it as on a divan.

I lay on it just like

Matisse’s Red Odalisque.

Water was my strange flower,

one must picture a woman

without a toga or a scarf

on a couch as deep as a tomb.

The walls of that grotto

were everycolor blue and

you said, ‘Look! Your eyes

are seacolor. Look! Your eyes

are skycolor.’ And my eyes

shut down as if they were

suddenly ashamed.

Blue Sea and Sky