“Wild Geese” Adapted for the Pandemic
—Adrie Kusserow

Adrie Kusserow was inspired by Mary Oliver‘s poem “Wild Geese” to write a coronavirus version of that poem:

You do not have to become totally zen,
You do not have to use this isolation to make your marriage better,
your body slimmer, your children more creative.

You do not have to “maximize its benefits”
By using this time to work even more,
write the bestselling Corona Diaries,
Or preach the gospel of ZOOM.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body unlearn
everything capitalism has taught you,
(That you are nothing if not productive,
That consumption equals happiness,
That the most important unit is the single self.
That you are at your best when you resemble an efficient machine).

Tell me about your fictions, the ones you’ve been sold,
the ones you sheepishly sell others,
and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world as we know it is crumbling.
Meanwhile the virus is moving over the hills,
suburbs, cities, farms and trailer parks.

Meanwhile The News barks at you, harsh and addicting,
Until the push of the remote leaves a dead quiet behind,
a loneliness that hums as the heart anchors.

Meanwhile a new paradigm is composing itself in our minds,
Could birth at any moment if we clear some space
From the same tired hegemonies.

Remember, you are allowed to be still as the white birch,
Stunned by what you see,
Uselessly shedding your coils of paper skins
Because it gives you something to do.

Meanwhile, on top of everything else you are facing,
Do not let capitalism co-opt this moment,
laying its whistles and train tracks across your weary heart.

Even if your life looks nothing like the Sabbath,
Your stress boa-constricting your chest.
Know that your antsy kids, your terror, your shifting moods,
Your need for a drink have every right to be here,
And are no less sacred than a yoga class.

Whoever you are, no matter how broken,
the world still has a place for you, calls to you over and over
announcing your place as legit, as forgiven,
even if you fail and fail and fail again.
remind yourself over and over,
all the swells and storms that run through your long tired body
all have their place here, now in this world.

It is your birthright to be held
deeply, warmly in the family of things,
not one cell left in the cold.

Wild Geese
— Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Wait for Me
— Konstantin Simonov
Translated by Lubov Yakovleva

Wait for me, and I’ll come back,
But wait with all your might,
Wait when dreariness descends,
With the yellow rains,
Wait when snowdrifts sweep the ground,
Wait during the heat,
Wait when others are given up
And together with the past forgotten.
Wait when from distant places
Letters do not arrive,
Wait when all who’ve waited together
Are already tired of it.

Wait for me, and I’ll come back,
Don’t give your approval
To those who say you should forget,
Insisting they are right.
Even though my son and mother
Believe I’m already gone,
Though my friends get tired of waiting,
Settle by the fire and drink
A bitter cup,
So my soul should rest in peace . . .
Wait. Do not make haste to join them
In their toast to me.

Wait for me, and I’ll come back,
Just to spite all deaths.
Let the ones who did not wait
Say: “It was his luck.”
It’s hard for them to understand,
For those who did not wait,
That in the very heat of fire,
By waiting here for me,
It was you that saved me.
Only you and I will know
How I survived—
It’s just that you knew how to wait
As no other person.

The Enkindled Spring
— D. H. Lawrence

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

Everything As In a Good Old-Fashioned Novel
— Andrey Dementyev
To Maya Lugovskaya
Translated by Simon Franklin

Everything as in a good old-fashioned novel.
Colonnaded house, light from a window.
Black limes in blue haze.
Elegaic quietude.

Rustle of crows in drenched clumps of trees.
Leaves float quietly in a pond.
What the hell; I am a complete outsider
In this yellow, forgotten garden.

But, imagine.
Under the leafy canopy
I wander for hours along the fence,
Like an aristocrat, concealing his provenance,
Remembering something.

What is there for me in these columns, these niches!
And I am here as if for the first time,
And my father not one of the has-beens,
But one of those who both were and are.

But with a kind of clinging sadness
The dampness of the columns infiltrates my soul,
And so, in his cultivated backwoods,
Forgotten by people, does Apollo.