David St.
John
"WHO IS SHE .
.."
Who is she, coming along the street, turning the heads
Ofmen and angels, making the night air so
Tense, so trembling with clarity that even those poets
Who adore ranting about love can only sigh?
And God! When she just happens to glance your way, well,
Let love tell it, I can't even begin
To describe the way her modesty makes other women
Grovel and weep in utter wretchedness.
And nothing I can say is really relevant; every word simply
Grows transparent held up to her body, draped
after Cavalcanti
In a cloak woven by time, threads of beauty and Godhead ...
No surprise that our lofty ideals and tender, healing voices
All fade before such an extravagance of grace -
Whose charms we'll never hold, in our minds, nor in our arms.
Sydney Lea
MANIFEST
In evergreens, wind-riven,
whose blaze-orange wounds
at limb and crown certify passion;
In the mitten-wool taste
of snow you scoop to your mouth
because - so you imagine - you thirst;
In illogical woodpeckers' laughter,
in their swooping flight,
that suggests assertion crossed by doubt;
In rough-frozen rims of tracks
the animals left in the dark preceding
- litany: winter walk
