my dead grow larger, as if to punish me for all
I failed to do, what I hadn’t time for, what I
didn’t know I needed — all those halcyon days
when love seemed lined up, ready to be taken
when joy could be enjoyed, then left behind for
the next joy — days of, years of joy with no idea
what dearth lay ahead when age would claim
its due — all you who died before your time
died in passion’s arms — Patroclus, Antigone —
you were not like I am, the living & the dead
We learn the truth about friendship
through the death of our family & friends.
Once the punishing weight of grief winds down
we experience the presence of the dead.
They talk to us, & we talk to them.
We not only remember but feel our mutual love.
It is not that we are strong enough to do without them
but that they stay with us forever.
They appear, observe, wonder, remark, remind us
not who they were but who they are to us.
by Taha Muhammad Ali [my translation]
We didn’t cry
when we left.
We had no time
no tears
no farewell
we had no goodbye.
We had no idea
this was goodbye
the goodbye
so how would we have cried?
We didn’t lie awake
(we didn’t sleep)
the night we left.
That night
we had no night
no light
the moon didn’t rise.
That night we lost the star
our lamp, gone
our share of sleep
not denied us
so how would we lie awake?
curved rumps & lowered heads
of thirty black cows crop through thin snow
to grass almost summer green
fern fronds arc, mossy boulders glow
broad-leaved weeds & perennials
unfurl soft green leaves
rivers swing from freeze to thaw
soft lake-ice clumps, low mounds of snow
melt in warmth & rain
hiking trails are frozen, saturated, puddled
pulsing winds fracture forests
soil shifts, houses tumble
this planet we’ve forced to meet our needs
bends every straight line
breaks down asphalt, concrete, steel
degree by degree, earth reverts to round
a year consists of twelve months
a month of three ten-day weeks
all honor what farm & nature bring
Véndemiaire stamps the vintage red
Brumaire fog swallows cranberry
Frimaire frost crusts the standing weeds
no more gods, death to the last king
Nivôse snow floats, flurries, drifts
Pluviôse proffers rain
Ventôse favors wind
high regard for weather, water, air
Germinal marks the rupture of seed
Floréal waves its blossoms
Prairial sheep hike to high meadow
the earth’s body, the sky’s face
Messidor farmers harvest peas
Thermidor heat hatches mosquitoes
Fructidor fruit swells, sweetens, savors
nature, people, tools, reason
finally, Les Fêtes Sansculottides
five days (in La Franciade, six)
when free citizens dance & sing
