Myra's submittal for Monday, April 6

Flashback

late winter,early evening
suddenly the sun casts a spot of light
on some tree limbs high up and bare.
stirred by the glow I stand and stare like
a small child at the moon. often have I sood
here on the grass, as a bird might
searching for seeds, and failed to notice

the sun's shadows or a pattern of light
laced through the redwood.
up there now in the sun's beam
forgotten voices whisper

from light yeas away - reminiscing.
their sweet breath bringing
sky to earth
lost to found.

Adriana's Submission for Monday, April 6

At Freedom's Gate by Colin Morton

Your passport please.
You are German.
Yes.
A German citizen.
Yes.
Born in Hannover.
Not a matter of choice, I assure you.
You speak Norwegian very well.
A little, not so well.
You are a spy, perhaps.
Is that a question?
You have been to Norway before.
Yes, often.
'36, '35, '34 . . .
I spend summers on Möldefjord,
I love it there.
It is not summer now, Herr ...
Schwitters.
It is not summer now, Herr Schwitters.
Yes. No.
Your stay will be a short one?
I don't know.
Like the others?
A holiday, yes.
But you don't know how long.
No.
You are not seeking asylum?
No, I hope to return home.
You are not a member of the Nazi party.
No!
Any other party?
No.
You belong to no party.
Yes. No.
You will fill out these forms please.
Yes.
You will report to the police, this address,
tomorrow morning at nine.
Yes.
You understand, failure to report will mean . . .
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Welcome, Herr Schwitters, to the land of freedom!

Gabe's Submission for Monday, April 6

Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Frank's Submission for Monday, April 6

Two poems by Ted Hughes

Relic

I found this jawbone at the sea's edge:
There, crabs, dogfish, broken by the breakers or tossed
To flap for half an hour and turn to a crust
Continue the beginning. The deeps are cold:
In that darkness camaraderie does not hold.

Nothing touches but, clutching, devours. And the jaws,
Before they are satisfied or their stretched purpose
Slacken, go down jaws; go gnawn bare. Jaws
Eat and are finished and the jawbone comes to the beach:
This is the sea's achievement; with shells,
Verterbrae, claws, carapaces, skulls.

Time in the sea eats its tail, thrives, casts these
Indigestibles, the spars of purposes
That failed far from the surface. None grow rich
In the sea. This curved jawbone did not laugh
But gripped, gripped and is now a cenotaph.



Theology

"No, the serpent did not
Seduce Eve to the apple.
All that's simply
Corruption of the facts.

Adam ate the apple.
Eve ate Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.

The serpent, meanwhile,
Sleeps his meal off in Paradise -
Smiling to hear
God's querulous calling."