From Books and Correspondances A Short History of Decay, E.M. Cioran

By DANIEL LAWLESS
 

A flock of Aratinga nenday in the park today—
Green parakeets, so exactly the color of the grass
The grass itself seemed to shriek.
And all at once fly away.A wonderful thing to imagine:
A magic carpet, no Ali Baba.
Just the shriek-shape of it
Swooping and curling, rising free of the earth.
Then no carpet—
Disappeared over the treetops, the water tower
Where an intoxicated boy, your neighbor’s son,
Once clawed the glistening sides shrieking
In the dead of night until he drowned.
As if—still—you needed reminding:
By all evidence we are in this world to do nothing.

 

[Purchase Issue 14 here.]

 

Daniel Lawless’s book, The Gun My Sister Killed Herself With and Other Poems, will be published next year by Salmon Poetry. Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Asheville Poetry ReviewB O D YThe Cortland ReviewFULCRUM, The Common, The American Journal of Poetry, PloughsharesPrairie Schooner, FIELDManhattan Review, Numéro Cinq, and other journals. He is the founder and editor of Plume: A Journal of Contemporary Poetry.

From Books and Correspondances A Short History of Decay, E.M. Cioran

Related Posts

Image of book cover

Kazakhstani Poet Aigerim Tazhi in Translation

Aigerim Tazhi
A shaggy cactus in the window / catches on the drape. A stinging / spine in the hand. Along the wall. / Don't step into a moonbeam, / Don't tread on a house-elf / Or any other living thing. / In the newborn darkness / Pushing away dreams and shadows, / Sit on a sofa, keep still...

Graffitied diamond

A List of His Flaws

PETER MISHLER
Single-headed. / Flowering inwardly. / Barely felt in the birth canal... / Cupped like a handful of sea uncertainly held. / Carried fire to the human encampment. / Herod in boyhood. / An herbicide. / Given name known to the weapons inspectors. / Anchorite.

Cover of John Freeman's "The Park," a black and white photo of park benches and trees

April 2020 Poetry Feature: Poems from John Freeman’s THE PARK

JOHN FREEMAN
Every Sunday belfry bats of dread / flapped in the day’s corners— / I raised my head at 25, at 30, then 35, / as the sun arced down, always / wretched by the coming dark. / I assumed it was the awakening / singular to humans: / one day, that day would be the last.