perfect poems

I received a letter in the mail, 
informing me that my friend has disappeared into Nepal.
It says, after boarding a train in Patan, 

he was never heard from again.   

I have considered flying
into the Kathmandu valley
to look for him

but I cannot afford to be lost,
among all those prayer flags and
 protests.


To find him, years later
at the Namche Bazaar.
Breathing thin air and
buying provisions. 

Because I would ask
if he ever made it up to the top
of Sagarmāthā, or any others. 


And I cannot afford
to be asked the same.

(found on the website for paper darts magazine [their tumblr])

The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower, in his beak
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
the prettiest world—so long as you don’t mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t have its splash of happiness?
There are more fish than there are leaves
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
wasn’t born to think about it, or anything else.
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water
remains water—hunger is the only story
he has ever heard in his life that he could believe.
I don’t say he’s right. Neither
do I say he’s wrong. Religiously he swallows the silver leaf
with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry
I couldn’t rouse out of my thoughtful body
if my life depended on it, he swings back
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly. 

Physics says: go to sleep. Of course
you’re tired. Every atom in you
has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
nonstop from mitosis to now.
Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.

Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.

Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,
Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so
Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town
and
History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.

-Albert Goldbarth

(Source: moonrat)

Have you ever seen a Viking ship made out of popsicle sticks
And balsa wood? With tiny coils of brown thread for ropes,
Sixteen oars made out of chopsticks, and a red and yellow sail
made from a baby’s footie pajamas?

I have.

He died with his sword in his hand and so went straight to heaven.

The Vikings sometimes buried their bravest warriors in ships.
Or set them adrift and on fire, a floating island of flames.
The soul of the brave warrior rising slowly with the smoke.
To understand life in Scandinavia in the Middle Ages,
You must understand the Viking ship.

So here is the assignment:
The class must build me a miniature Viking ship.
You have a month. And you must all work together. 
Like warriors.

These projects are what I’m known for as a teacher.
Like the Egyptian Pyramid Project.
Have you ever seen a family of four standing around a card table after dinner,
each one holding one triangular side of a miniature pyramid until the glue dried?
I haven’t either, but Mrs. Steinberg said it took 90 minutes,
and even with the little brother on one side saying,
This is dumb! This is a stupid pyramid, Tony!
You’re going to fail this project.
If I get Mr. Mali next year, my pyramid is going to be much better than this!
And Tony on the other side saying,
Shut up! Shut up! You little %#@!
No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Keep holding your side 
or I swear I’ll kill you after the glue dries!
It was the best family time they’d spent together since Christmas.

He died with his sword in his hand and so went straight to heaven,
which the Vikings called Valhalla.

Mr. Mali, if that’s true, that you would go straight to Valhalla
if you died with your sword in your hand,
then if you were an old Viking
and you were about to die of old age,
could you keep your sword right by your bed
so if you felt like you were going to die
you could reach out and grab it?

I don’t know if their gods would fall for that,
but it sounds like a good idea to me.

Tony was out for a month before we heard what was wrong.
And the 12 boys left whispered the name of the disease 
as if you could catch it from saying it too loud.

We’d been warned. The Middle School Head had come to class
And said Tony was coming to school on Friday.
But he’s had a rough time.
The medication he’s taking has made all his hair fall out,
and he’s a little shy about it.
So don’t stare, don’t point, don’t laugh.

I always said I liked teaching in a private school
Because I could talk about God
And not be breaking the law.
And for an Episcopalian kid who only went to church
On Christmas and Easter, I sure talked about God a lot.
In history of course, that’s easy, 
Even the Egyptian Pyramid Project is essentially a spiritual exercise.
But how can you study geometry and not believe in a God?

A God of perfect points and planes,
Surrounded by angels and angles of all different degrees.
Such a God wouldn’t give cancer to a seventh grade boy.
Wouldn’t make his hair fall out from the chemo. 
Totally bald in a jacket and tie on Friday morning.
And I don’t mean Tony. Not one single boy in my class had hair;
the other 12 had shaved their heads in solidarity.
Have you ever seen 13 bald-headed seventh grade boys,
all pointing at each other, all staring, all laughing?

I have.

It’s a beautiful sight. And almost as striking as 12 boys 
six weeks later, now with crew cuts on a Saturday morning, 
outside the synagogue with heads bowed, 
holding hands and standing in a circle
around the smoldering remains 
of a miniature Viking ship, 
the soul of the brave warrior
rising slowly with the smoke.

blogut:

Flower of drowsiness, 
lull me but love me not.
How you profuse your perfume,
how overdo your rouge,
flower who kohl your lids
and exhale your soul in the sun!

Flower of drowsiness.

There is one resembles you
in your deceiving blush,
and too because she has
black eyelashes like you.

Flower of drowsiness.

(And I tremble alone to see
your hand in mine,
tremble lest you turn
into a woman one day!)

Alfonso Reyes