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Postcard -- Margaret Atwood

(Poem #219)Postcard
 I'm thinking of you. What else can I say?
 The palm trees on the reverse
 are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
 What we have are the usual
 fractured coke bottles and the smell
 of backed-up drains, too sweet,
 like a mango on the verge
 of rot, which we have also.
 The air clear sweat, mosquitos
 & their tracks; birds, blue & elusive.

 Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
 day after the other rolling on;
 I move up, its called
 awake, then down into the uneasy
 nights but never
 forward. The roosters crow
 for hours before dawn, and a prodded
 child howls & howls
 on the pocked road to school.
 In the hold with the baggage
 there are two prisoners,
 their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
 of queasy chicks. Each spring
 there's a race of cripples, from the store
 to the church. This is the sort of junk
 I carry with me; and a clipping
 about democracy from the local paper.
 Outside the window
 they're building the damn hotel,
 nail by nail, someone's
 crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
 can't be all bad, but
 does it? At this distance
 you're a mirage, a glossy image
 fixed in the posture
 of the last time I saw you.
 Turn you over, there's the place
 for the address. Wish you were
 here. Love comes
 in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
 & on, a hollow cave
 in the head, filling and pounding, a kicked ear.
-- Margaret Atwood

Having A Coke With You -- Frank O'Hara

(Poem #218)Having A Coke With You
 is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, IrĂșn, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
 or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
 partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
 partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
 partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
 partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
 it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still
 as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
 in the warm New York 4 o'clock light we are drifting back and forth
 between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
 
 and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
 you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
 
 I look
 at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
 except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it's in the Frick
 which thank heavens you haven't gone to yet so we can go together the first time
 and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
 just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
 at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
 and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
 when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
 or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn't pick the rider as carefully
 as the horse
 
 it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
 which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
-- Frank O'Hara

A Drinking Song -- William Butler Yeats

(Poem #217)A Drinking Song
 Wine comes in at the mouth
 And love comes in at the eye;
 That’s all we know for truth
 Before we grow old and die.
 I lift the glass to my mouth,
 I look at you, and I sigh.
-- William Butler Yeats

The Love Cook -- Ron Padgett

(Poem #216)The Love Cook
 Let me cook you some dinner.   
 Sit down and take off your shoes   
 and socks and in fact the rest   
 of your clothes, have a daquiri,   
 turn on some music and dance   
 around the house, inside and out,   
 it’s night and the neighbors   
 are sleeping, those dolts, and   
 the stars are shining bright,   
 and I’ve got the burners lit   
 for you, you hungry thing.
-- Ron Padgett

Summer Is Still Very Far Away -- Bai Hua

(Poem #215)Summer Is Still Very Far Away
 One day passes after another 
 Secretly, something approaches you 
 Sitting, walking 
 Watching the leaves drop 
 Watching the rain fall 
 Watching as someone walks down the street 
 Summer is still very far away
 
 It happened so fast, vanishing at birth 
 All that is good entered on an October night 
 So beautiful, entirely unnoticed 
 A great serenity like your clean cloth shoes 
 The past, vague and gentle, lingers by the bedside 
 Like an old box 
 A faded bookmark 
 Summer is still very far away
 
 Meeting by chance, perhaps you can't recall 
 It was a little cold outside 
 Your left hand was tired, too 
 Secretly you walked all the way to the left 
 Far away, deep in 
 The sole infatuation of your heart 
 Summer is still very far away
 
 Never again easy to anger, easy to love 
 To take up those old bad habits of yours 
 Losing heart with each passing year 
 A small bamboo house, a white shirt 
 Are you in the prime of life? 
 Seldom can a decision be made 
 Summer is still very far away
-- Bai Hua