Droplets

Droplets
by C. K. Williams

Even when the rain falls relatively hard,
only one leaf at a time of the little tree
you planted on the balcony last year,
then another leaf at its time, and one more,
is set trembling by the constant droplets,

but the rain, the clouds flocked over the city,
you at the piano inside, your hesitant music
mingling with the din of the downpour,
the gush of rivulets loosed from the eaves,
the iron railings and flowing gutters,

all of it fuses in me with such intensity
that I can't help wondering why my longing
to live forever has so abated that it hardly
comes to me anymore, and never as it did,
as regret for what I might not live to live,

but rather as a layering of instants like this,
transient as the mist drawn from the rooftops,
yet emphatic as any note of the nocturne
you practice, and, the storm faltering, fading
into its own radiant passing, you practice again. 

"Droplets" by C.K. Williams, from Collected Poems. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006.

Things

Things
by Lisel Mueller

What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.

We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,

and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.

Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image;
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safety. 

"Things" by Lisel Mueller, from Alive Together. © Louisiana State University Press, 1996

Progress

Progress
by Julie Cadwallader-Staub

I did not just drag and drop.
I did not just haul a burden so heavy
that my hands, arms, and shoulders
gave way
and I had to let it go.

Neither did I just browse.
I did not get on my hands and knees
and join the gentle cows
to slowly sample
whatever the open field had to offer.

Instead, I sat here at my desk
manipulating a mouse
which is not, in fact, a mouse
and I searched
for something on the web
that is not, in fact, a web.

And isn't this how we move forward:

with horsepower for jet engines
and candlepower for light bulbs
we take what we understand from one era
to describe
what we don't
in the next.

"Progress" by Julie Cadwallader-Staub.
© Julie Cadwallader-Staub

Pari Passu

 Word of the Day

pari passu \PAH-ree PAHS-soo; Eng. PAIR-ahy PAS-oo, PAIR-ee\, adverb:

1. with equal pace or progress; side by side.

2. without partiality; equably; fairly.

But the ingenious machinery contrived by the Gods for reducing human possibilities of amelioration to a minimum—which arranges that wisdom to do shall come pari passu with the departure of zest for doing—stood in the way of all that.

-- Thomas Hardy, The Mayor of Casterbridge, 1886

Man who falls victim to transcendence as the spirit of abstraction, i.e., elevates self to posture over and against world which is pari passu demoted to immanence and seen as exemplar and specimen and coordinate, and who is not at same time compensated by beauty of motion of method of science, has no choice but to seek reentry into immanent world qua immanence.

-- Walker Percy, The Last Gentleman, 1966

Pari passu comes directly from the Latin phrase of the same spelling. It commonly meant "simultaneously" and literally meant "with equal step."

The Dark Room

A Metaphor For My Life
by Charles Deemer

Each morning before sunrise
I move through the dark house
in small, careful steps
trying not to bump into anything
trying not to knock over anything
and gaining no confidence whatever
from the hundreds and hundreds of times
I've done this before

Wanderer's Nightsong

For my friend Gretchen.

Über allen Gipfeln 
Ist Ruh, 
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du 
Kaum einen Hauch; 
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde 
Ruhest du auch.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Over all the hilltops
is calm.
In all the treetops
you feel
hardly a breath of air.
The little birds fall silent in the woods.
Just wait... soon
you'll also be at rest.

Self-Pity

Self-Pity
by D.H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing 
sorry for itself. 
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.