Trojan Poetry 40: “An Archive of Confessions, A Genealogy of Confessions” by Joshua Clover

An Archive of Confessions, A Genealogy of Confessions
By Joshua Clover

Now the summer air exerts its syrupy drag on the half-dark
City under the strict surveillance of quotation marks.

The citizens with their cockades and free will drift off
From the magnet of work to the terrible magnet of love.

In the far suburbs crenellated of Cartesian yards and gin
The tribe of mothers calls the tribe of children in

Across the bluing evening. It’s the hour things get
To be excellently pointless, like describing the alphabet.

Yikes. It’s fine to be here with you watching the great events
Without taking part, clinking our ice as they advance

Yet remain distant. Like the baker always about to understand
Idly sweeping up that he is the recurrence of Napoleon

In a baker’s life, always interrupted by the familiar notes
Of a childish song, “no more sleepy dreaming,” we float

Casually on the surface of the day, staring at the bottom,
Jotting in our daybooks, how beautiful, the armies of autumn.

Trojan Poetry 39: "If I Could Tell You" by W. H. Auden

If I Could Tell You
By W. H. Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reason why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Trojan Poetry 38: "How you might approach a foal:" by Wendy Videlock

How you might approach a foal:
by Wendy Videlock

like a lagoon,
like a canoe,
like you

are part earth
and part moon,
like deja vu,

like you
had never been
to the outer brink

or the inner Louvre,
like hay,
like air,

like your mother
just this morning
had combed a dream

into your hair,
like you
had never heard

a sermon or
a harsh word,
like a fool,

like a pearl,
like you
are new to the world.

https://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/How-you-might-approach-a-foal--7922

Trojan Poetry 37: Two Poems by Jane Hirshfield

My Species 

by Jane Hirshfield

even
a small purple artichoke
boiled
in its own bittered
and darkening
waters
grows tender,
grows tender and sweet

patience, I think,
my species

keep testing the spiny leaves

the spiny heart




All the Difficult Hours and Minutes 
by Jane Hirshfield

All the difficult hours and minutes
are like salted plums in a jar.
Wrinkled, turn steeply into themselves,
they mutter something the color of  sharkfins to the glass.
Just so, calamity turns toward calmness.
First the jar holds the umeboshi, then the rice does.

Trojan Poetry 36: "A Retrograde" by Desiree Bailey

For text of this poem, go to:
http://www.muzzlemagazine.com/desiree-bailey2.html

Trojan Poetry 35: "He Fumbles at Your Soul" by Emily Dickinson

He Fumbles at Your Soul
by Emily Dickinson

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys —
Before they drop full Music on —
He stuns you by Degrees —

Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers — further heard —
Then nearer — Then so — slow —

Your Breath — has time to straighten —
Your Brain — to bubble Cool —
Deals One — imperial Thunderbolt —
That scalps your naked soul —

When Winds hold Forests in their Paws —
The Universe — is still —

Trojan Poetry 34: "Among the Shadows at Home" by W. S. Merwin

Among the Shadows at Home
by W. S. Merwin

Life after life at nightfall
in houses I have loved
I see them now here at home
where I walk in shadow
through open doorways
from room to room
leaving the lights off
as I always loved to do
knowing beyond belief
echoes of no sound
from other times other ages
how did I ever find
my way to these rooms now
these shadows
one after the other
through all the loud flashing days
how could I have known
the ancient love of these shadows
with the lights on

Trojan Poetry 33: "House is an Enigma" by Emma Bolden

House is an Enigma
By Emma Bolden

House is not a metaphor. House has nothing
to do with beak or wing. House is not two

hands held angled toward each other. House is
not its roof or the pine straw on its roof. At night,

its windows and doors look nothing like a face.
its stairs are not vertebrae. Its walls may be

white.  They are not pale skin.  House does not
appreciate your pun on its panes as pains.

House does not appreciate because house
does not have feelings.  House has no aesthetic

program. House does what it does, which is
not doing.  House does not sit on its foundations.

House exists in its foundations, and when the wind
pushes itself to full gale, house is never the one crying.