Wednesday, March 7, 2012


By Dr. Ehud Sela

It sliced the bus’s air
All these lives that intersect
Along the routes of urban roads
Up foggy hills with stores, cafés and people all around.

I hear their stories told
Here a laugh, there a sigh
They come and go at street corners
Where it stops.

A few engage in talk
But most with iPods stare blank
At all that passes by
Inside and out the bus’s constant climb.

And life flashes in my eyes from sights and sounds
Of all the lives that swirl so close to me
And all I have to do is stand and step inside
The funnel’s eye: like wormhole made of life.

San Francisco 7/27/09

Monday, February 20, 2012


by Nalini Davison

There was that train ride, once,
across the green and yellow expanse
of southern France, while you
sipped wine and held hands
with the young man next to you.
Love was a promise, then, a film
flickering in your mind
between waves of moisture
that came between your thighs.
You made up endless stories –
summers that bloomed,
arms dangling from a hammock
that hugged you so close
to your beloved you didn’t know
if you were feeling his heart beating
or your own. You were drunk
on your body’s sweet ache
and the thick, warm fragrance
of hyacinth and roses.

Now, when this husband of all
the dry years wraps himself
around you in the night, you pity him.
You stay for security, not love.

Do you finally see what it’s like
to be left in the empty apartment
inside your head in the middle
of winter with the heat turned off?

Monday, February 13, 2012


By Ted Fleischman

When the small man sat in a large seat,
the seat engulfed him.

There was a harmony in his discovery of oneness.

The universe hisses and gurgles
singing of its almost forgotten origin,
when the corporate papers were signed.

This is what we businessmen are a part of,
namely, a forgotten beginning
and a vague compulsion to try to remember anything.

I think the small man harmonizes, like me,
the gurgles and hisses of universe
and the large seat in which he finds oneness.

Friday, November 25, 2011


By Marilyn Hacker

I would like an unending stretch of drizzly
weekday afternoons, in a moulting season:
nowhere else to go but across the street for
bread, and the paper.

Later, faces, voices across a table,
or an autumn fricassee, cèpes and shallots,
sipping Gigondas as I dice and hum to
Charpentier’s vespers.

No one’s waiting for me across an ocean.
What I can’t understand or change is distant.
War is a debate, or at worst, a headlined
nightmare. But waking

it will be there still, and one morning closer
to my implication in what I never
chose, elected, as my natal sky rains down
civilian ashes.

(from Desesperanto)