1
" Dear human,modern incarnatefor a brief moment.Neither of the angels,neither of the demons.Dear human,you, where evil and light wrangle,on some daybreak, will awakento remember the reasonof this existence.Meanwhile, dear human,through the twists and turnsyou know that you belong hereand through this wounded lifetime,teach others to heal...-Tara Estacaan, " Dear Human" , June 2016 "
2
" Dear human,
modern incarnate
for a brief moment.
Neither of the angels,
neither of the demons.
Dear human,
you, where evil and light wrangle,
on some daybreak, will awaken
to remember the reason
of this existence.
Meanwhile, dear human,
through the twists and turns
you belong here
and through this wounded lifetime,
teach others to heal...
Tara Estacaan, 'Dear Human "
―
4
" ...And yet a knowledge
is here that tenses the throat
as for song: the inheritance
of the ones, alive or once
alive, who stand behind
the ones I have imagined,
who took into their minds
the troubles of this place,
blights of love and race,
but saw a good fate here
and willingly paid its cost,
kept it the best they could,
thought of its good,
and mourned the good they lost.
(From the ending of Where in Clearing, p179) "
― Wendell Berry , The Collected Poems, 1957-1982
6
" Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.
- “For Desire "
― Kim Addonizio