Poem of the day

from Diary of a Miu Miu Salesgirl

by Jennifer Wong

22 January

Art Censorship

by Robert Richardson

21 January

Translations / Aistriúcháin

by Gearóid Mac Lochlainn

20 January

'I have a dream'

by Paul Peter Piech

18 January

Enough

by Cherry Smyth

for Lloyd Haft

 

I was in a very dark place then,

the poet said, as he handed

me the volume and I can tell

from the lines that he thought,

this is it, how to get used to it.

 

London is getting ready for leaf,

for night, like us moving

in the lit up bus for warmth

beneath a dented moon.

 

Cranes guard Waterloo Bridge

where a woman swings a banana skin

by the stalk, seen through the smudge

of grease from a rested head. The man

beside me eyes my red leather shoes

and white ankles – no tights.

 

I am not coming home from work,

I am coming home from reading.

You can hum and think at the same time.

You can be in the city’s belly

and sit in deep silence.

 

I pass out of the bus behind

my neighbour and could call to him

but the city has not healed me enough.

He walks ahead in a grey suit,

fingers already playing the piano,

as if counting up his secret joys.

I’m singing, ‘Yellow River,

Yellow River, you’re in my mind,

you’re the place I love’,

and am half-way through the chorus

before I realise it.

 

17 January

The Cast

by Sharon Olds

When the doctor cut off my son’s cast the

high scream of the saw filled the room

and the boy’s lap was covered with fluff like the

chaff of a new thing emerging, the

down in the hen-yard. Down the seam that

runs along the outside of the arm and

up the seam along the inside — that

line where the colour of a white boy’s arm

changes like a fish from belly-white to prismatic,

the saw ranged freely — the saw that does not cut flesh,

the doctor told us, smiling. Then the

horrible shriek ran down in a moment to nothing

and he took a sharp silver wedge like a

can-opener and jimmied at the cracks

until with a creak the glossy white

false arm cracked and there lay the kid’s

sweet dirty forearm, thin as a darkened twig.

He lifted it in astonishment, like a gift,

It’s so light! he cried, a lot of light coming out of his eyes,

he fingered it and grinned, he picked up the

halves and put them together and gripped it and

carried it out through the waiting room and

everyone smiled the way you smile at a wedding, so

deep in us the desire to be healed and joined.