Trailer Park Études
~ Conor O’Callaghan

The Lost Hotels of Paris
~ Jack Gilbert

The Lord gives everything and charges

by taking it back. What a bargain.

Like being young for a while. We are

allowed to visit hearts of women,

to go into their bodies so we feel

no longer alone. We are permitted

romantic love with it’s bounty and half-life

of two years. It is right to mourn

for the small hotels of Paris that used to be

when we used to be. My mansard looking

down on Notre Dame every morning is gone,

and me listening to the bell at night.

Venice is no more. The best Greek Islands

have drowned in acceleration. But it’s the having

not the keeping that is the treasure.

Ginsberg came to my house one afternoon

and said he was giving up poetry

because it told lies, that language distorts.

I agreed, but asked what we have

that gets it right even that much.

We look up at the stars and they are

not there. We see the memory

of when they were, once upon a time.

And that too is more than enough.

The Voice of God
~ Mary Karr

Ninety percent of what’s wrong with you

could be cured with a hot bath,

says God from the bowels of the subway.

But we want magic, to win

the lottery we never bought a ticket for.

(Tenderly, the monks chant, embrace

the suffering.) The voice of God does not pander,

offers no five year plan, no long-term

solution, nary an edict. It is small & fond & local.

Don’t look for your initials in the geese

honking overhead or to see thru the glass even

darkly. It says the most obvious crap—

put down that gun, you need a sandwich.

He Bids His Beloved Be at Peace
~ William Butler Yeats

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,

Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;

The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,

The East her hidden joy before the morning break,

The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,

The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:

O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,

The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:

Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat

Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,

Drowning love’s lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,

And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

Love among the Ruins, Edward Burne-Jones