War Poetry

write me

a poem

in which

all birds

are prisoners

of love

and the only bloody war

is between

my fingers

and the thorns

of the rose

i’m offering

to my beloved

---Nooshin Azadi

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

--- Elizabeth Bishop

If I Had Three Lives

If I had three lives, 

I'd marry you in two.

And the other? 

That life over there at Starbucks, 

sitting alone, writing -- a memoir,
maybe a novel or this poem. 

No kids, probably,
a small apartment with a view of the river,
and books -- lots of books and time to read.
Friends to laugh with; 

a man sometimes,
for a weekend, 

to remember what skin feels like when it's alive. 

 I'm thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. 

 I go to art films, farmers markets,
drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.
I vacation on the Maine coast 

and wear a flannel shirt
weekend guy left behind, 

loving the smell of sweat
and aftershave more than I do him. 

I walk the beach at sunrise, 

find perfect shell spirals

and study pockmarks water makes in sand. 

And I wonder sometimes if I'll ever find you.

---Sarah Russell