Without A Saturday

chester maynes

There is love wrapped
in paper foils and
the air smells like
a basket of magnolias.

High is the feeling
like a wave of intensity
and a roller-coaster ride.
I hum a famous song.

You can’t wait to stress
yourself in a time of knowing
how I feel about you and I.
Today is not for us.

What we realize from many
circumstances that do not
lie is without a Saturday
that fades our human thoughts.


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mary oliver | a settlement

poetry dispatch & other notes from the underground


Poetry Dispatch No. 62 | April 2, 2006

A Settlement by Mary Oliver

Look, it’s spring. And last year’s loose dust has turned
into this soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come
up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their
curvaceous and pale bodies. The thrushes have come
home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow,
happiness, music, ambition.

And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to
go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of
this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind.

* * *
Therefore, dark past,
I’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you

for everything.

from WHAT DO WE KNOW, Poems and Prose Poems

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Imagining Retreat – Joey Chin

10. You admit nothing, I deny everything.
You are a man.
I am just pretending.

What were those drawings?
Is that your form of communication with me?
Or is that how you make

Your pencil lines are precise but
to your terms,
I am lost in them.

It was in the early 2000s.
Our concerns were parallel.
We were worried;
you about a promotion,
I about graduation,
both which happened.
Thereafter we became

Recently I told you the difference between
attention and actuality.
how it was idea of you I loved.
You said,
“It’s like masturbation. Geographically, emotionally removed.”

Love is astringent.
To purify, you must first

I asked you about dreams.
You thought I meant desires.
I was refering to the REM kind.
I dreamt about you once,
you were going to be
a father.
I remember trying hard to stay awake for a long time
if dreams were going to betray me like this.

We laughed,
but only I cried.

I have not caught up with
the age you were when we met.
I am always behind,
the minute hand,
the ragged shadow.

I want to know which of the above I can tell
before you retreat.


I will write in words of fire.
I will write them on your skin.
I will write about desire.
Write beginnings, write of sin.
You’re the book I love the best,
your skin only holds my truth,
you will be a palimpsest
lines of age rewriting youth.
You will not burn upon the pyre.
Or be buried on the shelf.
You’re my letter to desire:
And you’ll never read yourself.
I will trace each word and comma
As the final dusk descends,
You’re my tale of dreams and drama,
Let us find out how it ends.

 – Neil Gaiman