#julia copus

Possibly my favourite contemporary poem, written by my favourite contemporary poet, Julia Copus.

by Julia Copus

We left before I had time

to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched

hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted

to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny

rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out

for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in,

cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping

the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass;

I was calling to you – Daddy! – as we screeched away into

the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.

You were mouthing something I still remember, the noiseless words

piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset

pouring itself out against the sky. The ensuing silence

was the one clear thing I could decipher –

the roar of the engine drowning your voice,

with the cool slick glass between us.

With the cool slick glass between us,

the roar of the engine drowning, your voice

was the one clear thing I could decipher –

pouring itself out against the sky, the ensuing silence

piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset.

You were mouthing something: I still remember the noiseless words,

the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.

I was calling to you, Daddy, as we screeched away into

the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass,

cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping

for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in

rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out

to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny

hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted

to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched.

Life Support: 100 Poems to Reach for on Dark Nights

By Julia Copus.

Hymn to All the Men I’ll Never Love

My heart, sing praises to the men I’ll never love; from whom a night away’s just that — a night — and not a lifetime in the desert without food and water. It’s because of them that breakfasts can be eaten, Lord, appointments kept, and letters left to lie where they have fallen; men with whom a perfect evening may be nothing more than beer and cards outside beneath the lean-to where straight-talk and easy gestures leave dark nests of sparrows and the scent of bonfires in their wake; the sort of men whose smiles I can endure without surrendering my all to them; in whose unswerving disregard, let heaven rejoice, let the earth be glad.

Noi non cediamo all’amore:

è l’amore che sale in noi

come certa musica,

una sinfonia o una ballata

ed è color seppia

come il tè versato che risale lento

attraverso i mille tunnel perfetti

di una zolletta di zucchero

posata accanto alla tazza.

Sì, l’amore è così:

proprio quando meno ne abbiamo bisogno

quando meno ce l’aspettiamo

una parte di noi vi affonda dentro

per caso o per sbaglio

e l’amore risale attraverso

le nostre vene

e si aggrappa all’interno delle camere del cuore.