WWW.SARAHAKRE.COM

Montreal

Dreams are the waters of the city. In pristine
whiteness, the great margins are accessible only to
the cold. We do not shout at the first enemy who
happens to come our way. But we, as a child growing,
take care of the little ones. My head
feels full of desert sand. I have been living
in a green house. We do not have an ending for the
first steps we missed, as we cross
over another bridge
into the heart of montreal.

-Apryl Fox

Fragmentations

Fragment.
An incandescent speck of light.
Sound, noise. The faded symmetries
of the downed hieroglyph,
another marriage on the rocks.
Forced entry. Doomsday prophets.
How obscene is the hench thug?
Open your eyes to a new summer. Drink a little,
let down your hair, open conversation with the
water lilies about procreation. Sing a sad
tune about the closing of another year.

-Apryl Fox

Writing With Your Left Hand

Sometimes I write with my left hand
when the weather turns cold,
and my heart is pounding in my chest
like an anchored drum.
I can't seem to shake the feeling
that I am being watched
as I walk down Fifth Avenue, but
it is only a blue jay,
looking for a place to stay out of the storm.
There is no justice anymore,
when a bird cannot find a place to nest,
and the darkness is so dark I cannot see my hand
in front of my face,
even as I write, even as I imagine
places far from here,
where blue jays live in blue peace.

-Apryl Fox

The weight of paper

in my hand
the weight of the paper
crumpled like a forgotten thought
light as a blessing
a new sheet
calls

- Ken Peters

Edna St. Vincent Millay - If I Should Learn, In Some Quite Casual Way

IF I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man—who happened to be you—
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

Edna St. Vincent Millay - I Shall Forget You Presently

I SHALL forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,?
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.

Edna St. Vincent Millay - I Think I Should Have Loved You

I THINK I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
And all my pretty follies flung aside
That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme,
A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
Who would have loved you in a day or two.

Edna St. Vincent Millay - Sweet Love, Sweet Thorn, When Lightly To My Heart

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart
I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain,
And lie disheveled in the grass apart,
A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain,
While rainy evening drips to misty night,
And misty night to cloudy morning clears,
And clouds disperse across the gathering light,
And birds grow noisy, and the sun appears
Had I bethought me then, sweet love, sweet thorn,
How sharp an anguish even at the best,
When all's requited and the future sworn,
The happy Hour can leave within the breast,
I had not so come running at the call
Of one whoe loves me little, if at all.

Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Walt Whitman - When I peruse the Conquer’d Fame.

Published/Written in 1900

WHEN I peruse the conquer’d fame of heroes, and the victories of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,
Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house;
But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them,
How through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long,
Through youth, and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,
Then I am pensive—I hastily walk away, fill’d with the bitterest envy.