RISEN
By John L. Stanizzi
Risen
Be on such simple, cordial terms with those under you that when you are all together,
it would be impossible to say which is the superior.
-St. Vincent de Paul
Each log is consumes itself,
reminds me of my own boundaries,
the anticipation with which
I recognize and deflect such thoughts.
*
The logs crackle
their own distinct staccato rhythm,
and the firmament quietly releases
evening’s snow along the horizon,
idiosyncratic flakes,
hieroglyphs amid hieroglyphs.
*
Each fleck singular, falling, absorbed,
sighing into itself,
inspiration enough
to take another log,
knock off the day’s snow and ice,
place it onto the austere embers.
*
Waiting with hope
and just enough anxiety
to motivate me to move closer to the
anticipated flames
and the next
slow blue build of warmth.
*
Solace that might engender the old dream
of lifting myself into the night sky
by simply leaning
in the direction I want to soar,
the little fire way down there,
embers collapsing.
*
Terrible things happened at night
in alleys where I used to live,
alleys that during the day
were corridors of light
between gray wooden buildings
where whiskey bottles gleamed,
outlandish booty with which,
if you didn’t know better,
you’d stuff into your pockets.
*
Blackness pricked by light I could believe
was caused by the ascending embers
of the small fire,
sticking themselves to the sky
reminding me to take it slow.
*
Fire’s fallen coals crackle a message,
a hot code that says
the flames are dying,
the night is cold,
it’s time to head in,
to sleep and maybe even
dream of flying.
*
And when I land
perhaps it will be
in a peaceful place
with people strolling along hillsides covered
with bittersweet and sunflowers
and fog,
a thick mist that
conjures a dreamy silence,
the kind that hangs in the air
when the gunfire stops.
The Language of Tunnels
December 17, 2016
The tarp is over the kayak for winter
and I’m resting by the fire pit
10 yards away
listening to a recording of Mark Strand
reading about one darkness and another
while a chipmunk works under the tarp,
his winter industry,
taking whatever morsels of sunflower seeds
are hidden there in the frosty dark
and bringing them to the slightly warmer
darkness of his tunnels in the stone wall,
passageways like rambling run-on sentences
that he has memorized,
sentences he knows by his tiny warm heart
and that I cannot translate,
not even by listening intently,
my cold ear against the frozen stones.
But I am so thankful
to be here and able to imagine him
listening for me fumbling with a language
that he cannot comprehend,
even as I try to assure him
that he will be safe by simply ignoring me
and going about his fervent work.
Winter Birds in Silhouette
Winter rain cold enough,
but not enough to freeze
gray enough to render birds
on branches buds
fat and blossoming
the same gray as this January ash tree
feeding on the cold
the melting snow
the easy rain that drops
through stripped branches
each click of chickadee
and rain against steely limbs
a tale of hunger patience
and a kind of love
that truly does
surpass understanding
so pure a love
the blossoms have ripened
with feathers on spindles of limbs
these lungs
that breathe patience
behind the dripping rain —
the chips and two-notes songs
say love
love you can harvest
from the branch —
short walk through the mud
over patches of clouded ice
and before you arrive
they’ve flown
and their flight
their vanishing
the empty space on the branch
from which they bloomed —
that is the where the love is
in that here one second
gone the next reminder
that all you need to do
is breathe in the absences
fill your lungs with them
and your heart
let them guide you to the silence
of the empty branch
and as you watch
fill you with what is there
what was there
what will be there again
in winter rain
cold enough
but not cold enough to freeze
Fire Flies
…I will hatch. I am not yet fully formed
and ready, but these cracks no longer scare me.
from Developments
Laura M. Kaminski
DANCE HERE
This is not a camp fire
it’s a beacon
Not a warning
but a signal —
I live here too
*
Sparks from the fire fly
into blackness
ascend
toward the moon
That’s not going to happen
Lots of things aren’t
*
It was our peculiar light
that drew us together
cold light
but so what
We even glowed when we were young
*
The kindling crackles
briefly
The fire blazes a momentary warmth
which I welcome
It’s so earnest
compared to nothing
*
I will never see why you can’t understand
this is nothing
compared to other things
and I have someone
to touch my eyes
trace my lips
so I’ll live
for a while
which reminds me
We’re only here
a few seconds
Why eat each other?
How quick—
the fire flies
About the Author:
John L. Stanizzi’s full-length collections are Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallalujah Time!, and High Tide-Ebb Tide. He’s had poems in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, The Cortland Review, New York Quarterly, Tar River, Rattle, Poet Lore, Hand & Handsaw, Passages North, and many others. John’s work has also been translated into Italian and appeared in Italy’s El Ghibli, and The Journal of Italian Translations. His translator is the poet, Angela D’Ambra. John has read at venues throughout the northeast, and he teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Connecticut. His newest book, Sundowning, will be out later this year with Finishing Line Press. He lives in Coventry with his wife, Carol.