So, instead Barbara read these poems, Pathetic Fallacy by Laurie Koensgen; And Yet the Books by Czselaw Milosz:
Your lips need never move –
still I can hear their soft refrain.
A tender mist is falling down
and whispering my name.
Across the crowns of mountains
and surrendered shields of grain,
Ventriloquist, I feel your kiss
in vintage drops of rain.
Your eyes need never look at me
but I can feel their stare.
They follow me, like moonlight
and the afterglow of prayer.
I turn toward some lustrous thing
and yearn to find you there.
My alchemist, you manage this
conspiracy of air.
Your arms may never hold me
and yet I know the rush.
Warm wind lights up my skin
your distant fingers cannot brush.
I feel your hands caress me
when the night is close and hushed.
My hypnotist, I can’t resist
illusions of your touch.
And Yet the Books
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are,” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,
Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
This poem by Laurie Koensgen is her homage to the traditional lyric poets whose volumes still linger in our libraries.
It’s called Pathetic Fallacy – a re-interpretation of that bookish literary term…
And finally, a poem by Polish poet and Nobel Laureate, Chay-suave Mee-whosh. It affirms the writer’s belief in the book’s permanence, despite the mutability of this shifting world. And Yet the Books. …