by Kevin Sweeney

Pedagogical Metaphysical Poetical Blues on Wednesday
After the Latest Snowstorm

The girl who says she has written two books is falling
asleep in the back of the room as I read a poem
by a Chasidic Jew about the problem of evil. Two
sisters who say they weren’t able to get this book
on their Kindle keep jabbering and gesturing while
I read a poem about life on a Russian shtetel.
When I tell the joke about the difference
between a philosopher and a theologian being
that the philosopher is a blind person looking
for a black cat in a dark room and the theologian
finds the cat, another student says it seems more
likely the theologian would simply bring his own cat.
When I mention two Karamazov brothers debating
God, it’s like admitting I still use a flip phone, even
less relevant than my mention of Jerry Seinfeld
stealing a loaf of marble rye from an old lady while
back in the shtetel the 15–year–old bean merchant’s
daughter cooks lentil soup for her 17–year–old husband
who is returning home clutching a loaf of dark bread.
The title of this poem is “Already I Feel Like An Old Man.”
Meanwhile, in the front of the room, the pleasant girl
with 60 percent hearing loss does hear the theologian
joke but says, “I don’t get it.”

by Kevin Sweeney

I need a new belt.
The old one is fraying at the edges
though it doesn’t matter since I’m too fat
and usually don’t tuck in my shirts.
I need new undershirts and new underwear,
more new socks.

I am excited about this.
I plan on visiting Marshall’s, maybe Target.
I don’t want to spend much, but shopping
for these things means I’m not dead or
dying in some acute way. It’s like replacing
the rusted screen door, nailing down loose
boards on the porch, putting more tissues
and toilet paper in the bathroom, taking
an afternoon walk.

Maintenance is a beautiful thing; it’s next
to cleanliness in the competition for Godliness.
I don’t want to worry about BIG things.
I worried about them last week. With that
new belt and more mid–day walks — and
maybe an occasional swim at the rec center —
I could tuck my shirts in. I dream

of walking about the neighborhood or
the campus of the college where I teach, my
shirt tucked in and wind not ruffling my
vanishing hair (I wear a hat). I’d be happier
than the people with face paint and jerseys
at last night’s football game on national TV,
happier than the culturally–enslaved youths
wearing t–shirts & shorts in November.

Aristotle said young men could become
mathematicians but never know the joy
of finding a new belt at Marshall’s and
some of those tank–top undershirts (2XL)
so when someone asks how I am I can simply
reply, “I have a new belt.”

by Mimi White

when I saw the boat
tipped on its side
a ghost entered our story
it did not matter
that the tide would right it

          Tanka (from a series) 1/12/14

when lilacs bloom
my heart will break open
my father’s dead face
buried in every blossom
from branch to branch he went

          Tanka (from a series) 5/6/14

I had not seen
the white–tailed deer until
they ran high stepping
through the sweet new grasses
why just a glimpse, I cried out

          Tanka (from a series) 5/8/14

an oriole in the orchard
Mother’s illness comes unbidden
thirty years and more
she races back
breathless, in a hurry, leaving

          Tanka (from a series) 5/22/14

when I resist
Autumn’s fierce clarity
a sparrow pecks in the dirt
reminding me to feed
this hunger I have for less

          Tanka (from a series) 5/27/14

how many years
can we live on an island
carry what we need
in a small tin boat
leave everything else behind

          Tanka (from a series) 5/30/14

Mimi White is collaborating with Australian artists Kerryn Forster and Jessie Stanley, each of them exploring the word “contain.” These tankas were written in response to that project.

Mimi White is collaborating with Australian artists Kerryn Forster and Jessie Stanley, each of them exploring the word “contain.” These tankas were written in response to that project.

by Rachel F. Seidman

We know nothing
about currents of wind or water.
We have only hope and intuition.
And a slightly risky faith
that our innocence and good intentions
on a celebratory night
mean no disaster
should result.

Standing there in the darkness
on the edge of land abutting the sea.
But it’s just a bay
not so far from other people’s houses,
lawns and meadows
of summer–dry goldenrod.

We hold aloft a rice paper balloon,
light a match
to the cardboard square suspended
at its base.
Like magic, like a prayer,
like the directions predict
the crinkling white boat
fills with air,
rises.

The little boys shriek
and adults gasp
as the dream of fire and air and light
floats first
too close too close
to the lone tree
but suddenly
swoops and dips below
the branches and then

up and out and beyond
safely over the water
as if guided by more than our breath–holding wishes.

Flying over the ink blue sea
the orange white sketch of a moon
sways and silently skims the air
higher and farther and faster than we imagined
but exactly as we hoped.