Rachel Hadas

If our days were honeycombed with cells,waxy partitions, then the gold could oozeand spill its gleam and sweetnessas easily as light traverses space.Are honeycombs so porous, though? Can lightpass through a solid wall? I tried to cleara passage so that radiance could seep throughand flood the dark . . . . Continue Reading »

For this last half year I have been troubled by the disease (as I may call it) of translation; the cold prose fits of it . . . are always the most tedious with me . . .—John Dryden, “On Translation” Cold prose fits, wrote Dryden. Yes, but wheredoes it fit? Oasis in the desert:hot . . . . Continue Reading »

A mauve, E grey, I dark, U green, O . . . range.I do not see you, vowels, in color, soany paraphrase is clumsy, strange.But you bleed into one another.  Youadapt and melt.  I feel the textures change.Duffle coat, army blanket, green to brown:color’s a garment taken off, put on.A coded . . . . Continue Reading »

M ellow and glowing with autumnal redA nd also ochre striped with golden light,R epainted bedroom with a brand new bedL eft made up, crisp sheets awaiting night;O ld layers overlaid with something fresh,N ew, and sorting out, giving away,C lear for a different union of fleshA nd spirit, window to . . . . Continue Reading »

Winter strains toward spring.A bird is singing in a leafless tree.The river gleams, the sidewalks glint with iceor with a hint of possibility.A blade of sun bisects the afternoonstreet. In such a slippery spot I fell,righted myself, stood up,and found myself no longer in the winterbut in a city and . . . . Continue Reading »

For Gerd SternThe row of books is talking like a ghostin mildewy damp voices. Look at me.Choose me as I was chosen by your host.Each guest’s a world. Each world welcomes a guest.When you have had enough of sun and seaa line of books will beckon, friendly ghostfrom a dim realm where conversations . . . . Continue Reading »

To land in a story whose end I do not know— as if we ever saw to any end: I try to keep my balance, high and low. The sliver of this moon, discreet and new— Waxing? Waning? I forget. They blend in a sky whose limits we don’t know. . . . . Continue Reading »

After two clashing days—ultramarine      overlaid with vermilion— it came to me late the third afternoon       that as between anger and grief there’s no comparison. The choice is easy. Does one have a . . . . Continue Reading »

The elements were stark: a winter wall,snow, ice, snapped wrist. Through the breakI could just glimpse the color of the bone.But cold and white, the January crust,weren’t the whole story. Seasons turn,bones knit, a secret stirs beneath the snow. . . . . Continue Reading »

Early light slants low across the lawn.Cuplike, this little valley brims with sun.Pages fill and empty. In the mistof a still morning, nothing’s out of . . . . Continue Reading »