Sonnenizio on a Line from Yeats
An aged man is but a paltry thing.
An aged woman, on the other hand,
Has no time to be paltry like her man.
She’s coaxing fire to make the kettle sing.
She fries the sausages and sets the forks.
He sighs his own obituary, then dozes,
Dreaming of imperishable roses.
Real roses must be pruned. She gets to work.
The old man has his legacy to tend;
He mourns his fading powers with aching heart.
Her hands ache with arthritis, but she’s smart
And takes an aspirin; she has socks to mend.
Byzantine sage, enough of fiery gold!
The real trick’s being too busy to get old.
by Catherine Rogers
Editor’s Note: Feminism isn’t always loud and badass. Sometimes it’s spoken with a quiet voice, while quiet hands mend this arthritic world.
Sonnenizio on a Line from Neruda
The night turns on its invisible wheels.
The stars are gone; first sunlight splinters
in the branches of black trees, drips onto
tired earth. And so a shadow falls on us,
on our love. I want to rub, to brush it off.
I want to strike a match, turn on another
light, grow my own sun, a wonderland
where waving wands is all it takes to forge
and reforge bonds, where nothing breaks
forever. Place your hand on my hot cheek
again, breathe life into my eyes, connect
the freckles on my back to spell out: Yes.
Write on my skin: We want. We can. We will.
Let me respond with sighs. Then let’s be still.
(First line from Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet LXXXI)
from Autumn Sky Poetry 5 — by Michaela A. Gabriel
Early Morning Sunlight Swaying With The Trees by Matthew Gowan