Poets Eleven Poem

Between the page with the heart and the mind wrestling upon it, and the ear which later will receive those limbs of light as perfect harmony, there's a stillness whose volume speaks worlds of words defiant of measure, treasures of the unsayable, secrets of the ever-beginning enchantment and the never-ending gathering at the lips of the kiss of the poem.

All That's Left

All that's Left
     in the world
—whether in Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia
as well as in China, Japan, the United States, 
Europe, the Middle East, Africa—
all of them cannot,
   despite their resistance,
   despite their refusal,
stop this march of death
because they, 
as well as all that's Right 
in the world,
   despite their refusal,
   despite their resistance,
already are counted among those
   in this last parade.
Communists and progressives,
nazis, fascists and reactionaries,
zionists and anarchists of every stripe—
none are excluded, none can evade the march.

This one's not coming

Jack Hirschman

2008

The Happiness

There's a happiness, a joy 
in one soul, that's been 
buried alive in everyone 
and forgotten.

It isn't your barroom joke 
or tender, intimate humor 
or affections of friendliness 
or big, bright pun.

They're the surviving survivors 
of what happened when happiness 
was buried alive, when 
it no longer looked out

of today's eyes, and doesn't 
even manifest when one 
of us dies, we just walk away 
from everything, alone

with what's left of us, 
going on being human beings 
without being human, 
without that happiness.

Jack Hirschman

2002

Poems

Poets Eleven Poem

More by this poet

Like You

All That's Left

The Happiness

Poems

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Poets Eleven Poem

More by this poet

Like You

All That's Left

The Happiness

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