Jonathan P. Baird

> This December marks two year since my mom, Deena Baird, passed away. I think about her passing often , and I wonder why it happened when it did. Some things do not add up to me. My mom was quite a spirited woman although she was prone to depression. I miss her presence, her grace, her kindness, and her sensibility. She was dark but funny. I wanted to remember her on this occasion. Here are several poems I have chosen in her honor. Jon >
> Her Kind by Anne Sexton
>
> I have gone out, a possessed witch,
> haunting the black air, braver at night;
> dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
> over the plain houses, light by light:
> lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
> A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
> I have been her kind.
>
> I have found the warm caves in the woods,
> filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
> closets, silks, innumerable goods;
> fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
> whining, rearranging the disaligned.
> A woman like that is misunderstood.
> I have been her kind.
>
> I have ridden in your cart, driver,
> waved my nude arms at villages going by,
> learning the last bright routes, survivor
> where your flames still bite my thigh
> and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
> A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
> I have been her kind.
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> As I Walked Out One Evening by W.H. Auden
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> As I walked out one evening,
> Walking down Bristol Street,
> The crowds upon the pavement
> Were fields of harvest wheat.
>
> And down by the brimming river
> I heard a lover sing
> Under an arch of the railway:
> “Love has no ending.
>
> “I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
> Till China and Africa meet,
> And the river jumps over the mountain
> And the salmon sing in the street,
>
> “I’ll love you till the ocean
> Is folded and hung up to dry
> And the seven stars go squawking
> like geese about the sky.
>
> “The years shall run like rabbits,
> For in my arms I hold
> The Flower of the Ages,
> And the first love of the world.”
>
> But all the clocks in the city
> Began to whirr and chime:
> “O let not Time deceive you,
> You cannot conquer Time.
>
> “In the burrows of the Nightmare
> Where Justice naked is,
> Time watches from the shadow
> And coughs when you would kiss.
>
> “In headaches and in worry
> Vaguely life leaks away,
> And Time will have his fancy
> Tomorrow or today.
>
> “Into many a green valley
> Drifts the appalling snow;
> Time breaks the threaded dances
> And the diver’s brilliant bow.
>
> “O plunge your hands in water,
> Plunge them in up to the wrist;
> Stare, stare in the basin
> And wonder what you’ve missed.
>
> “The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
> The desert sighs in the bed,
> And the crack in the teacup opens
> a lane to the land of the dead.
>
> “Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
> And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
> And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
> And Jill goes down on her back.
>
> “O look, look in the mirror,
> O look in your distress;
> Life remains a blessing
> Although you cannot bless.
>
> “O stand, stand at the window
> As the tears scald and start;
> You shall love your crooked neighbour
> With your crooked heart.”
>
> It was late, late in the evening,
> The lovers they were gone;
> The clocks had ceased their chiming,
> And the deep river ran on.
>
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> The Seventh by Attila Jozsef
>
> If you set out in this world,
> better be born seven times.
> Once, in a house on fire,
> once, in a freezing flood,
> once, in a wild madhouse,
> once, in a field of ripe wheat,
> once, in an empty cloister,
> and once among pigs in a sty.
> Six babes crying, not enough:
> you yourself must be the seventh.
>
> When you must fight to survive,
> let your enemy see seven.
> One, away from work on Sunday,
> one, starting his work on Monday,
> one, who teaches without payment,
> one, who learned to swim by drowning,
> one, who is the seed of a forest,
> and one, whom wild forefathers protect,
> but all their tricks are not enough:
> you yourself must be the seventh.
>
> If you want to find a woman,
> let seven men go for her.
> One, who gives his heart for words,
> one, who takes care of himself,
> one, who claims to be a dreamer,
> one, who through her skirt can feel her,
> one, who knows the hooks and snaps,
> one, who steps upon her scarf:
> let them buzz like flies around her.
> You yourself must be the seventh.
>
> If you write and can afford it,
> let seven men write your poem.
> One, who builds a marble village,
> one, who was born in his sleep,
> one who charts the sky and knows it,
> one, whom words call by his name,
> one, who perfected his soul,
> one, who dissects living rats.
> Two are brave and four are wise;
> you yourself must be the seventh.
>
> And if all went as was written,
> you will die for seven men.
> One, who is rocked and suckled,
> one, who grabs a hard young breast,
> one, who throws down empty dishes,
> one, who helps the poor to win,
> one, who works till he goes to pieces,
> one, who just stares at the moon.
> The world will be your tombstone:
> you yourself must be the seventh.
>
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> Translated from the Hungarian by John Balki
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