Reason Breeds Insanity

Balance
by Adam Zagajewski
translated by Clare Cavanagh

I watched the arctic landscape from above
and thought of nothing, lovely nothing.
I observed white canopies of clouds, vast
expanses where no wolf tracks could be found.

I thought about you and about the emptiness
that can promise one thing only: plenitude—
and that a certain sort of snowy wasteland
bursts from a surfeit of happiness.

As we drew closer to our landing,
the vulnerable earth emerged among the clouds,
comic gardens forgotten by their owners,
pale grass plagued by winter and the wind.

I put my book down and for an instant felt
a perfect balance between waking and dreams.
But when the plane touched concrete, then
assiduously circled the airport’s labryinth,

I once again knew nothing. The darkness
of daily wanderings resumed, the day’s sweet darkness,
the darkness of the voice that counts and measures,
remembers and forgets.

After the Movie
by Marie Howe

My friend Michael and I are walking home arguing about the movie.
He says that he believes a person can love someone
and still be able to murder that person.

I say, No, that’s not love. That’s attachment.
Michael says, No, that’s love. You can love someone, then come
to a day

when you’re forced to think “it’s him or me”
think “me” and kill him.

I say, Then it’s not love anymore.
Michael says, It was love up to then though.

I say, Maybe we mean different things by the same word.
Michael says, Humans are complicated: love can exist
even in the murderous heart.

I say that what he might mean by love is desire.
Love is not a feeling, I say. And Michael says, Then what
is it?

We’re walking along West 16th Street—a clear unclouded
night—and I hear my voice
repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action,
I used to say to him.

Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to
look at someone you want to eat and not eat them.

Janis Joplin says, take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Meister Eckhardt says that as long as we love images we are
doomed to live in purgatory.

Michael and I stand on the corner of 6th Avenue saying goodnight.
I can’t drink enough of the tangerine spritzer I’ve just
bought—

again and again I bring the cold can to my mouth and suck
the stuff from
the hole the flip top made.

What are you doing tomorrow? Michael says.
But what I think he’s saying is “You are too strict. You
are a nun.”

Then I think, Do I love Michael enough to allow him to think
these things of me even if he’s not thinking them?

Above Manhattan, the moon wanes, and the sky turns clearer
and colder.
Although the days, after the solstice, have started to lengthen,

we both know the winter has only begun.

I guess even giving grace isn’t exactly what I want to say. What I want to say is that working at grace with someone and being graceful about that in your life aren’t the same things. At least they aren’t the same for me. The first seems to work out so much more…gracefully…than the second. Working for grace with people is difficult, but necessary, which is probably why I find it easier than living the whole idea out in life. Confusing? Yes.

We give grace, get grace, and work toward mutual grace every day. The problem is that we are human and a big portion of grace is risk. We have to be willing to risk letting go of the offense that made against us, and we literally have to be willing to suffer the consequences for someone else’s actions. That being said, they have to be willing to receive the idea that we are willing to suffer for them. That concept is the really tricky thing about grace. That two sided coin of giving grace/receiving grace is a bit of a sticking spot.

My point is that I can dole out cheap grace without ever expecting anyone to be redeemed through it, but it makes us all feel better. Or, I can work toward grace with someone, possibly get hurt in the end, and never see that person be redeemed. I want grace to be easy, and I want to be graceful about giving, but sometimes, I just can’t be.

Sometimes, in my not so graceful moments, I want to say to people: “You really fucked up, and it’s all on you. You did it. You pay the consequences. I tried to give you grace but you won’t take, so live in the tangled web you weave. Besides I am sick as shit of the way you conduct yourself.” I know, though, that many times in my life, I have had people who wanted to say that to me, but for whatever reason didn’t say it. They just kept trudging through the muck with me, holding me up, and making sure that I made it through.

Other times, I want to run around saying, “Look at me I gave you grace. I helped you through this spot. I did nothing but extend a warm hand and kind heart to your breaking one. Why are dragging me down with you?” And isn’t the whole point that the other person, the one who committed the offense gets to say: “Look I made it through.” Without actually saying it, the person who receives grace points toward the person who gave them that grace and implies that grace can work for you, too. But, that is the risk of grace. Sometimes you get dragged down, too, and the person who needs your grace can’t get it.

I’m thinking of our lives as Christians: we fuck up, we get grace from Jesus, we accept that grace, and our actions in redemption point the finger back to him, saying, “My grace comes from God, you can get some, too.” Our grace should flow out of us, indicating to people that where we live, grace abounds.

So, I guess some recent events in my life have happened to remind me how redemptive grace works. It’s hard, it hurts, and you sometimes have to be willing to let go, because the people who need to receive grace the most sometimes just don’t want it. I want to let go, but I also want to work at grace. I can’t work at it with someone who doesn’t want to work at it with me, though. The giver of grace has to be willing to recognize that sometimes the receiver doesn’t want it.

I’m not perfect. I have a long way to go in order to even be a shadow of the woman I want to become, but that’s grace. I give grace. I receive grace. I am redeemed.

I said I wasn’t going to write until next week, but I lied. I just had to get that off my chest. And, now, you don’t know me again for five days.

Sleep Door
by Kazim Ali

a light knocking on the sleep door
like the sound of a rope striking the side of a boat

heard underwater
boats pulling up alongside each other

beneath the surface we rub up against each other
will we capsize in

the surge and silence
of waking from sleep

you are a lost canoe, navigating by me
I am the star map tonight

all the failed echoes
don’t matter

the painted-over murals
don’t matter

you can find your way to me
by the faint star-lamp

we are a fleet now
our prows zeroing in

praying in the wind
to spin like haywire compasses

toward whichever direction
will have us

Mummy of a Lady Named Jemutesonekh XXI Dynasty by Thomas James My body holds its shape. The genius is intact. Will I return to Thebes? In that lost country The eucalyptus trees have turned to stone. Once, branches nudged me, dropping swollen blossoms, And passionflowers lit my father’s garden. Is it still there, that place of mottled shadow, The scarlet flowers breathing in the darkness? I remember how I died. It was so simple! One morning the garden faded. My face blacked out. On my left side they made the first incision. They washed my heart and liver in palm wine— My lungs were two dark fruit they stuffed with spices. They smeared my innards with a sticky unguent And sealed them in a crock of alabaster. My brain was next. A pointed instrument Hooked it through my nostrils, strand by strand. A voice swayed over me. I paid no notice. For weeks my body swam in sweet perfume. I came out Scoured. I was skin and bone. Thy lifted me into the sun again And packed my empty skull with cinnamon. They slit my toes; a razor gashed my fingertips. Stitched shut at last, my limbs were chaste and valuable, Stuffed with a paste of cloves and wild honey. My eyes were empty, so they filled them up, Inserting little nuggets of obsidian. A basalt scarab wedged between my breasts Replaced the tinny music of my heart. Hands touched my sutures. I was so important! They oiled my pores, rubbing a fragrance in. An amber gum oozed down to soothe my temples. I wanted to sit up. My skin was luminous, Frail as the shadow of an emerald. Before I learned to love myself too much, My body wound itself in spools of linen. Shut in my painted box, I am a precious object. I wear a wooden mask. These are my eyelids, Two flakes of bronze, and here is my new mouth, Chiseled with care, guarding its ruby facets. I will last forever. I am not impatient— My skin will wait to greet its old complexions. I’ll lie here till the world swims back again. When I come home the garden will be budding, White petals breaking open, clusters of night flowers, The far-off music of a tambourine. A boy will pace among the passionflowers, His eyes no longer two bruised surfaces. I’ll know the mouth of my young groom, I’ll touch His hands. Why do people lie to one another?

Learning to Speak by Liz Rosenberg She was the quietest thing I’d ever seen. It was so restful, being in her company For hours, neither of us uttering a word. I’d read the paper, look up, and she would smile, Her lips half-pursed, just tucked up at the ends As if holding a blithe secret. When I fed her, she’d silently nod and smile, Like immigrants you see In train stations or in the movies, She’d take the bowl from my hands And nod again and smile again And neither of us would say a word From sunup to sunset. When son and husband came home, Both talking at once, both talking With their mouths full, My daughter and I could only look at them With our dark quiet eyes. Siddown, she says now. I sit down Without argument.

A Reactionary Tale
by Linh Dinh

I was a caring husband. I bought socks for my family.

My swarthy wife liked to wear these thick woolen socks that came
up to her milky thighs.

I had a lover also. People could see me walking around each
evening carrying a walking stick.

My most vivid memory, looking back, is of a pink froth bubbling
out of my infant’s mouth.

Not everything was going so well: one morning, malnourished
soldiers marched down our tiny street, bringing good news.

When good news arrives by mail, the cuckoo sang, tear up the
envelope. When good news arrives by e-mail, destroy the
computer.

When an old friend came by to reclaim an old wound, I said to my
oldest son: Go dump daddy’s ammo boxes into the fragrant river.

To reduce drag, some of my neighbors were diving headfirst into a
shallow lake.

We were rich and then we were poor. A small dog or maybe a cat
now pulls our family wagon.

s no s                        laves s                          in nest/s with
               in come sir                                  my lie
                                               ge lord it i
                                s now y/                                 our turn co
               me b                        e me rains fa
                           ll no wa                            ter in t me and p
lay your p
                                         art the sun ros                                  he t
               ub                                                                under sk
                           in sin for                          ty days fo
    rty nigh                          ts forty ce                             dis for forty
               sins j'aim                            faim j'ai
                               faim god of                            spire spes and p
         raise turn and                          turn the bo                               nes sing
                              a son                                  g of wa
                                        ter a wat                                er so
                    ng sin                         g song sin                          g song de
                              fend the d                           ead & sin n
        o sin sin                           g the bo                               nes h/o
                       me what w                         ill my b                               ones say h
                                        ow do the                        y forty we
              eks come to t                        erm shh au                                  di can you
                                      not he                           ar from the de
                                                 ep the voi
                       ces not sir                                                ens we are a
     t sea the d                                            art of my sto
                                        ry stings i me
                     ant no harm                                         no hurt res







                                         cue us rag                                        and bone men in
              dict the a                                           ge pears in g
                             in in                    wine win                                ter wine and y
                                     ou Ruth                              this story ne
                  sts in the ne               t the we                                    b of ti
                                      me tam                p it down do
                                                 use the flam                 e of this ta
              le what pro                                      fit me if mon               coeur non est
                                we wind o                                       ur way sub
                                                                   water o
                                      nly the bone                                       s of the sh
                    ip their e                          yes dart this
                                  way and th                                                              at soft so
                                                                                  ft they ro
                        am the ship                                                            their cri
                                                           es grate on me
                                         y ears drag                                the dee
                                                           p for the b                            ones of my so
                             ul their sou                                  ls cast the n
                                                   et wide to the d                             eep men to the
                    p and a                                             tot of ru
                                          m...