“I am used to making ink from my own blood.” - Abdulla Pashew I sighed with relief when evil passed by unaware of its existence while mechanisms for bringing goodness began to turn with the first bird call of the morning to raise the sun. Remaining anonymous carries ferocity yet dancing unknown steps for something calls the poets to liberate pens and letters onto pages stained with the marks of history.
The Way It Is
by William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
From The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems, Graywolf Press, (1998).