Sample Poems by Stan Sanvel Rubin



The Century

         
Beyond the place where everything is forgiven
is the place where men cry and are amazed
at their own crying. A scene like that
isn't easy to witness except in a painting. Remorse like that
is what Kafka kept in his chest, under rib bones
worn thin as lines of type, faithful companion.
Language dries up at a time like that, shrivels,
almost, like spent coals, a thin dust of ash
their only expression.
                                     Under each face now
 I see signs of such withering, a web of purple
 bruises masking clear flesh, ordinary losses
made iridescent in the light of the moon.
Dark fields, dark fields I have dreamed you
passing through one night into another night.



Where the Sun Was

 As if my life mattered, I woke up today
 with such energy I didn't understand its source,

 and when I walked out among the many dying things
 colored for death, I could only stare amazed

 at the beauty of brown and orange-brown and yellow
 as familiar as skin you've touched many times

 suddenly awakened with the power
 to seem new even when dying, to twist in the slight

 wind under a fading wing of light etched in a chalk sky,
 could only wonder at my own forgetfulness,

 being the seer at the center of all this, yet unable
 to recall it, to hold it in mind as something real

 and necessary even as it is passing, as I am passing--
 November, November, November everywhere.
 



 
At the U.S. Space and Rocket Museum

 In Huntsville, you can escape the sun
 in the improbable shade of a Stealth fighter,
 you can touch a reassembled V-2, cram yourself
 into a perfect mock-up of a space capsule,

 and, if you're not careful, lose your balance,
 crack a knee against a bulkhead, seeing stars,
 descend tipsy as a kid to common ground.
 Rilke knew space lives inside us like destiny,

 like pain. The measure of distance
 the hand of a child. The map of love
 an internal sky. Here in the shadow
 of the predator's wing, while the camera

 makes its chemical memory, and you stand
 still aiming at me--my love, my stranger--
 I am as distant from myself as a newsreel.
 I cannot forgive my own heart's wars.

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