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Maya Stein Poems
I am thinking about a poem, which words to use for how the afternoon is spread out like a picnic blanket, fall coaxing a blush from the trees, the sun glowing photogenically across that pond in the park where the geese are collaborating on a meal. The instinct to capture
I should be upstairs with the others, drumming up ways to heal the world, save the animals, pray for water in a far-off continent, devote the remainder of my days to a catalog of restorations. But this morning, it was the matter
You don't need the sprawl of the interstate, the odometer climbing and candy wrappers haloing your seat. You don't need toll booths and a pocket weighted with quarters. You don't need speed limits or state lines or a full tank of gas. You don't need to wait for solitude. You don't need to wait for sadness.
Close to the bone
Last week's snow is almost gone. We've run out of butter and are down to the last banana. The orchid is managing on the windowsill with the weak winter light. The dryer has buzzed its final load, and clean sheets have been stretched over the guest bed. The dog has lost interest in her ragdoll toy and is lying with her head, limp, beside the couch throw.
This vehicle of mercy and salvation
So this is where we are,7: 38 on a Tuesday evening, and somewhere in the distance - we can hear it cross town - is an ambulance, spiraling its wail into the streets. Make way, it's saying. The boys down the block make freethrows. We make tacos for dinner. The dog makes a beeline for the water bowl. The dishwasher makes barely any noise.
The familiar estrangement, a serrated edge accompanying you to block parties and soccer games and dinner with the in-laws. While you bluster and bobble, you long for a quiet room with only a jigsaw puzzle for company, a notebook, a camera, a caress
Elyse needs a letter like that
Elyse needs a letter like that a new best friend from camp scrawling a farewell with a promise for more, a play date,
I hope you wake with a gasp, a thousand ...
Not from the whirlpool of worry. Not from a bad dream. Not from a deadline or a string of demands, or the great to-do of the still-to-be-done. Not from the lopsided weight of futility and failure or some wayward mutiny shaking your bones. Not from the loss
know well the growing edge
Call me lazy. Call me predictable and cliché and overused. Bypass these lines if your currency is nuance, if what moves you are the minimalist gestures, if the threads of the crosshatch seams in the couch are the geographies you'd prefer for your treasure. I can't help it.
may we be forgiven
How we stumble into epiphany, some nondescript lunch with a friend sending us reeling, or a cloud in the shape of a school bus or that favorite stuffed toy from childhood, or the accident that happened to someone else, or the unexpected heartbreak from a TV commercial, or the knit
poem after a long silence
Comments about Maya Stein
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I am thinking about a poem, which words to use for how the afternoon
is spread out like a picnic blanket, fall coaxing a blush from the trees,
the sun glowing photogenically across that pond in the park
where the geese are collaborating on a meal. The instinct to capture
keeps metastasizing. Last night, while the party partied on, I sat on
stiff cushions and chased wild thoughts with a borrowed pen. Sometimes
I don’t know how to stay afloat in my own life’s scenes, diving directly
to some deep end where I flounder for meaning. Even now,
I hear the neighbor kids in the...