The World is its Own Museum

Source: Favim

What is this box of shapes

that I'm assembling?

It is not a question to ask. 

Say I assemble a box of shapes

as every human does, because my eye,

lighting on them, likes them,

because "life" is an inversion of "file",

because the world is its own museum. 

It is not a question to ask,

running one's finger over the

dusty contours of the unidentified. 

I assemble a box of shapes

as every human does,

watching them gather dust

in their corner—as we all

clutter our corners with the unidentified.

We are collectors all, and our

collections are collectors too,

collecting dust. 

Still I assemble a box of shapes

because my eye, lighting on them,

likes them--as my eye (come fresh

from the dazzle of afternoon

into the gloomy entranceway) lights too

with pleasure upon the hall

table where one has placed

the bowl of what's currently blooming. 

~ Robyn Sarah

Cat's Cradle

When women together sit sipping

cold tea and tugging at the

threads of memory, thoughtfully

pulling at this

or that bit or loop, or slipping

this loop over that finger till

warp and weft of past lives begin

crazily to unwind, when women sit

smoking and talking, the talk

making smoke in the air, when they shake

shreds of tobacco out of a crumpled pack

and keep drinking the same weak tea

from the same broken pot, something clicks

in the springs of the clock

and it's yesterday again,

and the sprung yarn rolls down loose

from the spool of the moon.

When women together sit talking

an afternoon, when they talk

the sun down, talk stars, talk

dawn--they talk up a dust

of sleeping dogs and bones

and they talk a drum for the dust

to dance to, till the dance

drums up a storm; when women

sit drumming fingers on tops

of tables, when the tables turn

into tops that spin and hum

and the bobbin of the moon

keeps spinning its fine yarn down

to catch fingers, when fingers catch

talk in a cat's cradle, and turn

talk into a net to catch the curve

of the storm--then it's talk

against talk, till the tail

of the storm trails into dust

and they talk the dust back down.

Things that matter and don't matter

are caught together, things done and undone,

and the kettle boils dry and over

while they lean closer to peer down

into the murky water where last night's dream

flicks its tail and is gone

(and the reel of the moon keeps cranking

its long line down)--when women together

sit sipping cold tea and sawing on the strings

of memory, it is an old tune.

The rice sticks to the bottom of the pan,

and things get left out in the rain.

~ Robyn Sarah

Cat's Cradle

When women together sit sipping

cold tea and tugging at the

threads of memory, thoughtfully

pulling at this

or that bit or loop, or slipping

this loop over that finger till

warp and weft of past lives begin

crazily to unwind, when women sit

smoking and talking, the talk

making smoke in the air, when they shake

shreds of tobacco out of a crumpled pack

and keep drinking the same weak tea

from the same broken pot, something clicks

in the springs of the clock

and it's yesterday again,

and the sprung yarn rolls down loose

from the spool of the moon.

When women together sit talking

an afternoon, when they talk

the sun down, talk stars, talk

dawn--they talk up a dust

of sleeping dogs and bones

and they talk a drum for the dust

to dance to, till the dance

drums up a storm; when women

sit drumming fingers on tops

of tables, when the tables turn

into tops that spin and hum

and the bobbin of the moon

keeps spinning its fine yarn down

to catch fingers, when fingers catch

talk in a cat's cradle, and turn

talk into a net to catch the curve

of the storm--then it's talk

against talk, till the tail

of the storm trails into dust

and they talk the dust back down.

Things that matter and don't matter

are caught together, things done and undone,

and the kettle boils dry and over

while they lean closer to peer down

into the murky water where last night's dream

flicks its tail and is gone

(and the reel of the moon keeps cranking

its long line down)--when women together

sit sipping cold tea and sawing on the strings

of memory, it is an old tune.

The rice sticks to the bottom of the pan,

and things get left out in the rain.

~ Robyn Sarah

Blowing the Fluff Away

Goldenrod

For E.B.

The sprig of unknown bloom you sent last fall

spent the long winter drying on my wall,

mounted on black. But it had turned to fluff

some months ago. Tonight I took it down

because I thought that I had had enough

of staring at it. Brittle, dry and brown,

it seemed to speak too plainly of a waste

of friendship, forced to flower, culled in haste.

So, after months of fearing to walk past

in case the stir should scatter it to bits,

I took it out to scatter it at last

with my own breath, and so to call us quits.

—Fooled! for the fluff was nothing but a sheath,

with tiny, perfect flowers underneath.

~ Robyn Sarah

Blowing the Fluff Away

Goldenrod

For E.B.

The sprig of unknown bloom you sent last fall

spent the long winter drying on my wall,

mounted on black. But it had turned to fluff

some months ago. Tonight I took it down

because I thought that I had had enough

of staring at it. Brittle, dry and brown,

it seemed to speak too plainly of a waste

of friendship, forced to flower, culled in haste.

So, after months of fearing to walk past

in case the stir should scatter it to bits,

I took it out to scatter it at last

with my own breath, and so to call us quits.

—Fooled! for the fluff was nothing but a sheath,

with tiny, perfect flowers underneath.

~ Robyn Sarah