Eye

6. The Critic  (from CHANTS)                 William Dickey

I unscrewed the lip from the mouth, the mouth I discarded.

I unscrewed the lid from the eye, the eye I discarded.

Here is a doll made from pieces. The pieces hate one another.

Here are the doll and I in a posed photograph.

After the photograph was taken, I unscrewed the camera. 

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Self Portrait                   Edward Hirsch

I lived between my heart and my head,
like a married couple who can't get along.

I lived between my left arm, which is swift
and sinister, and my right, which is righteous.

I lived between a laugh and a scowl,
and voted against myself, a two-party system.

My left leg dawdled or danced along,
my right cleaved to the straight and narrow.

My left shoulder was like a stripper on vacation,
my right stood upright as a Roman soldier.

Let's just say that my left side was the organ
donor and leave my private parts alone,

but as for my eyes, which are two shades
of brown, well, Dionysus, meet Apollo.

Look at Eve raising her left eyebrow
while Adam puts his right foot down.

No one expected it to survive,
but divorce seemed out of the question.

I suppose my left hand and my right hand
will be clasped over my chest in the coffin

and I'll be reconciled at last,
I'll be whole again.

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Address to an Absent Lover          Sarah Manguso

The boy speaks in Russian (I understand him neither in the dream nor in real life). He opens his eyes and looks at me, apologizing in English for keeping them closed. When I wake up I think he must have seen me. But when I kiss him he looks surprised, as if he were blind. The night I met you I wrote It is possible I have imagined my entire life. * My great-grandmother's lamp is mine now. It is made of rose quartz -- that is, it is made of poetry. More poetry: A coin you dropped when you took your pants off is still on the floor. Please come back and pick it up. More: The scar on my hand I got cleaning the house for you has outlasted you. In this way you are indelible, but only as long as I have my hand.

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Pantoum Quilted from Agnes Martin's Writings by Carol Moldaw

Composition is an absolute mystery.

To penetrate the night is one thing

(you get light enough and you levitate),

to be penetrated by the night, another.

To penetrate the night is one thing, the mind knows what the eye has not seen;

to be penetrated by the night, another.

Overtaken, we feel a certain devotion.

The mind knows what the eye has not seen.

Perfection, of course, cannot be represented.

Overtaken, we feel a certain devotion.

Think of a shibori-dyed silk organza quilt.

Perfection, of course, cannot be represented

pieced and layered, a little bit off the square.

Think of a shibori-dyed silk organza quilt

but without batting, transparent, floating,

pieced and layered, a little bit off the square,

the layers hand-tied together with horsehair

(but without batting, transparent, floating).

Try to understand, court misunderstanding.

The layers hand-tied together with horsehair,

the grids of the layers overlap like voices.

Try to understand, court misunderstanding.

The seams, like leading, show through.

The grids of the layers overlap like voices.

One thing I've got a good grip on is remorse.

The seams, like leading, show through.

Before it's put on paper, it exists in the mind.

One thing I've got a good grip on is remorse.

Technique a hazard, interruptions a disaster,

before it's put on paper, it exists in the mind.

Rectangles lighten the square's weight.

Technique a hazard, interruptions a disaster,

composition is an absolute mystery.

Rectangles lighten the square's weight.

You get light enough and you levitate.

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With That Moon Language

Admit something: Everyone you see, you say to them, "Love me."

Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwise someone would call the cops.

Still though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect. Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye that is always saying, with that sweet moon language, What every other eye in this world is dying to hear?

-Hafiz

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From "Elegy in X Parts"

Matt Rasmussen

X.

The self-murder mystery
begins like this:

We are more likely
to kill ourselves

than be killed
by someone else.

I am the pistol
saying I will only

say this once.
Do not open

the tiny door
in the back

of your head.
All alone when

all alone, we
are asleep

inside our
murderer. There’s

a metal word
in the chamber

of my mouth
and my eyes

are bored out.
I’m a noose

using the body
against itself.

I see
what’s too awful

to be true—
that house

with one lit window,
my brother’s

punctured skull—
yet is.