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Recorded for Poem-a-Day, April 18, 2016.
About this Poem 

“The poem is an address to friends who are experiencing chronic illnesses right now. I’ve been making this sort of structured writing allude to political, ecological, psychological, and aesthetic experiences that can be held in common. The unknown can be aesthetic even when it is accompanied by dire fact.”
—Brenda Hillman

Some Kinds of Forever Visit You

The unknowns are up early;
they browse through the bronze
             porch bells.  Crows
             call & late
         apples blaze
      toward western emptiness.
         In your illness,
             the edges hesitate;
    like the revolt
of workers, they
              will take a while…

Here comes the fond
     mild winter; other
         realms are noisy
        & unanimous. You tap
the screen & dream
       while waiting; four
            kinds of forever
      visit you today: 
something, nothing,
everything & art,
   greater than you are
          & of your making—
 

Copyright © 2016 by Brenda Hillman. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 18, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2016 by Brenda Hillman. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 18, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.

Brenda Hillman

Brenda Hillman

Brenda Hillman is the author of ten poetry collections, including Extra Hidden Life, among the Days (Wesleyan University Press, 2018). She received the Academy of American Poets Fellowship in 2012 and currently serves as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.

by this poet

poem
December Moon


Oak moon, reed moon—

our friend called;
she was telling the pain
what to think.

I said Look. If you
relax you'll get better.

Better? who wants better,
said a moonbeam
under the wire,

the soul is light's
hypotenuse; the lily
poem

               a prose ballad
 

i only held it once but thought about it often as you think about those times when your life had stood both loaded & unloaded

One brother knew of its existence having seen it where it languished in

poem
Days are unusual. The owl sends
           out 5 zeroes from the pines
           plus one small silver nothing. Where
            	do they float? Maybe out to
           sea, where jellyfish are aging left
& right. They have some nerve.
           Today, no new wars, probably. No
big button. The owl could be
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