A poem not against songbirds

Lighten up, songbirds. Give me a break.

No need to carry on this way,

even if it is morning. I need more sleep.

Where were you keeping yourselves when I was thirty?

When the house stayed dark and quiet all day,

as if somebody had died?

And this same somebody, or somebody else,

cooked a huge, morose meal for the survivors.

A meal that lasted ten years.

Go on, sweethearts. Come back in an hour,

my friends. Then I'll be wide awake.

You'll see. This time I can promise.

Gedicht: Raymond Carver, 'A poem not against songbirds'

Foto: Rosa, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dadiva/

The Gift

This morning there's snow everywhere. We remark on it.

You tell me you didn't sleep well. I say

I didn't eather. You had a terrible night. "Me too."

We're extraordinarily calm and tender with each other

as if sensing the other's rickety state of mind.

As if we knew what the other was feeling. We don't,

of course. We never do. No matter.

It's the tenderness I care about. That's the gift

this morning that moves and holds me.

Same as every morning.

Raymond Carver, "The gift"

Foto: Rosa