To the Tune of “Meeting Happiness”

Li Yu (translated from the Chinese by Arthur Sze)
it is the sorrow of parting, another strange flavor in the heart.
from the book The Silk Dragon II / Copper Canyon Press

What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature that explores experiences and ideas that spark the writing of new poems.

In Ecopoetry Now, invited poets engage in an ecopoetic conversation across borders. In poems and poetics statements, their work describes important local differences, including bioregion and language, as well as a shared concern for the Earth. We hope to highlight poetry’s integral role in creating and sustaining a broadly ecological imagination that is most alive when biologically, culturally, and linguistically diverse.

Evelyn Reilly on "Having Broken, Are"
Photo: Evelyn Reilly
Nora Treatbaby
recall prayer, how our legacy is of tying it to a post in the desert and abandoning it.                                                               O flag                                                               so stupid                                                               a gash in the                                                               sky falling                                                               forever
Brittany Rogers
I ignore the kids' slinky arms. The dishes. They daddy. Tonight I rush to the rink with my best friend, her fingers locked into mine. The sun dipped already, but we sweating, edges ribboned under summer's breath. I forget to take pictures, but trust. We fine.
Morri Creech
I have betrayed it to the dark when there was no one to blame and whispered it seductively into the ear of danger. But I am tired, and I want to be done with it for good.
Cindy Juyoung Ok
I feared young             dying, hating to             waste, but lately when I cough or clot blood I             register this potential as             passed, my age now emblem of having aged:             nothing to be envious of,             nothing to revere.
Evelyn Reilly
Having been brainwashed as children we must suspect ourselves always Dogged associations such as a clearing in the woods closing at the rate         of your own aging Your arbitrary name-sound wobbling in the same breeze         that makes it impossible to turn over a new leaf definitively You can only step into the fray

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