Thade Correa 

Days

 

Days of streets choked
in fog when the hawk wears
not a robe of light, but feathers

and flesh, when the bright
scar of his cry sinks
in a grave of wind.

Days of granite hours
without sun, sleep without dream,
distraction relieved only

by distraction. Days the heart
beats blind, floundering
in the green swarm of time

and cut off from the blue flare
of the sky. Then by chance
you turn down a drowsy street

and suddenly it is a road in eternity.
You remember where you live
and where you left your keys.

Out of the trees’ thin shadows
dappling the cracked sidewalk
joy leaps forth.  

 

 

 

 

Anthem (III)

Le but de l’âme est devenir une hymne.
*
The goal of the soul is to become a hymn.

               E.M. Cioran                                    

Trust honey will return with the bees.
Trust the body’s chariot of bones to hold.

Trust holding, the palms of hands to open.
Trust the heart to flame, blood to stain, tears

to dissolve fallen snow. Trust sky to follow,
hours to drift, roads to end in rough-weltered seas.

Trust music’s rise and fall, falling and rising again,
morning’s broken light come to cracked windows,

and what comes by morning, blue winds hammering
the door. Trust the hawk’s tattered wings to gleam

in sunset glare, trust sleep’s journeys, waking’s dreams,
grief’s rain-drenched wolves. Trust to be, and what is:

the iris unfolding in green air, and winter’s gray
distance gone, the gates of the eyes opening, after. 

 

 

Thade Correa hails from Northwest Indiana, received a BA from IU,
Bloomington, an MA from University of Chicago, and an MFA from the
University of Notre Dame. His poetry, essays, and translations have
appeared in various publications, including Bitter Oleander, Asymptote,
RHINO, and Poetry City, USA, Vol. 4. He is a musician, teacher, meditator, and activist.