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Poetry by Edith Covensky
Small Blessings
​
I must be grateful it seems
For small blessings
And sometimes great ones.
At the last moment: unnecessary
Accidents and happenings
And children play in toy stores
With tools they still hold.
Still life:
An ancient fireplace covered with ash
Potsherds
Cooking utensils
And other pottery.
There are no fiddlers here
You cannot convince me there are
And I sit and wait on the fifth floor
In the air between the stars
Like a worker in a yellow raincoat.
After Long Thought
​
After long Thought
There is no point I do not reach
Beautiful in my poetic duty.
I love the shadowy zones in my room
Opening drawers full of sonnets
I can just be a painter.
And I own libraries of sonnets
Some after Petrarch
Scarring me
In the night.
Then the poem begins
As a literary practice
On a bench crumbling in gloom
Its essay is clean
My hands are holding a flower
My rhymes drop on my neck
Instead of the rain.
Confession
​
My mother told me
She wanted to die in the summer
Yet Yeats died in January
1939.
She did not remember him
Nor he her
Among the dead.
My real heroine
Is like mother
Always laughing
And sometimes believing in sun:
Great and total.
Love is a relative thing
(Mother told me)
Like an addiction
Sweet and almost narcotic
Between two bodies repetitive.
With every attempt at Love
It becomes clear to me
That in the window of planes
The sun is not always apparent.