Nathaniel Tarn

Winter Oasis

It is snowing violently behind my eyes

as I try to sleep,

out there the dancing prairie falcon

is pressed into the ground,

the bright hawk

flamboyant as a kite in the sun

turns raven against the clouds

and the solitaire, a grey ghost

peers through the French windows to see me pass

and does not, and is at his most alone.

It is snowing behind my eyes

with more determination

than the snow shows outside: a childhood toy

glass ball filled with a city drowned in flakes.

The mountains sleep fiercely behind the clouds

we wait for their liberation with impatience.

Soon, I will go down into the arroyo

lined with tall piñons where the owl

threads his secret way when I wake him.

I will be more asleep than I ever am

enclosed in the moving walls of a dream

before the moments fall again, one after one,

glinting in the sunlight, each one like a knife.

OSIRIS 22

B. Z. Niditch

The Living Trees (in memoriam, George Seferis)

The living trees

(how can the gods forget)

a breath of summer’s ghost

rocking the green Aegean Sea;

you awoke to rosin breezes

a whitened notebook

on a string

and carried your lovers

down brown roots below

open bows of the Atlantis;

wishes are never forgotten

or lovers, myths, violins, even gods

a poet remembers his sleepwalkers

and watches death above a window

by fishers of a holy ghost

following a Mycenaean tomb.

OSIRIS 4, 1977

Lyn Lifshin

Thru Blue Dust, New Mexico (60)

clouds snakes screaming

in the kivas the

dark air is full

of skin drums

rain songs rabbit songs

turquoise in the skull

sand that cakes the

bones like skin blood

soft dust nothing

nothing

not even the

night blooming cereus

its water stored in a

huge touch root

not even 18 pounds

of water

unfolding near sunset

filling the air with sweet

musk it

wilts before sunrise

OSIRIS 1, 1972.

Voices from Other Worlds

Günter Kunert

Elegie 3

Endgültig morgens um vier
tritt die Stille ein. Lange unterwegs
von ihrem vergessenen Ursprung
und kaum noch erwartet.
Für eine Weile im Frühdämmerlicht
überwältigt dich ihre Gnade.


Günter Kunert (1929-2019), in memoriam

Elegy 3

Finally at four in the morning
silence comes. A long time on the way
from its forgotten source
and almost unexpected.
For a moment in the grey of dawn
you’re overwhelmed by its mercy.

translated from the German by Gerald Chapple from Osiris 61, 2005

Simon Perchik

And though you left the sheet blank
the police are still investigating it
as some make-shift wall left in place

when the day after tomorrow arrived
all at once-they’re waiting for the lab
to come up with how the ink

could have been swept away when the words
already had a place to stay and one by one
carried you off on a raft made from paper

with the pen no longer making estimates
how far the edge is, how deep the corners
the silence you finished working on.

From Osiris 89, 2019

John Falk

STANDS OF PINE

These evergreen pines outstrip winter,
Though broken, cannot regenerate a branch.
Winter tastes your emerald color,
Leaves a heavy foam upon it,
White yet immanently sheer.

This constitutes pine, what it becomes,
What snaps brittle and drops
Seeding cones to fathom sure survival.
Nothing rounded, all pointed
As green-whited flags of flame—

Save exuded gum, the dark
Caulk smearing against winter.

From Osiris 64, 2007

Madeleine Gagnon
*

C’est l’histoire des trouées de lumière dans ce ciel d’après tempête—de pluie, de vent—, l’histoire de ce bleu qui ne nous a jamais parlé et qu’on voudrait plein de mots alors que traversent en diagonale son silence les chansonniers de toutes espèces revenus par troupeaux, petits ou grands, migrateurs aux ailes saupoudrées de semences lointaines, c’est l’histoire des oiseaux qui refont la vie des arbres, tels les bourgeons, en passant ou en s’y nichant, printemps printemps.

C’ est le conte d’ une musique nue, d’ une langue seule à elle qui s’apprêterait à dire: «au commencement était le commencement», mais qui choisit de se taire donnant sa langue au chat juste en bas, marchant dans ses pantoufles sur le banc de neige salie, vaste tableau qui s’en va disparaître en fondant.

Rimouski, 4 mai 2005

From Osiris 61, 2005

Submissions for Osiris 103

JUNE 15-SEPTEMBER 1, 2026

Please send 3-6 previously unpublished texts and a 50 to 75-word biblio-bio. Translators must include a letter of permission from the original publisher or author and copies of the original texts.

osirispoetry@gmail.com

Osiris does not publish any text written with the aid of AI, nor do we publish previously published material. We believe in the integrity of the writer and in the integrity of their work. The hand of the writer, their spirit, their vision, their quirks and idiosyncrasies are all part of the text. Let us continue to celebrate the beauty of imperfection.

Ian Robinson

Garden at Evening

He forgot about the dust on the floor

and crumbs on the kitchen table,

the shrinking light behind the windows.

It started with the garden,

the ashes from the dead bonfire,

cracked fencing and the clumps

of ragwort, flowering quince, camellias

waiting for something to happen.

Then darkness arrived

as smooth as falling water.

Sometimes, for minutes at a time,

the shred of a sensation, words

half-forming into thoughts, drifted

like blown sand across his mind,

a noise no different form silence,

obliterating time and presence.

Osiris 32, 1991

Kip Knott

Exile

for Yannis Ritsos

Though the wells have been abandoned

and there is no water, you go about

hiding seeds in dark places

while all around you stone fruit grows.

You welcome the dark as you work

in the orchard of statues. The moon

sleeps in a cage of olive branches,

dreaming of something other than the night.

Osiris 33, 1991