Works in Quarantine
Helicon believes that in dark times, we find strength in each other and we must out of our way to share the love of a community. We’ve decided to put together this collection to share the little lights in the darkness and help keep spirits up from a distance.
This collection will update continually as works are sent into us, until the Covid-19 crisis passes.
Wulf and Eadwacer
translated by Donald Conolly, April 1st
For my people it’s like someone sent a gift:
they’ll have him if he comes before the host.
It’s not alike for us.
Wolf is on an island; I am on another.
That island is a fortress: fens surround it.
Murderous men are out there on that island.
They’ll have him if he comes before the host.
It’s not alike for us.
Far and wide in thought I sought my Wolf
when rain set in and I was sunk in grief.
Then that brazen spearman beset me with his brawn.
It was nice enough. It was hateful nonetheless.
O Wolf, my Wolf! Not want of food,
but yearning, the anguish of your absence,
a mind in mourning, made me sick.
Can’t you hear, Eadwacer? To the wood
a wolf has snatched our hapless whelp.
It’s easy to unwind what was never interwoven:
the myth we made together.
The empty streetcar passes by again
Ella Markianos, april 1st
The empty streetcar passes by again
A green blur against the fogged window
Balancing on the translucent light
Of a streetlamp. The bare trees whisper
In the wind, but I am still too far to hear
Their sylvan messages. I think
To ask a passerby what they hear
But remember there is no one there.
Before the world can blur into gray
Nothing I run my finger through the
Condensation, painting myself back
Into the world with stick-figure strokes.
Out of dry gray light I emerge, and in
The new clear world I reach my arms
To the light, watching the empty train
bloom green across my vision
Again.
autonomy
addie Moore Gerety, March 21st
As I float through what was once a dream
I miss rain on side walks at night.
Excuses rampant on cobblestone
What I wouldn’t give.
Tears cried in your own room never seem to leave
I see them all around me, their eyes bright and blue
As if they could do this forever, they come to me.
Mother is erased, social standing suddenly incoherent.
But yet I am accountable and I will not wait
For I look upon the remnants of my body
And it’s all I can do not to weep for them
Lest I give them sisters to cling to.
Decameron days
alec Bode Mathur, March 18th
The kitchen is a microcosm of the heart. Saying I’m
making dinner and leaving out the ginger because I
know that you don’t like it. Saying I’m going to the
market and buying you orange juice. It’s a ghost
town out there, honey, everyone is hiding. Open the
curtains, there’s no one to see us. Shelter in place
until the forsythia blooms and it feels safe. I walk
the dog early in the morning. I cross the street when
I see a neighbor coming.
Good morning.
Beautiful day.
From the kitchen windows I can see you in the yard.
There are people singing in Italy, standing on
balconies. I turn up the music and I sing along. Is
this not our villa in the countryside? Our vantage
point to watch as the world burns? Let me tell
stories, something someone told me about their
dreams. Don’t fight with me, love, don’t be angry.
There isn’t anywhere for us to go. I made you
dinner, today and today and today. Force the
forsythia, yellow like the moment before a stop.
There are lists upon lists of things for us to do. You
do the laundry, let me make dinner for you.