“The greatest pleasure does not consist in experiencing new things, but in savoring the infinite variation of what we already know.”
-Federico Castigliano, Flâneur: The Art of Wandering the Streets of Paris

ZILIA BALKANSKY-SELLES is a writer and actor based in Bloomington, Indiana. Her poems have been published in the online journal Comparative Woman, and in the books Trigger Warnings, edited by Joan Hawkins and Kalynn Brower, and Stormwash: Environmental Poems, edited by Hiromi Yoshida. Her work appeared in the 2023 Ryder Magazine, Poetry Edition and has been presented at spoken-word events hosted by the Writers Guild at Bloomington.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Zilia, what have you brought for us?

“Thoughts while rolling the garbage bin”

Thoughts while rolling the garbage bin
to the curb as a sliver of waxing crescent moon
appears half-sky up to the west;
the bin, not half full, rumbles
over the cracked concrete driveway.
The trees on either side—
not yet leafed in early spring,
spokes of shadow against
the dark sky,
and the lights, amber and yellow, from the windows
of nearby houses.
No one is walking by.
No one else is rolling the standardized bins
to the curb, or I don’t hear them.
A moment of quiet, stability,
in breath and activity,
the reliability of ingrained routine.
I am doing this thing which is needful.
I have scooped the cats’ litter boxes,
put in fresh pine pellets, the pine dust lingers on my sleeves,
fed the dog, Sutter,
checked on the cats, carried out the Monday
evening ritual.
The quiet feels palpable with
spring rising up in tree trunks, unseen, unheard, but imagined,
and daffodil petals that soon will drop and blend
back to earth.
Millions of years will breathe,
come and go—
this moment barely a drop,
no more, no less.
I think of grand Beethoven symphonies
and the clever twists of Gilbert
and Sullivan operettas,
and Irish folk tunes drawn out by generation
after generation of fine fiddlers.
Can each give scale to the other
without diminishing one,
no more, no less?
I may not even matter.
It does not matter.
The stars that were there
all day, hidden by the
brightness of our own star,
glitter brighter as the darkness
drawn by the Earth’s turn
brings them into view.
---
"End of April, Rainy Sky"

End of April rainy sky.
Gray days wrapping the sky close to Earth.
Cherry and Dogwood buds sprinkle the wintered land.
Pushed from density of wood.
Sheltered in cold darkness called by warmth light.
Soft froth of petals burst, then drop.
Withered brown leaves clinging through the winter snows
are overcome by the mist of buds.
The stark winter dress thrown off for the bridal veil.
---
"Gaggle of Boys"

The gaggle of white boys crossed the street and bicycle lane,
where I stand, straddling my bike, waiting for the light.
They are young, high-school-old, or barely college going,
or about to go in this college town.
They all wear shorts, some light hue T-shirt
and almost amble as they hold a close connection pack-wise.
Four of them are within four or five inches of each other,
but one is barely at the shoulder of the boy nearest him.
Maybe he'll have a college growth spurt, I think.
Or maybe it's his heritage.
They intrigue me in their show of almost insouciance
and slight self consciousness,
wearing their solidarity and silent plea for individuality on their sleeves.
The soft musk of an unspoken desire.
A soft cloud around them
in their progress down the sidewalk
towards the center of this college town
in a golden mid-spring dusk the last day of April.

EXTRA FOR PODCAST VERSION:
---
"The House Across the Street"

The house across the street has closed the chapter.
The family, with its name on the mail box, is gone.
The children grown and gone.
Late nights, the last two years
a silent ambulance parks by the driveway again and again.
I wake to flashing red lights.
The plump, blonde, amiable woman with a drain under her neck skin
is out less often then gone.
Winters, the narrow, gray road is a river between distant shores.
Summers, the trees and deep foliage in my yard
screen out the outside.
I see them come and go when the view is clear, when I am outside
walking by, looking out the window.
The blonde woman appears less often.
I wonder, but don't ask. Don't check.
We are barely neighbors.
One day, a long line of cars park along the road.
I guess, wake gathering to commemorate.
In time, the white car she drove disappears,
and then the man comes and goes.
He looks thinner.
Months pass, a year, and then the moving trucks arrive.
Days go by.
It's a slow move.
More and more boxes and furniture leave the house.
People come with cars and cleaning mops, with gardening tools.
And then the house looks empty.
The yard a little neglected where it had been kept tightly trimmed before.
No curtains in the windows, dark inside.
A light forgotten in the garage,
shines at night through the row of narrow glass trimming at the top.
Days pass. One week. Another.
The house is there, but no one comes and goes.
One day the for sale sign appears.
They are gone.
A small resolution.
I feel the house as I walk by.
Do homes hold memories?
I think yes, at least the ripples of living and dying.
We lived across that narrow street for almost 20 years,
and I spoke twice with her.

You've been listening to the poems of Zilia Balkansky-Selles on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.