(or "Breaking the Fourth Wall, whose name is 'monitor'")
or, really, just addressing you all directly... even though I said I'd keep out of it...
I) ... but hie you over to "http://somniloquy.org/blog/", my dearest stalkers and skulkers (yes. all three of you.), where Mr. Preston Mark Stone knows what he's doing. Even the "I am blogging because I happen to be awake" posts are pretty good. Just a real treasure box. Although, given it's slightly behemoth proportions (archives date to 2001. which means at least 2 years BMS "Before MySpace..."), I should probably say "chest"...
... but "treasure chest" just doesn't have that same pleasingly arch twee-ness to it. Which brings me to my second point...
II) I'm always looking for a nicely aphoristic way of describing "What Is Poetry?"... and since it never can be comprehensive, it might as well be catchy.
In the past, I have tried poetry-as-pinecone (which it is, if you've ever really thought about pinecones. because what is a pinecone? a pinecone is always, first and foremost, a pinecone. Just as a poem is always itself, before being anything else. what else is a pinecone? It is an odd and spiky thing, pleasingly solid-- and it carries all the seeds for a forest beneath it's hard and horny shell... and what is a poem but an awkward, inaccesible thing that carries the whole world in itself-- if it's a good one?)
... and when I was nose deep in Kant (which phrase is much, much funnier, btw, if you use the proper German pronunciation) a few months ago, I came up with "poems are the logical constructions of an alien ontology"... which, if you ever felt the bird-ness of your heart, or the moon-ness of your longing, you probably understand. Although my friend the self-taught (this is the great compromise of the liberal arts education: if you're smart, they'll teach you to directly access the canon and if you're brilliant, they'll just leave you alone) Classics major didn't really get it. But that could be because he's not used to thinking about the ontology-ness of things, or it could be because it only works for me and is therefore a shoddy definition...
... and those are the two best overall descriptions I can come up with, but from a purely functional standpoint... I say that poetry is all about precision without accuracy...
... because that leaves room for the ness-ness and the ish-ness which are necessary to check the tyranny of the definitive.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
WWJD?
WWJD?
What Jesus would do--
He has already done,
so that you may find something better to do with yourself.
What Jesus would do--
He has already done,
so that you may find something better to do with yourself.
Kite
Kite
Not in ruins,
but in piles of leaves and twigs
and bits of string and glass--
I don't mind.
I have no mind to rebuild temples
but have all I need-- and a clear sky--
to make a kite.
Not in ruins,
but in piles of leaves and twigs
and bits of string and glass--
I don't mind.
I have no mind to rebuild temples
but have all I need-- and a clear sky--
to make a kite.
Thunder
Thunder
The hard rain crushed the grass and flowers
and rested heavy on the hills, snapping at the treetops.
A softer darkness--
and it lay down across the flattened branches
and found itself in the bark's slick ridges,
slid through them, reunited and
rumbled across the ground, with a quiet and rushing joy.
The moon rose in the softening clouds
and the lights along the driveway snapped on,
blazed brighter than stars against the dark grass
and shimmered across the asphalt's depths and pebbles.
I rose from bed's dull shadows--
chilled and the night shone like a jewel
in the water streaking the foggy glass.
I knelt and undid the latches-- they stuck, a little--
I pressed the windows out as far as they went
and it all came seeping in,
Quiet-- and pooled across the carpet
and my face.
Across the click of the fan-- crickets
wind brushing against the ferns,
and one bird piping, now, in the dogwood
because it lost the day huddled against the trunk.
Not a night for throbbing and howling
but for low and steady pulses
for stretching out and stroking whatever bit of
the world you can reach to
and the mouth's slow undoing into a half-smile...
-- slammed the glass shut
and rounded on me, half-asleep and raging
for letting in the heat.
and I have gone from peace and thunder.
The hard rain crushed the grass and flowers
and rested heavy on the hills, snapping at the treetops.
A softer darkness--
and it lay down across the flattened branches
and found itself in the bark's slick ridges,
slid through them, reunited and
rumbled across the ground, with a quiet and rushing joy.
The moon rose in the softening clouds
and the lights along the driveway snapped on,
blazed brighter than stars against the dark grass
and shimmered across the asphalt's depths and pebbles.
I rose from bed's dull shadows--
chilled and the night shone like a jewel
in the water streaking the foggy glass.
I knelt and undid the latches-- they stuck, a little--
I pressed the windows out as far as they went
and it all came seeping in,
Quiet-- and pooled across the carpet
and my face.
Across the click of the fan-- crickets
wind brushing against the ferns,
and one bird piping, now, in the dogwood
because it lost the day huddled against the trunk.
Not a night for throbbing and howling
but for low and steady pulses
for stretching out and stroking whatever bit of
the world you can reach to
and the mouth's slow undoing into a half-smile...
-- slammed the glass shut
and rounded on me, half-asleep and raging
for letting in the heat.
and I have gone from peace and thunder.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Habituation
Because I have climbed up through the hours
the ropey muscles
of my soul don't burn
nor my heart gasp the thin air.
I could walk these slopes forever
and forget I was climbing
now that I am fit
for walking the steep dry peaks
and I won't look down
to the sweetness in the creases,
the valley and the foothills,
I'll send them from me.
the ropey muscles
of my soul don't burn
nor my heart gasp the thin air.
I could walk these slopes forever
and forget I was climbing
now that I am fit
for walking the steep dry peaks
and I won't look down
to the sweetness in the creases,
the valley and the foothills,
I'll send them from me.
I and You
I
The I who wasn't, not really--
the I who is poured water across it
because it was a firm place
and I did not want the reflection blurred.
---
You
I see myself only reflected
in the glint across your pupils
a spark and an outline
and the rest sunk in the depths.
The I who wasn't, not really--
the I who is poured water across it
because it was a firm place
and I did not want the reflection blurred.
---
You
I see myself only reflected
in the glint across your pupils
a spark and an outline
and the rest sunk in the depths.
Friday, June 20, 2008
... et fini!
Well. There you have it.
That's about a year's worth of work there, stolen from in between the pages of essays and articles.
As my Dad would say (or would say if he was a proper Texan and used such amusingly colorful colloquialisms)... now we see if that dog can hunt...
A bit of an experiment this-- to see if putting these up on the web will stress me out so much that I can't write. Like the prospect of joining a writer's group is currently doing.
And... y'know... I took a Creative Writing class, and absolutely loved the feedback and discussion... and I think the set-up made it so that the stuff I took in was better than it might have been... but then there was stuff that I would *never* have been comfortable taking in... like the God stuff. The God stuff is really very hard to share with anyone with whom I have to make extended eye contact.
... so it was a useful experience to the extent which it promoted accountability, and detrimental when it got to the point of self-censorship.
... so I'm trying the internet instead... and if I find that I can still work well despite the (relative. because poetry is poetry is poetry and posting it on the internet, I feel, just means that you get fifteen interested readers instead of two...) exposure, and that the ease and annoymity of blogging doesn't lead me to stuff this page with pablum...
... then I'll keep at it. But will be gone for awhile, because, like I said, I just posted the past nine months... so need to rebuild the stock.
That's about a year's worth of work there, stolen from in between the pages of essays and articles.
As my Dad would say (or would say if he was a proper Texan and used such amusingly colorful colloquialisms)... now we see if that dog can hunt...
A bit of an experiment this-- to see if putting these up on the web will stress me out so much that I can't write. Like the prospect of joining a writer's group is currently doing.
And... y'know... I took a Creative Writing class, and absolutely loved the feedback and discussion... and I think the set-up made it so that the stuff I took in was better than it might have been... but then there was stuff that I would *never* have been comfortable taking in... like the God stuff. The God stuff is really very hard to share with anyone with whom I have to make extended eye contact.
... so it was a useful experience to the extent which it promoted accountability, and detrimental when it got to the point of self-censorship.
... so I'm trying the internet instead... and if I find that I can still work well despite the (relative. because poetry is poetry is poetry and posting it on the internet, I feel, just means that you get fifteen interested readers instead of two...) exposure, and that the ease and annoymity of blogging doesn't lead me to stuff this page with pablum...
... then I'll keep at it. But will be gone for awhile, because, like I said, I just posted the past nine months... so need to rebuild the stock.
Mona Lisa
The sun sets
On the cheeks of the Mona Lisa
The thickening wash of grime
Fades into red-gold shadow
She steps back from the display case
Receding from us slowly,
With grace, into the twilight
Still smiling.
On the cheeks of the Mona Lisa
The thickening wash of grime
Fades into red-gold shadow
She steps back from the display case
Receding from us slowly,
With grace, into the twilight
Still smiling.
Pasadena Window (I)
Will it be that
We are forever losing ourselves?
Ever since we opened eyes
Onto the daylight
We are blinded by brightness—
Our souls slip between the cars
And hedgerows
So we leave one eye’s corner
Open as we walk
For a familiar face
Mirrored in a storefront
For a shape in the gutter
We are forever losing ourselves?
Ever since we opened eyes
Onto the daylight
We are blinded by brightness—
Our souls slip between the cars
And hedgerows
So we leave one eye’s corner
Open as we walk
For a familiar face
Mirrored in a storefront
For a shape in the gutter
Rebuired
Reburied
Nothing but the hum of the computer
The heater growling and the buzzing lights
No chorus and no witnesses
So I give in and run my fingers over
The chambers of my heart, pulsing softly
Softly and a brush of warmth in my chest
Winter is here now, and I must bury it in the mud
Against the chill winds and the coming sun
In the dry time, I must be leather over bone
Nothing but the hum of the computer
The heater growling and the buzzing lights
No chorus and no witnesses
So I give in and run my fingers over
The chambers of my heart, pulsing softly
Softly and a brush of warmth in my chest
Winter is here now, and I must bury it in the mud
Against the chill winds and the coming sun
In the dry time, I must be leather over bone
Emily Post
Emily Post (how still the bell…)
In a far away chapel, a bell rings unbidden
Flashing high above the church-yard
It throws itself against the bell-tower
Slams the rhythm into the planks and joists
A whirl of dents and splinters, then
The dull wood begins to pulse
The church shuddering lightly in the mud
The earth hums softly, all the way to here
Buzzing in the dry ground under my feet
Rising up through the bones of my legs
Out and I have just enough brass in me that
My blood begins to sing
In a far away chapel, a bell rings unbidden
Flashing high above the church-yard
It throws itself against the bell-tower
Slams the rhythm into the planks and joists
A whirl of dents and splinters, then
The dull wood begins to pulse
The church shuddering lightly in the mud
The earth hums softly, all the way to here
Buzzing in the dry ground under my feet
Rising up through the bones of my legs
Out and I have just enough brass in me that
My blood begins to sing
Lullabye
I sat in the falling dark
Alone with the crickets and the cars humming
The wind in the scrub whispering
From the steps I watched the stars rise
Over the clay tiles and stucco
To the tops of the slow swaying palms
The chorus faded and
The ashes of the breeze rustled
Between my dry lips
I whispered them all to sleep
Under the un-singing stars
I sang myself a lullaby
And sank also into the shadows
Alone with the crickets and the cars humming
The wind in the scrub whispering
From the steps I watched the stars rise
Over the clay tiles and stucco
To the tops of the slow swaying palms
The chorus faded and
The ashes of the breeze rustled
Between my dry lips
I whispered them all to sleep
Under the un-singing stars
I sang myself a lullaby
And sank also into the shadows
Just another hymn...
Prayer After the Rain
I bless God who gave me eyes to see the mountains
The deep cool wind that rolls down from them
Prickles the forearms He has also given me
Praise the Lord who silvered the leaves with sunlight
And filled me with blood that sparks at their glow
Bless God for the ridges and the hill-sides
My lungs ache and my heart pounds
Praise Him, that makes my legs burn as I rise among them
Praise the One who made the sunlight,
Who was wise and gave me skin that delights in dappling
I bless God who gave me eyes to see the mountains
The deep cool wind that rolls down from them
Prickles the forearms He has also given me
Praise the Lord who silvered the leaves with sunlight
And filled me with blood that sparks at their glow
Bless God for the ridges and the hill-sides
My lungs ache and my heart pounds
Praise Him, that makes my legs burn as I rise among them
Praise the One who made the sunlight,
Who was wise and gave me skin that delights in dappling
One Tang Dynasty Poet
One Tang Dynasty Poet
All morning in between the bookshelves
I ran my finger down page after page
While the sunlight wove between the stacks
I was looking for a poem—I could not remember the name
My teacher wrote it down for me, but in script
He thought I would learn how to read the characters
Among the translations, I read every poem
I read the short ones to the end
Skim the long ones
A whole world in snapshots and choruses
Would I even know?—if I had found what I was looking for
All morning in between the bookshelves
I ran my finger down page after page
While the sunlight wove between the stacks
I was looking for a poem—I could not remember the name
My teacher wrote it down for me, but in script
He thought I would learn how to read the characters
Among the translations, I read every poem
I read the short ones to the end
Skim the long ones
A whole world in snapshots and choruses
Would I even know?—if I had found what I was looking for
Heartbreak
There was no pain when you took it
No nerve goes that deep
The veins must be slow to heal, though
My limbs are heavy and my nail-beds redden
No nerve goes that deep
The veins must be slow to heal, though
My limbs are heavy and my nail-beds redden
Orion walks
Orion walks across the tree-tops, towards the moon
I have stopped on the stairs to watch him
My love for you is a little below the angels
Stuck fast to the ground and not rising
It is callused from the pavement
I have stopped on the stairs to watch him
My love for you is a little below the angels
Stuck fast to the ground and not rising
It is callused from the pavement
Determinisms
Determinisms
In a world where the Musts
Have chewed over the mights and maybes
And spit them out as Shoulds
Where were/will are Is
And have smashed all the Cans
The ghosts of our children press us forward
Into the dirt where our parents lie unburied
I have stood will stand am standing
I will have always risen
I will say have said am saying
“I shall not.”
In a world where the Musts
Have chewed over the mights and maybes
And spit them out as Shoulds
Where were/will are Is
And have smashed all the Cans
The ghosts of our children press us forward
Into the dirt where our parents lie unburied
I have stood will stand am standing
I will have always risen
I will say have said am saying
“I shall not.”
No words.
There are no words for this thing
before this thing my words are brittle and break
Lord, if you want them then take them
may the shards tear your palms.
before this thing my words are brittle and break
Lord, if you want them then take them
may the shards tear your palms.
The stars that rise in waves...
The stars that rise in waves
over loose spined hills
plush with shadows.
Lit windows strung along the ridges
rivers of headlights slung across them
The tail end of a nebula trailed down
to where the sky bends and grows heavy,
then scattered across the slopes.
over loose spined hills
plush with shadows.
Lit windows strung along the ridges
rivers of headlights slung across them
The tail end of a nebula trailed down
to where the sky bends and grows heavy,
then scattered across the slopes.
Music
Music is math that begs
The players in the lighted halls
who carry every sin in the curve of their bows
The lone one who plays without light
on a broken instrument
Surely that one has been sinned against—
They plead the same and in the same voices
God speaking back to himself
“Wherever three are gathered in my name…”—my fingers are five.
They come together to ask and are answered by the call
that they do not send to heaven,
but out to us, where God is also.
The players in the lighted halls
who carry every sin in the curve of their bows
The lone one who plays without light
on a broken instrument
Surely that one has been sinned against—
They plead the same and in the same voices
God speaking back to himself
“Wherever three are gathered in my name…”—my fingers are five.
They come together to ask and are answered by the call
that they do not send to heaven,
but out to us, where God is also.
Ragnarock
Ragnarock
The old story holds the key to the problem:
The dent in the concrete wall, where my great-grandfather’s fist
missed my grandfather’s head, and didn’t finish the job.
His hand made a hole and let in the shadows,
all of us, every generation, have stood facing that fist. Some of us duck
Some don’t.
I ran and got there early, half a minute
before the shadows under the pines, in empty eye sockets—
He ran for his life into the six-month night,
swallowed by the shadow
until he followed the fjords down back to us—
well-up in him and draw out the shadows who live in the wall.
Hey now, Vassily Frostivich, screaming shoah in your soul
you don’t hear the quiet click of the shackles,
under the gas-lamp, everbright--
Hey, Mr. “Frost”, tell me now if you can still raise your arm
The old story holds the key to the problem:
The dent in the concrete wall, where my great-grandfather’s fist
missed my grandfather’s head, and didn’t finish the job.
His hand made a hole and let in the shadows,
all of us, every generation, have stood facing that fist. Some of us duck
Some don’t.
I ran and got there early, half a minute
before the shadows under the pines, in empty eye sockets—
He ran for his life into the six-month night,
swallowed by the shadow
until he followed the fjords down back to us—
well-up in him and draw out the shadows who live in the wall.
Hey now, Vassily Frostivich, screaming shoah in your soul
you don’t hear the quiet click of the shackles,
under the gas-lamp, everbright--
Hey, Mr. “Frost”, tell me now if you can still raise your arm
Chasms
How many little depthless chasms did Foucault have to traverse, as he walked down the hallway leading his mostly-naked boyfriend forward on a leash?
As many as the gaps between threads in the carpet.
Still, he crossed them glidingly, to step off into the biggest void of all: the classroom
The hallway was simple, when he only had to manage the carpet, and, perhaps, the cinderblock walls.
In the classrooms there are as many sets of eyes as there are eyes, all of them coming from different places, but rushing towards one place: the podium, where Foucault is standing.
Surely, then, he is the bravest of men. Can we begrudge him the leash, which is the tie-line, or the one attached to it, who is an anchor?
As many as the gaps between threads in the carpet.
Still, he crossed them glidingly, to step off into the biggest void of all: the classroom
The hallway was simple, when he only had to manage the carpet, and, perhaps, the cinderblock walls.
In the classrooms there are as many sets of eyes as there are eyes, all of them coming from different places, but rushing towards one place: the podium, where Foucault is standing.
Surely, then, he is the bravest of men. Can we begrudge him the leash, which is the tie-line, or the one attached to it, who is an anchor?
At 1 a.m.
At 1 a.m.
A wall for the shadows
of my dancing fingers.
In my lap, my hands are clasped,
but they still flicker across the stone.
This is madness:
I flick them up onto the screen,
where I can watch them.
I backlight them with more light
than I can draw into my skull.
A wall for the shadows
of my dancing fingers.
In my lap, my hands are clasped,
but they still flicker across the stone.
This is madness:
I flick them up onto the screen,
where I can watch them.
I backlight them with more light
than I can draw into my skull.
Cheshire
Chesire
In the trench dug across my face
and the slit across your eyes
is the only gateway between us.
I am sometimes sitting up in the branches
but now I’m not.
I fade behind the leaves
and leave you on the road,
except for the grin, floating faceless.
In the trench dug across my face
and the slit across your eyes
is the only gateway between us.
I am sometimes sitting up in the branches
but now I’m not.
I fade behind the leaves
and leave you on the road,
except for the grin, floating faceless.
Not paid up.
Not paid up
My account to you is covered in red
and I left the tab open too.
Unsigned and crumpled,
the checks cover my desk-top,
unsent.
I opened my window,
and they scattered across the room,
and beyond it.
The breeze was cooler than it has been
and fresh, so I pulled on my jacket.
The sidewalk was littered with wet paper,
which stuck to the soles of my boots as I walked,
hips swinging,
off to see you anyway.
My account to you is covered in red
and I left the tab open too.
Unsigned and crumpled,
the checks cover my desk-top,
unsent.
I opened my window,
and they scattered across the room,
and beyond it.
The breeze was cooler than it has been
and fresh, so I pulled on my jacket.
The sidewalk was littered with wet paper,
which stuck to the soles of my boots as I walked,
hips swinging,
off to see you anyway.
Take it.
Take it—the pound of flesh
I have others.
Take it, and blood also, and tendon
Shuck as much skin as you would like
Have all of it if you want
In your hands—so much meat
The empty drooping shell
Eye-less and unsmiling
The hands—a collapsed fringe of fingers
and cold.
I have others.
Take it, and blood also, and tendon
Shuck as much skin as you would like
Have all of it if you want
In your hands—so much meat
The empty drooping shell
Eye-less and unsmiling
The hands—a collapsed fringe of fingers
and cold.
Twilight
Twilight
Somewhere between footsteps
my soul fled into the dusty air.
I walk the sharply-tilting hills,
matted with reeds and sunflowers
plunging between terraced yards.
The shadows are indigo and I am alone.
Somewhere between footsteps
my soul fled into the dusty air.
I walk the sharply-tilting hills,
matted with reeds and sunflowers
plunging between terraced yards.
The shadows are indigo and I am alone.
My Fingers
I.
My finger-tips are rough
My finger-nails are ragged
But I will make them softer than silk
-- Don’t pull back
I will touch you more gently than sunlight
My hands are strong from clenching
But I show you my open palm
-- I don’t blame you for flinching
I know my skin is dirty
The earth’s been ground deep down into it
Deeper than the soap can go
I’m certain to leave smudges…
-- Oh please, don’t shiver. Oh please…
-- Please. You’ve nothing to fear…
-- Won’t you let me touch you?
Let me smooth your scowls
Let me rub away the tear-tracks
I would cradle you more softly than sand
II.
I would cradle you more softly than sand
I would hold you firmer than oak
I burn, but for you, I will sink to a smolder
-- Don’t turn away
I howl, but for you, I will whisper
Across your neck to cool the sweat
I roar, but for you, I will lap
Against your feet to wash away the dust
-- Still, you shudder…
My finger-tips are rough
My finger-nails are ragged
But I will make them softer than silk
-- Don’t pull back
I will touch you more gently than sunlight
My hands are strong from clenching
But I show you my open palm
-- I don’t blame you for flinching
I know my skin is dirty
The earth’s been ground deep down into it
Deeper than the soap can go
I’m certain to leave smudges…
-- Oh please, don’t shiver. Oh please…
-- Please. You’ve nothing to fear…
-- Won’t you let me touch you?
Let me smooth your scowls
Let me rub away the tear-tracks
I would cradle you more softly than sand
II.
I would cradle you more softly than sand
I would hold you firmer than oak
I burn, but for you, I will sink to a smolder
-- Don’t turn away
I howl, but for you, I will whisper
Across your neck to cool the sweat
I roar, but for you, I will lap
Against your feet to wash away the dust
-- Still, you shudder…
Shut the door
In between the seconds
I see, in the half-light
The empty hallways
Where nothing is
Where I am not
Come for me.
Down into the isn’t
I’ll ride your arms
Across the threshold
Carry me to where
We are waiting together
Shut the door.
I see, in the half-light
The empty hallways
Where nothing is
Where I am not
Come for me.
Down into the isn’t
I’ll ride your arms
Across the threshold
Carry me to where
We are waiting together
Shut the door.
If I could write..
If I could write how the light looked—
glowing softly on the stucco
pale gold against the blue shadows
of the courtyard
How the sky was a deep clear pool
and the towering eucalyptus fell against it
If I could write like the swelling strings
the notes that came spilling through the pillars, onto the sidewalk
or how it was to pause at the edge of the light and listen
leaning against the rough, cool stone,
If I could speak like the instruments spoke, wordless and for everyone
or could say how it was to hear the song fade into the traffic,
caught in the folds of the Valley,
and to stop,
and go back across the street, and walk to the light’s edge,
I could tell how it was enough,
to hear the song rise in this one place,
although the strings stilled and it was done.
glowing softly on the stucco
pale gold against the blue shadows
of the courtyard
How the sky was a deep clear pool
and the towering eucalyptus fell against it
If I could write like the swelling strings
the notes that came spilling through the pillars, onto the sidewalk
or how it was to pause at the edge of the light and listen
leaning against the rough, cool stone,
If I could speak like the instruments spoke, wordless and for everyone
or could say how it was to hear the song fade into the traffic,
caught in the folds of the Valley,
and to stop,
and go back across the street, and walk to the light’s edge,
I could tell how it was enough,
to hear the song rise in this one place,
although the strings stilled and it was done.
Spring.
Spring
At the end of the world—it didn’t,
and the world shook its head and said,
“What people were ever foolish enough
to mourn me while they were still alive?”
and shaking like the tall eucalyptus,
it threw back its head
and spread its arms like the great jacaranda,
snorting out tufts of blossoms.
And humming in the key of jasmine,
it carried on with the business of spring,
and even thickened the grass with clover
specifically for the backsides of lamenting sages.
At the end of the world—it didn’t,
and the world shook its head and said,
“What people were ever foolish enough
to mourn me while they were still alive?”
and shaking like the tall eucalyptus,
it threw back its head
and spread its arms like the great jacaranda,
snorting out tufts of blossoms.
And humming in the key of jasmine,
it carried on with the business of spring,
and even thickened the grass with clover
specifically for the backsides of lamenting sages.
Poor Sinner
Poor sinner, I—
Sinner full of pride
and glutted on the blood of other men.
Poor sinner, rooted still to the ground
every part of me spun from the soil.
Sin in my hair and in my skin
in my teeth and in my tongue.
Born in sin and grown on it, sinking
ever deeper to feed further as I open
towards the sky—sin in my eye also.
Should I wonder that the sky is wide and open
and slips through my grasping fingers—
my hands are sins also.
Should I fold them, Lord, and not trouble you?
Shall I take myself back to dust? Unnecessary.
I cannot smudge You, who are untouchable.
Poor sinner, I.
My stains are already turned back in on
themselves. I am trapped and abandoned.
If I would shake the foundations of heaven
my bones quiver.
If I could storm them, I lay waste only
to myself.
When I clench my fist, the air flees
but my palms bleed.
Sinner full of pride
and glutted on the blood of other men.
Poor sinner, rooted still to the ground
every part of me spun from the soil.
Sin in my hair and in my skin
in my teeth and in my tongue.
Born in sin and grown on it, sinking
ever deeper to feed further as I open
towards the sky—sin in my eye also.
Should I wonder that the sky is wide and open
and slips through my grasping fingers—
my hands are sins also.
Should I fold them, Lord, and not trouble you?
Shall I take myself back to dust? Unnecessary.
I cannot smudge You, who are untouchable.
Poor sinner, I.
My stains are already turned back in on
themselves. I am trapped and abandoned.
If I would shake the foundations of heaven
my bones quiver.
If I could storm them, I lay waste only
to myself.
When I clench my fist, the air flees
but my palms bleed.
To a Distant Lover...
To a distant lover (who may or may not exist)-
Tonight, I’m thinking of you
Although you don’t want it
I am staring at the lights in the ceiling
And thinking of stars, and of you
Sighing your name in my heart
Whose face I won’t say it to again
Tonight, you are my dearest ghost
My most-beloved shadow
Who has long since outgrown the outlines
Of what I can conjure
I am calling a name you don’t answer to
You who will not come, anyway
I am sighing for the you, you are no longer
And for we who also are not any more
I mourn also for myself, who is now
Unmoored from you—
And also for my own old shadow.
Tonight, I’m thinking of you
Although you don’t want it
I am staring at the lights in the ceiling
And thinking of stars, and of you
Sighing your name in my heart
Whose face I won’t say it to again
Tonight, you are my dearest ghost
My most-beloved shadow
Who has long since outgrown the outlines
Of what I can conjure
I am calling a name you don’t answer to
You who will not come, anyway
I am sighing for the you, you are no longer
And for we who also are not any more
I mourn also for myself, who is now
Unmoored from you—
And also for my own old shadow.
Tulips.
For a year and a half
I kept the bulbs in my trunk
and the shards of broken pottery.
I heard them rolling whenever I turned
and when she asked,
I told her I had planted them,
because she was worried they might have rotted.
They did not.
After eighteen months, I cleaned my car
and they were buried under a towel
green stubs poking shyly
through their papery flesh.
I wish, now,
that I hadn’t thrown them out.
I kept the bulbs in my trunk
and the shards of broken pottery.
I heard them rolling whenever I turned
and when she asked,
I told her I had planted them,
because she was worried they might have rotted.
They did not.
After eighteen months, I cleaned my car
and they were buried under a towel
green stubs poking shyly
through their papery flesh.
I wish, now,
that I hadn’t thrown them out.
scattered.
My mind sinks back into itself
I read what I wrote, but the writer
has scattered like so many leaves
I clasp a few sentences,
to try and raise the specter in me
but the woman is dead
and I am alone on the sidewalk
and not so different from the mountains behind me.
I read what I wrote, but the writer
has scattered like so many leaves
I clasp a few sentences,
to try and raise the specter in me
but the woman is dead
and I am alone on the sidewalk
and not so different from the mountains behind me.
Rain
Rain
My bed is rumpled and cold.
Outside the sky is gray,
the treetops gleaming,
and the rain has polished the asphalt smooth.
A cricket chirps questioningly.
The old man uncoils his hose,
to wash the leaves into the gutter.
My bed is rumpled and cold.
Outside the sky is gray,
the treetops gleaming,
and the rain has polished the asphalt smooth.
A cricket chirps questioningly.
The old man uncoils his hose,
to wash the leaves into the gutter.
Alibi
Alibi
Oh, you cold and lonely generations
Who will parse our strange and glinting century
Know this:
That I woke one morning and my car sat in the haze
blanketed with purple flowers.
When the jacarandas bloomed and the blossoms fell,
one barbarian had the sense, at least,
to gather a handful and offer them to you
Oh, you cold and lonely generations
Who will parse our strange and glinting century
Know this:
That I woke one morning and my car sat in the haze
blanketed with purple flowers.
When the jacarandas bloomed and the blossoms fell,
one barbarian had the sense, at least,
to gather a handful and offer them to you
Reading Rumi (II)
Reading Rumi (II)
The Poet says to me: You are not the less for having struggled
Those who lean over your wounds
enjoy the smell of roasting meat.
Fear not consumption, or that smoke rises—
The ash is rich food for the fields just sown.
The Poet says to me: You are not the less for having struggled
Those who lean over your wounds
enjoy the smell of roasting meat.
Fear not consumption, or that smoke rises—
The ash is rich food for the fields just sown.
LA Song
LA Song
The ground swells and falls,
rhythm sounded in stone and gravel slopes.
The wild swinging melody
slung across them on phone-lines and freeways.
Hissing and squalling—wires crossed, brakes slam
the chords rise—like the
gnarled, sharp-leaved Manzanita
in the smoky air and against the moon
tight and high.
The ground swells and falls,
rhythm sounded in stone and gravel slopes.
The wild swinging melody
slung across them on phone-lines and freeways.
Hissing and squalling—wires crossed, brakes slam
the chords rise—like the
gnarled, sharp-leaved Manzanita
in the smoky air and against the moon
tight and high.
Corner of Colorado
On a day that was oddly cold
I looked up from my reading
and found myself at the heavy foot of the hills,
resting against the soft gray sky.
I looked up from my reading
and found myself at the heavy foot of the hills,
resting against the soft gray sky.
The Skinner's Lullabye
The Skinner’s Lullabye
By the stream, in the dark,
I blunted my knives on my own thick skin
then sharpened them on my bones,
and went out to flense the world.
I went forward, and the surface of things,
hung in strips from my blade’s edge,
and I never looked back—
at the piled hides
or the trail of flesh, wet behind me,
until I came to the stream
at the edge of dawn.
I turned and saw nothing but whole things and
unstained ground,
and the last few scraps,
scurrying towards the shadows, reweaving
and my own old skin,
tattered and lonely.
I knelt and clutched it to me, a blanket,
and I laid down to sleep,
cradling my face in my hands.
By the stream, in the dark,
I blunted my knives on my own thick skin
then sharpened them on my bones,
and went out to flense the world.
I went forward, and the surface of things,
hung in strips from my blade’s edge,
and I never looked back—
at the piled hides
or the trail of flesh, wet behind me,
until I came to the stream
at the edge of dawn.
I turned and saw nothing but whole things and
unstained ground,
and the last few scraps,
scurrying towards the shadows, reweaving
and my own old skin,
tattered and lonely.
I knelt and clutched it to me, a blanket,
and I laid down to sleep,
cradling my face in my hands.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Untitled 2
Your pain goes so far
No further
Who hasn't seen grey skies
Hasn't lain on damp sheets
and woken as empty as their bed?
Oh your grievers
Bent heads and clenched fists
What is gone
Has gone beyond the gnashing of your teeth
What is left--
the tears on your face, the twinge in your flesh
these things are yours
and a reproach to heaven
but no good food to ghosts, who eat blood.
No further
Who hasn't seen grey skies
Hasn't lain on damp sheets
and woken as empty as their bed?
Oh your grievers
Bent heads and clenched fists
What is gone
Has gone beyond the gnashing of your teeth
What is left--
the tears on your face, the twinge in your flesh
these things are yours
and a reproach to heaven
but no good food to ghosts, who eat blood.
Reading Rumi (I)
I am walking through the gardens of other men
Running my hands through the bushes
You were foolish, older fathers
To set men who loved flowers as guards
They tend the blossoms carefully--
My pockets are full of seeds.
Running my hands through the bushes
You were foolish, older fathers
To set men who loved flowers as guards
They tend the blossoms carefully--
My pockets are full of seeds.
Four Poems (after an argument)
As I was leaving, I left the door open
Slightly, so you wouldn't close it.
Just enough for a rich stream of air
to trickle across the threshold and your neck.
If you never can come out to find me
Still, may your rooms be sweet up to the rafters.
---
No more wailing or whining
the solid truth
is your empty bed
the quiet hallways
and the long hours of nothing until nightfall.
---
Staring at my foot, and the fly
perched at the end of one, thick, callused toe.
The ropey veins and bones latticed
into the still full flesh of my calf
golden and a little dry, from the sun--
lying in the rough June grass
speckled with slivers of light, slit by the palms.
Only two decades and such a long time.
How do people ever make it to a hundred?
---
The world is ending, or it won't--
No apocalypse is worth carrying
out into the grass.
Than the low motor of a helicopter
or the wafting scent of charcoal--
the future is less, even, than the breeze ambling in the bamboo.
It passes through the yard with not even a rustle.
Slightly, so you wouldn't close it.
Just enough for a rich stream of air
to trickle across the threshold and your neck.
If you never can come out to find me
Still, may your rooms be sweet up to the rafters.
---
No more wailing or whining
the solid truth
is your empty bed
the quiet hallways
and the long hours of nothing until nightfall.
---
Staring at my foot, and the fly
perched at the end of one, thick, callused toe.
The ropey veins and bones latticed
into the still full flesh of my calf
golden and a little dry, from the sun--
lying in the rough June grass
speckled with slivers of light, slit by the palms.
Only two decades and such a long time.
How do people ever make it to a hundred?
---
The world is ending, or it won't--
No apocalypse is worth carrying
out into the grass.
Than the low motor of a helicopter
or the wafting scent of charcoal--
the future is less, even, than the breeze ambling in the bamboo.
It passes through the yard with not even a rustle.
Pslams (two poems)
Lamentation
I have come to the land of salt
The ground beneath my feet burns them
The wind kicks up the earth's powdery sweat
it leaves ashes in my nose
This is one end of the world
where the birds have sunk into the rock,
winging deeper down into the congealed forests.
I walk between boulders, like the ghost of a river
Whispering softly and kicking the pebbles
Pslam
Lord Above, forgive me
That I have only my eyes
To see your light
That I have only my skin
To feel your warmth
I drink the waters of Your world
Through a cracked and unglazed cup
I am all leaks and muddiness
But I am thirsty Lord, forgive me
And there is no other vessel
I have come to the land of salt
The ground beneath my feet burns them
The wind kicks up the earth's powdery sweat
it leaves ashes in my nose
This is one end of the world
where the birds have sunk into the rock,
winging deeper down into the congealed forests.
I walk between boulders, like the ghost of a river
Whispering softly and kicking the pebbles
Pslam
Lord Above, forgive me
That I have only my eyes
To see your light
That I have only my skin
To feel your warmth
I drink the waters of Your world
Through a cracked and unglazed cup
I am all leaks and muddiness
But I am thirsty Lord, forgive me
And there is no other vessel
God, not there.
I should shrive my soul
and spend the next week kneeling.
I should cast my hands up to Heaven,
except that my God is not one who reaches
down. Won't I look silly--
kneeling, arms outstretched,
and beseeching to myself?
God, if He comes,
comes in the quiet before the morning,
and the stillness after evening.
God, if He comes,
comes when he wants to.
He comes when he needs to
and not when one needs him to come.
Ah, God-- who is
not listening, God who is
not coming just now, God
your servant kneels in some other chapel,
but your child is standing here
and unwilling to clasp her hands to the moon,
nor the sunset-- which is idolatry.
God, your child is standing
alone and worships you, hands at her sides,
with her yearning.
and spend the next week kneeling.
I should cast my hands up to Heaven,
except that my God is not one who reaches
down. Won't I look silly--
kneeling, arms outstretched,
and beseeching to myself?
God, if He comes,
comes in the quiet before the morning,
and the stillness after evening.
God, if He comes,
comes when he wants to.
He comes when he needs to
and not when one needs him to come.
Ah, God-- who is
not listening, God who is
not coming just now, God
your servant kneels in some other chapel,
but your child is standing here
and unwilling to clasp her hands to the moon,
nor the sunset-- which is idolatry.
God, your child is standing
alone and worships you, hands at her sides,
with her yearning.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
We March Already.
Soft sheets and the cloud-tinged sunlight
Drifting through the window
The mourning doves and buzz-saws
The low soft humming of the world
Beneath the thrumming faucet
The weary clank of the pipes and girders
One tone, ever-rising
Rustling from between the palm fronds
From the squealing axles on the freeway
The shrieking sparrows
The cricket's snarl
My heartbeat
One tone.
The distant trumpets'
Echo in the silence deep within us
Is rising
Drifting through the window
The mourning doves and buzz-saws
The low soft humming of the world
Beneath the thrumming faucet
The weary clank of the pipes and girders
One tone, ever-rising
Rustling from between the palm fronds
From the squealing axles on the freeway
The shrieking sparrows
The cricket's snarl
My heartbeat
One tone.
The distant trumpets'
Echo in the silence deep within us
Is rising
Gypped?
Yes. Of course-- "World Skinned" is a poetry blog! Isn't it obvious?
... right. Nevertheless, I hope you'll stay for a minute or two and look around-- and maybe find something you like.
This is to keep myself honest, and to spare my near/dear the burden of critique... and also so we don't have to play that subtle "is this about me?" game of guess and check.
Awkward.
... right. Nevertheless, I hope you'll stay for a minute or two and look around-- and maybe find something you like.
This is to keep myself honest, and to spare my near/dear the burden of critique... and also so we don't have to play that subtle "is this about me?" game of guess and check.
Awkward.
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