A Rose
Against the brisk, sharp-toothed tangles
Knobbed but elegant, straining gracefully
upward-- the fat and languid petals
unrolling, each arching base
and trailing fringe--
obscenity,
the dark, scented center--
depravity and
the rich tea,
distilled soil and rain
that curled up in my nostrils, resting--
wooed me for the world--
beyond all blasphemy.
--my, knobbed and elegant,
strong, tapered fingers-- between them
thick yellow muck, only a little
more when I clench, rubbing--
I spread them and a crumpled thing falls.
In its pulpy creases, the delicate folds
and fringes-- are one
and liquid, curled on the sidewalk
-- there is no hatred.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Hey!...
well... now.
Have a look at this! A damn good online literary mag... www.archipelago.org...
... and this post especially... http://www.archipelago.org/vol10-34/chernyi.htm .
Translations of a turn of the (last) century Russian poet-- Sasha Chernyi, by Kevin Kinsella.
... I love Russian poetry. It's gritty and bitter and hilarious and grand. Which, I've heard from people who think they know, is a bit how Russians are anyway. Well... my great-grandfather was Russian-- he was a contractor who built skyscrapers after the First World War-- and he used get up early so that he could ride to the top of whatever project he was working on and dance folk-dances on the exposed beams, hundreds of feet over the city.
... so, yeah, maybe they're right. But don't take my word for it, and head on over to see for yourself. As a sidenote-- right now I'm reading a collection of poems by Soviet dissident poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko about the metaphysical implications informing the construction of an exceptionally large hydroelectric power station in Siberia.
... it's really, actually pretty good.
Have a look at this! A damn good online literary mag... www.archipelago.org...
... and this post especially... http://www.archipelago.org/vol10-34/chernyi.htm .
Translations of a turn of the (last) century Russian poet-- Sasha Chernyi, by Kevin Kinsella.
... I love Russian poetry. It's gritty and bitter and hilarious and grand. Which, I've heard from people who think they know, is a bit how Russians are anyway. Well... my great-grandfather was Russian-- he was a contractor who built skyscrapers after the First World War-- and he used get up early so that he could ride to the top of whatever project he was working on and dance folk-dances on the exposed beams, hundreds of feet over the city.
... so, yeah, maybe they're right. But don't take my word for it, and head on over to see for yourself. As a sidenote-- right now I'm reading a collection of poems by Soviet dissident poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko about the metaphysical implications informing the construction of an exceptionally large hydroelectric power station in Siberia.
... it's really, actually pretty good.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Fledged.
Ha. Finally thought of something new... thank God.
---
Fledged
Eyes cast down
running harsh on the gravel
pacing weary the sidewalk
gaze crawling just ahead of the feet
over broken pavement, into the roots
climbing the bark's sharp chasms
to lie, heaving, over the branches
then--
reaches beyond the last handhold, up.
Pulls itself up on itself, reaches
sees in the clouds a handle
gathers itself, reaches
and jumps-- hands out, grasping
arms out reaching, treading sunlight
falling,
on the asphalt,
unclimbing,
cast down onto the sky.
---
Fledged
Eyes cast down
running harsh on the gravel
pacing weary the sidewalk
gaze crawling just ahead of the feet
over broken pavement, into the roots
climbing the bark's sharp chasms
to lie, heaving, over the branches
then--
reaches beyond the last handhold, up.
Pulls itself up on itself, reaches
sees in the clouds a handle
gathers itself, reaches
and jumps-- hands out, grasping
arms out reaching, treading sunlight
falling,
on the asphalt,
unclimbing,
cast down onto the sky.
poetry.
ah... I just found this in one dusty corner of my hard drive...
---
Not the way
just one way
of saying what cannot be said
what swallows the words and leaps between them
chasing a moth over quicksand
starlight through clouds and sheeting water
myself beyond the glint in your pupils
and in the lee of the seconds
---
Not the way
just one way
of saying what cannot be said
what swallows the words and leaps between them
chasing a moth over quicksand
starlight through clouds and sheeting water
myself beyond the glint in your pupils
and in the lee of the seconds
Friday, July 25, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
... (II)
Two thumbnails to clear the brain-space. Not stunning... possibly necessary.
....
The hours that aren't--
strung too-well together
but hang, low and grey
under my brow-- dull.
The days that end and start,
not particularly clearly
the shadows syncopated
on the changing tempo--
I must be rushing in a circle.
The world spins--
I see the same things,
blurred.
---
Something,
in my skull, stretching
pushing hard against the bone.
Another thing, in a full place
can only exist heavily--
is now waking from the pressure.
....
The hours that aren't--
strung too-well together
but hang, low and grey
under my brow-- dull.
The days that end and start,
not particularly clearly
the shadows syncopated
on the changing tempo--
I must be rushing in a circle.
The world spins--
I see the same things,
blurred.
---
Something,
in my skull, stretching
pushing hard against the bone.
Another thing, in a full place
can only exist heavily--
is now waking from the pressure.
Monday, July 7, 2008
cavalcade.
cavalcade.
scatter! fragments—
a clatter and sparkle,
ashes—rise!
up from stamping feet.
oh, sun—set!
yes and, sun!—rise.
if the sun rides the moon’s face
and makes backdrop of the darkness
–the shadow uncurls, slowly
and saunters under the trees, untroubled—
shouldn’t we dance—
tell me!—shouldn’t we saunter?
aren’t your teeth the moon of your smile?
—the dark center of your eyes—
a cool and restful place? away from the heat!
what are we?— ruins and sunrise.
what are we?—dusk and cathedrals rising.
what are we! the joyful mourners
of the thing that didn't die.
scatter! fragments—
a clatter and sparkle,
ashes—rise!
up from stamping feet.
oh, sun—set!
yes and, sun!—rise.
if the sun rides the moon’s face
and makes backdrop of the darkness
–the shadow uncurls, slowly
and saunters under the trees, untroubled—
shouldn’t we dance—
tell me!—shouldn’t we saunter?
aren’t your teeth the moon of your smile?
—the dark center of your eyes—
a cool and restful place? away from the heat!
what are we?— ruins and sunrise.
what are we?—dusk and cathedrals rising.
what are we! the joyful mourners
of the thing that didn't die.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Fluid Dynamics
Fluid Dynamics
We come to most people an echo
free-falling
until we collide with the hard places
in them, and bounce back--
but I went through you like water
rushed over your precipices
and pooled in your hollows--
was nothing but flowing.
Now I've run your course,
I find you in my currents,
but I wish
that I could hear you
in the shape of my voice
ringing over the peaks.
We come to most people an echo
free-falling
until we collide with the hard places
in them, and bounce back--
but I went through you like water
rushed over your precipices
and pooled in your hollows--
was nothing but flowing.
Now I've run your course,
I find you in my currents,
but I wish
that I could hear you
in the shape of my voice
ringing over the peaks.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
...
I could tell one story,
forever. Hold it up
in my head, and
chase the sparks
across the hours--
eventually,
as much world
as I'm given
would twine
its facets.
forever. Hold it up
in my head, and
chase the sparks
across the hours--
eventually,
as much world
as I'm given
would twine
its facets.
Mountain Climbing in Beijing
Mountain Climbing in Beijing
No mountains to climb, here.
Pass over the sidewalk,
heart leaping on every swell
in the pavement.
Sometimes- a break in the buildings
or a cut-- the snaking canal,
exposes the edges
of the crowd.
On the pedals of his bike
he rises, cresting
the sea of heads--
a sudden hillside, but already
fallen to pumping knees and rubble.
In the middle of Red Square
too much pavement to fill
even with my gaze.
But, up on the bridge-- I'm tired,
not used to climbing, anymore
I lean against the railing.
The sun dissolves into smoke
settles, red, across everything-- the avenue
that runs straight into the plains
which spread, flat, to the horizon
and circle the city.
Due west, a long smudge
peaking heavy against the haze
dark and definite, if far
not out of the eye's reach--
not too far to rest your gaze on,
strong enough to push up the sky.
No mountains to climb, here.
Pass over the sidewalk,
heart leaping on every swell
in the pavement.
Sometimes- a break in the buildings
or a cut-- the snaking canal,
exposes the edges
of the crowd.
On the pedals of his bike
he rises, cresting
the sea of heads--
a sudden hillside, but already
fallen to pumping knees and rubble.
In the middle of Red Square
too much pavement to fill
even with my gaze.
But, up on the bridge-- I'm tired,
not used to climbing, anymore
I lean against the railing.
The sun dissolves into smoke
settles, red, across everything-- the avenue
that runs straight into the plains
which spread, flat, to the horizon
and circle the city.
Due west, a long smudge
peaking heavy against the haze
dark and definite, if far
not out of the eye's reach--
not too far to rest your gaze on,
strong enough to push up the sky.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
a beautiful corpse...
which is to say-- a little bit of sound and fury, signifying nothing-- except, perhaps that it is very, *very* hot...
... I had an instructor once refer to this sort of poem as "a beautiful corpse"-- a pretty thing, without much life in it. And it's how I always think when I'm writing without a specific direction in mind. But sometimes you have to write a poem to figure out what you ought to be writing about...
Pressure Cooker.
Too many cherry tomatoes,
says my neighbor,
so I took some in to work.
Yeah. We're all sort of doing the green thing, now.
If it weren't so hot outside...
The sky is glowing white
and the dust on the asphalt
silvered.
You never walk alone here--
there's always the sun.
Sheeting through the windows
to set the tabletops ablaze
and kindle the carpets.
and the finger-prints on the glass door
throw rainbows onto the brick.
In the glare--
on the corner
every head is haloed
and every shadow's long.
... I had an instructor once refer to this sort of poem as "a beautiful corpse"-- a pretty thing, without much life in it. And it's how I always think when I'm writing without a specific direction in mind. But sometimes you have to write a poem to figure out what you ought to be writing about...
Pressure Cooker.
Too many cherry tomatoes,
says my neighbor,
so I took some in to work.
Yeah. We're all sort of doing the green thing, now.
If it weren't so hot outside...
The sky is glowing white
and the dust on the asphalt
silvered.
You never walk alone here--
there's always the sun.
Sheeting through the windows
to set the tabletops ablaze
and kindle the carpets.
and the finger-prints on the glass door
throw rainbows onto the brick.
In the glare--
on the corner
every head is haloed
and every shadow's long.
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