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New Day
Friday, January 16, 2009 IV.1.3. In recognition of the inauguration next week of America's new president, my photos this week will feature a collection of sunrises and sunsets, the dusk of the old day surrendering to the dawn of the new. Who cannot be hopeful and excited about this new beginning? Here's what I have for you this week. From friends of "Here and Now" Christopher George Tasha Klein Walter Durk From my library Ralph Angel Kabir Gunna Ekelof Issa Melvin Van Peebles Steve Richmond Jack Micheline Simon Armitage Lawrence Ferlinghetti Frederick Seidel Simon J. Ortiz John Koethe and me. Here we are.  I have a poem now by Ralph Angel, from his book Twice Removed published in 2001 by Sarabande Books of Louisville, Kentucky. Angel has two earlier books, Neither World, which I've used here frequently and which won the 1995 James Laughlin Award of The Academy of American Poets, Anxious Latitudes. He is professor of English at the University of the Redlands as well as a member of the MFA Program in Writing faculty at Vermont College. Originally from Seattle, he now lives in Los Angles. Breathing Out Now you are crossing a wide street at night anxious in the traffic and rushing to get to the bakery before closing. What could be more breathtaking than your beauty if not in my arms at least on that side of peril. That's why I'm yelling at the driver of the pickup truck I just slammed into so much did I want to park and wait for you. May I never live with love by surviving love and loving blocks and days away the most ancient of the dead desire earthly our getting born again alone without choice children fill the air the spices and the rugs of the bazaar. I buy you tulips. They are yellow and bright. The port is dark and glittering blue airplanes hover there. Like clarity itself. Like faintly wailing sirens attached to absolutely nothing. Like socks and sweaters and the blanket that slipped somehow from your legs while I tidied up the balcony so lost in your book are you tonight.  Nothing dramatic going on in my life, as my first poem for this week demonstrates. Saturday morning it's one of those winter/summer/spring/fall days we get around here this time of year bright sun temps mid-50s unless you're standing out in the blustery north wind that brings the wind chill down 20 or 30 degrees Reba wanted a walk this morning and i broke under the pleading puddle of her cinnamon eyes tee shirt long sleeve shirt and a light jacket too hot or too cold depending on where i was relative to sun and wind i could have skipped the walk and gone straight for coffee but reba had a great time frisky running jumping catching great mouthfuls of sun and morning chill that was pretty good for me too  My next several poems are from The Winged Energy of Delight. The book is subtitled "Selected Translations" though it is unclear to me who the translator is. The book is credited to Robert Bly who has laid claim to translating poems from a wide range of the world's languages, past and present when what he seems to really do is add his own poetic sensibility to previous translations by others. Since his poetic sensibilities are among the best, the versions he produces of poems in other languages are excellent. The problem, for me at least, is to know who to credit for the poem, the original poet, the original unnamed translator or Bly himself. I choose to go to the source and credit the original poet. The first two poems are by Kabir,the Indian mystic, born in 1398, with, it seems to me, a very modern sensibility. The Holy Pools Have Only Water There is nothing but water in the holy pools. I know, I have been swimming in them. All the god's sculpted of wood and ivory can't say a word. I know, I have been crying out to them. The Sacred Books of the East are nothing but words. I looked through their covers one day sideways. What Kabir talks of is only what he has lived through. If you have not lived through something, it is not true. Why Arrange the Pillows Oh friend, I love you, think this over carefully! If you are in love, then why to you sleep? If you have found him, give yourself to him, take him. Why do you lose track of him again and again? If you are about to fall into heavy sleep anyway, why waste time smoothing the bed and arranging the pillows? Kabir will tell you the truth; this is what love is like: suppose you had to cut your head off and give it to someone else, what difference would that make? The next poem is by Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelof. Ekelof was born to a wealthy family in Stockholm in 1907. His father died in 1916 from syphilis after many years of insanity. He left home early and studied at the School of Oriental Studies in London, then moved to Paris where he intended to become a musician. He found himself in poetry instead, publishing his first book, thought to be the first book of surrealist poetry in Sweden, in 1932. He died in Stockholm in 1968. from The Swan 1 I heard wild geese over the hospital grounds where many pale people walk back and forth - one morning in a daze I heard them! I hear them! I dreamt I heard - And nevertheless I did hear them! Here endless walks circle about around bottomless dams Here the days all reflect one monotonous day at the slightest touch beautiful blossoms close their strange petals - the woman on a nurse's arm she screams incessantly: HellDevilHell - is led home hurriedly... dusk has come over the salmon-colored buildings and outside the wall an anemic blush over endless suburbs of identical houses with some vegetable beds steaming as if in spring between... They are burning twigs and leaves: It is fall and the vegetables beds are attached by worm-eaten cabbages and bare flowers - I heard wild geese over the hospital grounds one autumn like spring morning I heard wild geese one morning one springautumn morning trumpeting - To the north? To the south? To the north? To the north? Far from here - A freshness lives deep in me which no one can take from me not even I myself - If You Ask Me Where I Live If you ask me where I live I live right here behind the mountain It's a long way off but I am near I live in another world but you live there also That world is everywhere even if it is as rare as helium Why do you ask for an airship to bear you off? Ask instead for a filter for carbon dioxide a filter for hydrogen, for nitrogen, and other gases Ask for a filter for all these things that separate us from one another a filter for life You say you can hardly breathe? Well, who do you think can breathe? For the most part we take it however with equanimity A wise man has said: "It was so dark I could barely see the stars" He just meant that it was night Finally, here are several haiku by Issa. He was born in 1763 in a small mountain village in central Japan and died in 1827, the day after his house burned down. *** Insects, why cry? we all go that way. *** Now listen, you watermelons - if any thieves come - turn into frogs! *** That line of ants - Maybe it goes all the way back to that white cloud! *** The old dog bends his head listening... I guess the singing of the earthworms gets to him **** Cricket, be careful! I'm rolling over!  Here are two short poems from our friend Christopher George. Chris, a lyricist as well as a widely-published poet, was born in Liverpool in 1948 and emigrated to the United States with his parents in 1955. He currently lives in Baltimore, Maryland. Deeply Discounted For Frank Faust I read your poem, frankly depressed: pretty girls of yesterday you loved, now plain and crabby grandmothers, you look in mirror, see lines, receding hair. But, I protest: inside I'm still the slip of a lad I always was. I buy a deeply discounted compact disc of a Sixties group - a two-CD live compilation, just a measly few bucks, insert a disc into my CD player, refuse to look in the mirror. Locust Trees at Year's End Locust trees barbwire the sky; as the year fritters away, the Bush administration fizzles like a dud Scud missile.  It's been a while since I've pulled anything from The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, such oversight remedied right now. My first poem from the book is by filmmaker and author Melvin Van Peebles. On 115 Born with the fastest hands Harlem had ever seen Thought they had'em the next NBA star On hundred and fifteenth Same day his daddy split his momma had this dream The Knicks and the Nets would be their ticket Off hundred and fifteenth Cross Lenox he'd dribble tearing ass in between Jitneys muggers potholes and wind bottles Up hundred and fifteenth His jump was an arrow, his dunk was straight and clean Sure as a flush junkies connection on One hundred and fifteenth The fool went one on one with big "h" and got creamed Found him stiff o.d'back of the rib joint On hundred and fifteenth Horse will always foul you, flagrant as he wants to be Aint no refs calling no penalties on him either On hundred and fifteenth Somewhere stars are shining, hope God's got a boss team Homeboys dont like playing 'gainst no punks when They from hundred and fifteenth Born with the fastest hands Harlem had ever seen Thought they had'em the next NBA star On hundred and fifteenth The next poem from the book is by Steve Richmond, one of a group of Southern California poets associated with the early career of Charles Bukowski. A Bukowski Writing Lesson It's about this time he pulls out my first book of poetry, the copy I mailed him three months earlier. He starts reading the very first poem: i tore my nails into my stomach ripping a hole big enough to put my hand into me with blind fingers feeling between intestines and liver for the flower of me, until i found it pulling it out, holding it in my bloody right hand until my left hand got hold of my soul, and i took the two and smashed them together until they became a solid piece of total beauty for me to throw with all my strength into the stars I'm watching close as he reads it through. He seems not to be hurting at all so i feel it's all working nicely and then he gets to the last word and he suddenly goes, "OOOOOOOHHHH SHIT. IT WAS GOING FINE RIGHT UP TO THAT LAST WORD-STARS-OHH IT'S TOO DAMN BAD-WHAT A SHAME." I was asking myself, "What? What the'hell does he mean? Stars? What's wrong with "stars"? Nobody's ever said anything bad about "stars" to me in my life - hmmmmmm." Bukowski spoke on, "STARS is so goddamn ultra poetic. You can't use STARS. STARS STARS STARS FUCK TH' GODDAMN STAR! What a shame, kid. You had it strong right up to the last word, then gone, ruined, all th'damn dead false sewing circle poets are forever writing STARS STARS STARS!! They can't write a line without STARS in it some- where. I"m sorry kid." What he was telling me made instant sense but I tried to hedge in my mind because the 1,000 copies were already printed and half the run was already distributed and there wasn't any chance I could recall every copy and have Tasmania Press change the last word of the first poem to some word, any word other than STARS. Now it's July 11, 1994 and it's been 29 years since Hank tore his Lion's Claws into my use of STARS and I've never used the word Stars or stars or stARS ever since .....since ten minutes after i met Charles Bukowski face to face. My last poet from the book this week is Jack Micheline, a street poet and author of dozens of books and chapbooks. Blues Poem I got no smile cause I'm down I carry a horn to blow in all these streets A solo riff out of my head How could you ever know how I feel So high on life and feet and ass and legs and thighs That I can rise and dance with all the stars And I can eat the moon and laugh and I can cry The dark caves of cities hungry streets The tired faces dark and dreary bent and all the death it dies I let it die I lift my horn and blow some sounds some soul for kids to com Some unborn sun in darker streets than mine Magicians carry wings so they can fly Let's blow a horn and love Let's get on it and ride and laugh and dance and jive Let's shake the dead and let the downers die The magic of the singers warms the earth A song A poem some paradise of mind I got to smile now I'm feeling good The city street The palace of my mind  Next, here's another of my coffee shop observations. a so, so serious man man in the corner reading a book under broad leaves of a banana plant moves his lips, nods his head, smiles amazingly clever writer it must be to agree so completely with this man as to bring a smile to his face, this face that carries no lines of frequent good humor to make him laugh, this so, so serious man, must require a master of the writer's art or maybe i am mistaken and he is really a clown, this man in the corner reading under broad leaves of a banana plant laughing at the pretensions of some so, so serious man  Next, I have another poet i'm reading for the first time. Simon Armitage, born in 1963, is a British poet, playwright, and novelist. Before finding success with his poetry Armitage worked as a probation officer, an undertaker's assistant and a supermarket shelf stacker. first studied at Colne Valley High School in the UK, then went on to study geography at Portsmouth Polytechnic, UK. He later lectured on creative writing at both the University of Leeds, UK and at the University of Iowa writers' workshop in the United States. He is currently a senior lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University, United Kingdom. The next two poems are from his book Kid, published by Faber and Faber in 1992, In Clover This winter, six white geese have settled near the house. This morning as she polishes the furniture and peers across the river to their nesting place she finds the gaggle floating off downstream, and there instead is one white egg sat upright in the sand. The geese, distracted with a crust, are unaware as Rose, her eldest, in ankle socks and sandals cradles the egg in the lap of her pinafore and picks a safe way back across the stepping-stones. She cracks the contents on a bed of cornflour and paints policemen on the empty halves of shell to sell as plant-pot-men in the next month's flower show. Later, the six white geese will crane their necks to smell the fine egg-pudding cooling on the window-sill. I almost didn't use this next poem because of its length. But once started reading it, couldn't stop; just too much fun to pass up. Eighteen Plays on Golfing as a Watchword I Among the twenty lovers of the Lady Capitan, only one man knew the wonder of an albatross. II At the second hole he saw the light, paid off the caddie selected a nine iron and his favourite ball, steered a clean shot through a gap in the wall and followed it out onto the unmarked fairway of the world III Both our balls plugged in that stodgy stuff this side of the greenskeeper's hut. You see them: the mad eyes of the ghost of the man in the mud IV The flag and the green from this elevation; a heron in its pool of stagnant water. V I was about to say something marvelous, then forgot. Oh yes, I stood and was bamboozled by a line of badger prints which stopped in their tracks at the heart of the sand-trap VI You sliced a tee shot off the toe of the cup. It pinballed through the copse, came back to within spitting distance of where we stood, and stopped. A blackbird burst out laughing. VII To hole in one, or at last let go of your boy on his new bike as he makes it the length of the drive, down the hill, along the carriageway, between the weighbridge and the bottle bank - just a dot now - and through the gates of the big school without falling. VIII Which fink blackballed the Captain's brother? among the twenty snow-white members of the selection committee, the Captain's face a picture IX A three-iron, two-hundred yards, dead straight and a decent lie: one shot. A sitter fluffed from two feet; one shot Not the fear of flying but of falling. Not the first ten-thousand feet but the last one. Fatal X An object-lesson in addressing the ball: head down, hands where you're happiest with them, putter firm but at ease, legs apart and slightly broken at the knees. You gents, try it when you take a leak. XI Sometimes in bed I replay every stroke in that splendid round. Some nights I dream of badgers walking backwards. XII To do with film and shutter speed. Just nicely teed off, this unremarkable old-timer in a blurred imperfect circle, caught in the act of hs own swing. XIII Uncanny, on the thirteenth a blackbird rears up like an umbrella. Rain begins to happen. XIV Us roughnecks from the council estate, out before breakfast thieving magic mushrooms from the practice fairway, lost balls to flog at competitive prices and song-thrush eggs from the rhododendrons. From his hut, over eighteen misty holes, the greenskeeper turning a blind eye XV Like a fish it grows with every telling. Yesterday you stroked it home from twelve yards. Today you winkle it from the bunker, it bites and borrows to the left, anchor us, rattles the pin and somehow wangles its way in. Plop. Unforgettable. XVI I can't say which is preferable: the fat man in his motorized buggy getting no traction in that stodgy stuff this side of the greenskeeper's hut, or the lengthening shadow of the fat man in his buggy, inching to the clubhouse as he stays put. XVII The fairways deserted, the world's our oyster. In the wood the wind is the sound of the sea. A ball in the cup is a pearl for the taking On the back nine, one fathom now from the surface. XVIII Sundown, almost, the 19th lit up like a petrol station. Let's live for the moment. For the hell of it let's tee one up and belt it into the nothingness. A shooting star agrees with us  Tasha Klein makes her first appearance in "Here and Now" this week, the first, I hope, of many. Asked what I could say about her by way of introduction, she said "Tasha Klein lives in a winter dream" which sounds pretty OK to me. Here are her poems, a very sensual and affecting series on dreams. Dream Poems dream 1 - he hangs up in this one i have sex hair and everything is sleepy the phone rings it's mr m he wants to make a plan i tell him i am naked i say it slowly dream 2 - to mr m I sleep with your poem, in its river, with its fist and stone. I've stitched the words to my brain, tied them to my wrist, swallowed them whole. dream 2 1/2 - amsterdam in a coffee shop we laugh new creatures we swim the streets, if we keep left the tulip shoe will throw its magic glow or so they claim but our madness is not forgotten we think about it everyday it speeds through us like a red train between the traffic a dog's eye sees nothing between the buildings I am still your green girl. dream 3 - the nightmare you aren't in europe but you might as well be because you are mr unavailable mr work on the house mr it was a joke i wrote your name in the sand of some sad beach where sea turtles are endangered & the area is kept unlit all night and when i looked out into the blackness from the hotel balcony i felt the black pour into me like dream/poem four where you drink from my eyes and all my red cups & my tears turn into music and you become the wind and so.. i turn in my dream and there you are flowers dragging, hair roaring bull eyes full of mud but your hands are clean and they find me open not really a dream poem but sort of at 3 am i heard the roar of your blood racing through the night felt the sweat of your words on my thigh saw all the flowers following your scent the deep dark colors of your hair breaking up i went my body stayed behind held down by your hungry parts all delicious like a favorite story i'll never get tired of tasting the click click sounds spinning me round and polished like your nails like your mouth so glossy and open down below the meadow touching the roots of the new grass tender like your words outstretched and hot and I could suck you You're touching yourself right now, aren't you? Yes. Are you? Of course, naturally. Now if we were face to face, high and there were black nylons involved, well then, those are the perfect ingredients to start a great moral and ethical debate.. Check out the string arrangements on track four (Lonesome Tears). I'm shutting down for the night. Later. friday - burnt offering - room 229 only wild tribes burning their fire in the mirror loose pages ready to fall out Leviticus the room is too hot cut into pieces paper on the floor did you sit alone wishing for bitter coffee and a clear view they tell me smog buckles they tell me you got fat  Here's a poem by one of the last of the San Francisco beat poets, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from his book Wild Drams of a New Beginning, a combination of two previous collections, published by New Directions Paperbook in 1988. Eight People On A Golf Course and One Bird of Freedom Flying Over The phoenix flies higher & higher above eight elegant people on a golf course who have their heads stuck in the sands of a big trap One man raises his head and shouts I am President of Earth. I rule. You elected me, heh-heh. Fore! A second man raised his head. I am King of the Car. The car is my weapon. I drive all before me. Ye shall have no other gods. Watch out. I'm coming through. A third raises his head out of the sand. I run a religion. I am your spiritual head. Never mind which religion. I drive a long ball. Bow down and putt. A fourth raises his head in the bunker. I am the General. I have tanks to conquer deserts. And my tank shall not want. I'm thirsty. We play Rollerball. I love Arabs. A fifth raises his head and opens his mouth. I am Your Master's Voice. I rule newsprint. I rule airwaves, long & short. We bend minds. We make reality to order. Mind Fuck Incorporated. Satire becomes reality, reality satire. Man the Cosmic Joke. Et cetera. A sixth man raises his gold bald head. I'm your friendly multinational banker. I chew cigars rolled with petro-dollars. We're above the nations. We control the control. I'll eat you all in the end. I work on margins. Yours. A woman raised her head higher than anyone. I am the Little Woman. I'm the Tender Warrior who votes like her husband. Who took my breasts. A final figure rises, carrying all the clubs. Stop or I'll shoot a hole-in-one. I'm the Chief of All Police. I eat meat. We know the enemy. You better believe it. We're watching all you paranoids. Go ahead & laugh. You're all in the computer. We've got all your numbers. Except one unidentified flying asshole. On the radar screen. Some dumb bird. Every time I shoot it down it rises.  As I write this, seven more days... poor man stalled as long as i can read the Times, Wall Street Journal and about five magazines including The Progressive which i hate (want to know why the hard left never amounts to much in this country - take a look at the drivel they read) also checked out about eight web sites and read and responded to my email and still i'm stuck with the idea i started with and i hate that cause i'm sick of reading and writing about him - fade away foul shadow like you're supposed to, back to Texas, to Crawford, to Dallas, anywhere but no luck, he's still there, the unwanted guest who won't go home - George W. Bush however he feels about his record i'm am pleased with mine - eight years of speeches and press conferences and i neither saw nor heard any of them - but i had the advantage of six years of experience with him before the rest of the country was so afflicted and i knew what to expect poor man i'm sure he wanted to do good (most of us do, after all) instead he became worst of them all from the first George W to the last pretty much a fuck-up for most of his life, failed, like this, at most everything he tried but he probably hoped to do better and probably thinks he did poor man  Zabrieskie Point, not anywhere close to making my list of movies I'd like to see again, remembered fondly now as inspiration for this poem by Federick Seidel, from his book Poems 1965-1976. Death Valley Antonioni walks in the desert shooting Zariskie Point. He does not perspire Because it is dry. His twill trousers stay pressed, He wears desert boots and a viewfinder, He has a profile he could shave with, sharp And meek, like the eyesight of the deaf, With which he is trying to find America, A pick for prospecting passive as a dowser. He has followed his nose into the desert. Crew and cast mush over the burning lake Shivering and floaty like a mirage. The light makes it hard to see. Four million dollars And cameras ripple over the alkali Waiting for the director to breathe on them. How even and epic his wingbeats are for a small fellow, He sips cigarette after cigarette And turns in Italian to consult his English Girlfriend and screenwriter, who is beautiful. In Arizona only the saguaros and everybody else were taller than he was, Selah. He draws in the gypsum dust selah He squats on his heels for the love scene, finally The technicians are spray-dyeing the dust darker. It looks unreal, but it will dry lighter, Puffs of quadroon smoke back out of the spray guns. The Open Theater are naked and made up.  Some people hold on to grudges well past time to let them go. I guess I'm one of them. song of the order of the gold watch brigade i know stuff nobody else knows but no longer welcome at the party the stuff i know will stay the stuff only i know and those who dont know the stuff i know don't know yet how much trouble they're in but i figure what the hell if i can't come to the party they will just have to figure out how to blow up all those red balloons on their own and don't expect me to feel bad about it  Simon J. Ortiz, poet, short story writer, essayist and documentary and feature screenwriter, was born in 1941 in Acoma Pueblo. He lives at Deetseyamah, a rural community west of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Since 1968, Ortiz has taught creative writing and Native American literature at various institutions, including San Diego State, the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, Navajo Community College, the College of Marin, the University of New Mexico, Sinte Gleska University (one of the first U.S. tribal colleges) , and the University of Toronto. He currently teaches at Arizona State University. The next two poems are from his book Woven Stone, published in 1992 by the University of Arizona Press. The poems are from a section titled "Going for the Rain" which was a previously published book incorporated into this collection. Relocation Don't talk me no words. Don't frighten me for I am in the blinding city. The lights, the cars, the deadened glares tear my heart and close my mind. Who questions my pain, the tight knot of anger in my breast? I swallow hard and often and taste my spit and it does not taste good. Who questions my mind? I came here because I was tired; the BIA taught me to cleanse myself, daily to keep a careful account of my time. Efficiency was learned in catechism; the nuns spelled me God in white. And I came here to feed myself - corn, potatoes, chili, and mutton do not nourish me they said. So I agreed to move. I see me walking in sleep down streets, down streets gray with cement and glaring glass and oily wind, armed with a pint of wine, I cheated my children to buy. I am ashamed. I am tired. I am hungry. I speak words. I am lonely for hills. I am lonely for myself. Busride Conversation She says, "I came to Albuquerque on Wednesday." She's about eighteen. "I have three shell necklaces ready to sell. A man offered me thirty dollars." She smells slightly sour with sweat, the several nights in Albuquerque. We mention names to each other, people we know, places we've been. She says, "In May, I was in Gallup jail with a girl from Acoma." I've been there too. "The cook was an Apache. He sneaked two chiliburgers in to us. He was sure good to us." She giggles, and I laugh. She gets off at Domingo Junction. "Be good," I say. "You too," she says.  The next poem is by our friend, Walter Durk. Walter, born in New York City, has traveled around the world, living at times in various places in Asia and the United States. Inner Works We peddle our lives. Like a hawker we shout out the benefits - the emollients in the soap to soften the razor-sharp blade that slices a tomato paper-thin. We peddle our wares without telling how quickly the soap dissolves or how fast the knife edge dulls. Instead we speak of fragrances or catch a ray of light to reflect on the blade. And although they fear the razor-edge, they are captivated. They crave the fragrance and the feel of pain.  The next poem is from The Constructor, a collection of poetry by John Koethe published in 1999 b y HarperCollins. Koethe was born in San Diego, California, in 1945. He was educated at Princeton and Harvard Universities. Since 1973, he has been Professor of Philosophy at the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee. He has published several other books of poetry, including Domes, for which he received the Frank O'Hara Poetry Award. Sunday Evening Ideas as crystals and the logic of a violin: the intricate evasions warming up again For another raid on the inarticulate. And soon The morning melody begins, the oranges and the tea, The introspective walk about the neighborhood, The ambient noise, the low lapping of water over stones. The peace one finds encounters one alone, In the memories of books, or half-remembered songs, Or, in the mild enchantments of the passive mood: To hesitate, to brood, to linger in the library and then, As from some green and sunny chair, arise and go. The noons seem darker, and the adolescent Boys who used to hang around the parking lot are gone. More water in the eyes, more dissonant musicians in the subways, And from the font of sense a constant, incidental drone. It is a kind of reconfiguration, and the solitary exercise That seeks to affirm its name seems hollow. The sun is lower in the sky, And as one turns towards what had felt like home, The windows start to flicker with a loveless flame, As though the chambers they concealed were empty. Is this How heaven feels? The same perspective from a different room, Inhabiting a prospect seen from someone else's balcony In a suspended moment - as a silver airplane silently ascends and life, at least as one has known it, slips away? I thought that people understood these things. The show the gradual encroachment of a vast, Impersonal system of exchanges on that innermost domain In which each object meant another one. Nature as a language faithful to its terms, yet with an almost human face That took the dark, romantic movements of desire, love, and loss And gave them flesh and brought them into view; Replaced by emblems of a rarefied sublime. Like Canton's Paradise, or Edward Witten staring into space As the leaves fall and a little dog raced through them in the park. Was any of that mine? Was it anyone's? Time makes things seem more solid than they were, Yet these imaginary things - the dolphins and the bells, the sunny terrace And the bright, green wings, the distant islet on the lake - Were never barriers,but conditions of mere being, and enchanting haze That takes one in and like a mild surprise gives way. As though the things that one had strained against were shades of space. The evening feels sweeter. The moon, Emerging from a maze of clouds into the open sky, Casts a thin light on the trees. Infinitely far away, One almost seems to hear - as though the fingers of a solitary giant Traced the pure and abstract schema of those strings In a private moment of delight - the soundless syllables' Ambiguous undulations, like the murmur of bees.  Here is an example of how very quickly a mood can change, I wrote the next two poems within fifteen minutes of each other, while drinking a latte at Borders. As for the first, I woke up in a melancholy mood with the poem running through my mind well before I could be in a position to write it down. Minutes after finishing it, the scene in the second poem presented itself to me. Something about the sight of this very untraditional looking father of twins lifted my mood. the time the past, so sweetly hurtful, lays itself heavy on me today i pine for the time the best seemed still ahead and not behind Ozzie on duty a pudgy-faced young man with mustache and soul patch pushes a double- basket stroller full of twins he sits when they begin to cry feeds one, his tattooed fingers stroking the baby's head whispers softly to the other a hugely pregnant woman passes behind him might stay for lessons from this 21st century family man Ozzie on duty while Harriet shops  On that sweetly domestic note, I end our efforts for this week. As always, all the material presented in this blog remains the property of its creators; the blog itself was produced by and is the property of me...allen itz. |
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