i am awake
cradling a child still
between the clouds
beginnings. my life
might be reaching
across our sleeping forms
cool and quiet
safe from my parents' fear
this day:
it is too small
but that is part of
the morning dance.
29.9.11
hell (bed poem #1)
i cannot sleep
so i dream while dancing cheerful
through my nightmares
to chain-smoke teeth
the snakes that haunt
the bent knees
red velvet blade
to fan over our legs
windows let eyelids dark into the pores
old
trapped in my skin
the shape of robots
from memories of amnesia
presents from my dying
so i dream while dancing cheerful
through my nightmares
to chain-smoke teeth
the snakes that haunt
the bent knees
red velvet blade
to fan over our legs
windows let eyelids dark into the pores
old
trapped in my skin
the shape of robots
from memories of amnesia
presents from my dying
26.9.11
retraction
peel back the landscape.
raze buildings, make unlevel
the clover leafs and straightaways. we are
excavating a country.
we made a mistake.
buried it alive.
it was still wearing a promise ring
when the dozers pushed it under, and
we have forgotten the inscription
in our haste to hide the evidence.
convert strip malls to swamp:
mosquitos swarm bloodthirsty in supermarkets.
fill in parking lots with
carolinian hardwoods.
sap drips
from telephone poles.
vines creep
along fences, consume them. borders
break down.
even the flocks of plastic bags
that rise with the wind to choke the sky
become imperceptibly snow geese,
carrier pigeons, an army of lost avian souls.
foxes run yipping through cracks in my mind.
bric-a-brac housing collapses into eskers,
anthills, patterns of grass in the dust.
we recede.
25.9.11
the one where the stars burn out
it was dark. et cetera. you know how it starts. then
i lit you up, and you lit me. it was
inevitable. it was gravity.
the pressure we exert
on each other drove us closer, drove us
inward seeking fuel for fire
to etch shadows
of weak and watery planets
on the walls of the universe.
we inhaled hydrogen,
sweated helium and gold.
call it love, fusion, alchemy:
call it what you like.
it's the cheapest sort of magic.
it happens all the time up here, you know.
a day comes when all that can burn
has burned away; when we find ourselves
with nothing left we'd care to say
we blow apart, brief candle cores
alone and dark in the sepulchre of sky
fading blonde through red to our natural brunette
waiting patiently for gravity
to pick up the resurrection phone. waiting
to fall back together again.
new lights will gleam in the wreckage:
the rich dust of planets
where life can resume some day.
it's the same old phoenix story:
star death, star birth.
you'd be wrong to think repetition
makes it hurt one damn bit less.
i lit you up, and you lit me. it was
inevitable. it was gravity.
the pressure we exert
on each other drove us closer, drove us
inward seeking fuel for fire
to etch shadows
of weak and watery planets
on the walls of the universe.
we inhaled hydrogen,
sweated helium and gold.
call it love, fusion, alchemy:
call it what you like.
it's the cheapest sort of magic.
it happens all the time up here, you know.
a day comes when all that can burn
has burned away; when we find ourselves
with nothing left we'd care to say
we blow apart, brief candle cores
alone and dark in the sepulchre of sky
fading blonde through red to our natural brunette
waiting patiently for gravity
to pick up the resurrection phone. waiting
to fall back together again.
new lights will gleam in the wreckage:
the rich dust of planets
where life can resume some day.
it's the same old phoenix story:
star death, star birth.
you'd be wrong to think repetition
makes it hurt one damn bit less.
22.9.11
how can you hurt so much?
you are thin -- just a
blade of grass in the wind -- bending
to let this broken world
not break you as it spins.
you are dry -- just a wisp
of white in the blue bowl of sky --
but you hold all the rains
behind your eyes.
how can you hurt so much?
how can you bear the world
on such shoulders?
when i hold you
you hum like bees:
the queen gone, the hive
is too busy to grieve.
your nervous system sings
like wings about to leave.
you forget to eat.
you sometimes forget to breathe.
how can you hurt so much?
how can you wait so long for love?
how can so little serve as just enough?
16.9.11
what care the sparrows?
rainwateronasidewalk
octobersun
grainsandseeds
sufficientuntotheday;
neithermemorynorexpectation
onlythismoment
onlythislife
takenothingwithyou
thereisnowheretogo
nothingtotake
octobersun
grainsandseeds
sufficientuntotheday;
neithermemorynorexpectation
onlythismoment
onlythislife
takenothingwithyou
thereisnowheretogo
nothingtotake
13.9.11
New Guitar
I bought a new guitar.
I rarely get to say that.
Southpaws like me tend to find a good one and hold on to it.
They marry their guitars.
Righties, having many more opportunities, tend towards profligacy.
This one is red. It is heavy. The make and model don't matter.
It's new, but it comes with history, with scars, with distinction.
I like that.
It feels different. It makes me feel different.
It touches my chest at different points; it weighs on my shoulder strangely.
It resonates.
It leads my hands to locations they would not normally go on my other guitar.
I play differently. I sound different even if I try to play the same.
The fact that it is a new guitar does not make me a better guitarist.
But the fact that I play it with a new mind does.
These new locations, these new sensations, these new tactile maps of music, become a part of me.
I can apply them to any other guitar.
This specific guitar, being new, has taught me a new way to play all guitars.
The more music we make, the more musical we become.
Every new experience enriches us.
We need never repeat ourselves, even if we play the same songs every night.
As long as we have grown, the music grows.
As long as we share who we are today, the music is born anew each time we play it.
I think it's the same with people.
Hold someone. Feel them resonate against your chest.
Go where they take you.
Make a map of their nervous system.
Let their music become your music.
Let every new person be your teacher.
Let yourself always be new.
I rarely get to say that.
Southpaws like me tend to find a good one and hold on to it.
They marry their guitars.
Righties, having many more opportunities, tend towards profligacy.
This one is red. It is heavy. The make and model don't matter.
It's new, but it comes with history, with scars, with distinction.
I like that.
It feels different. It makes me feel different.
It touches my chest at different points; it weighs on my shoulder strangely.
It resonates.
It leads my hands to locations they would not normally go on my other guitar.
I play differently. I sound different even if I try to play the same.
The fact that it is a new guitar does not make me a better guitarist.
But the fact that I play it with a new mind does.
These new locations, these new sensations, these new tactile maps of music, become a part of me.
I can apply them to any other guitar.
This specific guitar, being new, has taught me a new way to play all guitars.
The more music we make, the more musical we become.
Every new experience enriches us.
We need never repeat ourselves, even if we play the same songs every night.
As long as we have grown, the music grows.
As long as we share who we are today, the music is born anew each time we play it.
I think it's the same with people.
Hold someone. Feel them resonate against your chest.
Go where they take you.
Make a map of their nervous system.
Let their music become your music.
Let every new person be your teacher.
Let yourself always be new.
8.9.11
perfect day
wrote this last night in my head on my way to band practice. minor revisions when i sat down with pen and paper.
today
is a perfect day.
everything is
just fine.
i accept the rain as
simply rain;
the sun
just shines.
my world is a bell,
unstruck
by sorrow
or longing.
this is the last poem
i will ever write;
this is the last song
i will ever sing.
it's just just a thought experiment--don't worry, it's not really the last poem i intend to ever write. was just mulling over the relationship between discontent and creativity, and thinking "if i was ever totally and completely satisfied in my life, would i have anything left to write about? would i have any desire to write?"
it's a funny balancing act--the quest for happiness and peace is in some ways in direct conflict with the desire to say something important, to have something important to say. great art, as they say, is the hallmark of a soul in turmoil or a civilization in turmoil.
a worthwhile question: if complete happiness would lead you to stop expressing yourself artistically, would you choose art or happiness?
and another: do you have to choose? can you be an artist and also be completely happy?
is a perfect day.
everything is
just fine.
i accept the rain as
simply rain;
the sun
just shines.
my world is a bell,
unstruck
by sorrow
or longing.
this is the last poem
i will ever write;
this is the last song
i will ever sing.
3.9.11
why i walk
counting people again again. this time
walking through saturday’s
stillness and haze
to the bagel shop for breakfast.
lifting my right hand sternum-high
palm forward
tipping out and over: a wave for every passer-by,
eye contact, and hello.
42 people.
17 on foot
(5 with dogs)
and 25 in cars.
investing 42 hellos
brings the following returns:
walkers:
12 smiles and/or hellos
(2 before i even spoke,
1 startled, 4 non-commital,
5 genuinely pleased to be met)
5 ignores
(3 with headphones to muffle the morning
1 unaccounted
and 1 awkward avoidance by
the man in wellies and bathrobe
watching empty-handed as his large and wolly dog
squats to shit on the neighbor’s lawn)
drivers:
24 ignores, their worlds
moving pictures sealed behind glass.
1 open mouthed “o” trying desperately
to place my unfamiliar face
before i disappear into her mirrors.
before i disappear into her mirrors.
addendum: number of walkers in my sight
who drifted their hands through the feathery tips
of the purple fountain grass that grows
at herkimer and locke:
2 (of a possible 3)
number of drivers:
0 (of a possible 6)
1.9.11
Book Lungs / Multiple Literacies
I'd kind of forgotten that these two web sites were still online. I'm kind of amused that I actually created them as assignments in Teachers' College instead of writing essays. I kind of pity the poor college prof who had to look at them and decide what they had to do with the questions that were assigned. And I'm delighted to rediscover that there's actually some decent poetry hidden in the labyrinth of deliberately obtuse web design and amateur photography, too! There's now a perma-link at the top of the blog, but here are some easy links to get you started the first time...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)