Saturday, August 21, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Blowing up Table Rock at Niagara Falls. It was too dangerous. People might be killed. It might collapse.
DAYS WITHOUT YOU
Before you even feel it.
Before you see the burns.
Before the serious night enters
And hides in the corner of the room
Before the question start.
Before the walls turn red.
Before the dreams come
Carrying their cloth bags, damp
With slender breathing.
Before these things,
All language will stop.
I will hold you
With my eyes, as if
All other instruments
Were broken and we
Had nO right to come here.
The thickness of our bodies
Shall be of great comfort
Then. The heavy verbs
Of our movements shall
Appear as dance.
Then, I will kiss you
With my lips full upon
All that is your reason.
And we will be transported
Together. And they who chance to see
These things will be unable to remember
Our names or if we stood
Before them. for them,
And their time, we shall
Have only this recognition : love.
WHAT DO WE WATCH
The mouth opens, unaccustomed
To the finality of body encountering body
For the purpose of feeding, an expression,
Lip to lip and touching deeper than language
Allows. The fireworks from the edge of the trenches
Says that fulfillment is in sight, a knowing from
One body to another, explained in ripples of orgasm,
Delineating the parameters of the embrace. I embrace
You. To say it in French; my language no longer includes
The mention of your name. You pulse through my nervous
System, lit by the light of your own loins burning brightly against the
electricity of electronic media. What is left to say? I reach
To bring my energy across the air to you. I express myself in
A final emission that sticks to my hands as I rec
NOW I COULDN’T REALLY SAY
Now I couldn’t really say
If it was morning coming
Around the corner with that basket
Of bread in its hands, but
It was smiling and somebody
Was moving little strings
And music was a funny man
With garlic round his throat
And fire in a cup.
This seemed good.
I kept my eye on the top
Of the hill for about an hour.
The sun was a little late, had
A harder time getting ready.
Clouds caught in the trees or bumping
Along the ground, half asleep. Still,
There it was like everyday I had imagined
It. Fat and round and very bright.
It walked on my skin and moved into my eyes
Like it lived there. Some birds flew past,
Either inside me or outside me. It was one
Of the other, but never both. A song was
Starting a little further down the road.
Reason enough to go on.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
JULES ET JIM
Todd found the word near
The edge of the water. It was small.
Not more than a few syllables, hardly
Full of portent or deep meaning.
It was however a significant word.
What portent it had, it held delicately as
If in a handkerchief. It seemed to have
Suffered from too much time alone.
We stood admiring it, trying
It upon our tongues, finding sentences
Where it might open itself, exercise
It’s postures and explanations.
We are in love completely, without
Knowing quite shy, but without question.
Just as quickly, it began to change.
There was nothing we could do.
We made promises to each other.
We thought perhaps we should
Never know another such word.
Words such as this are rare.
We provide them audience.
We swear we will never forget them.
We part from them realizing mystery.
Years later we see it again,
rolling through a conversation,
Waltzes and gallops providing.
We realize we are still bound to it.
We attempt to find the old intimacy,
but it seems something other now,
As youth changes itself from
Year to year, to mean differently.
Once again we believe we are in love.
Once again we stand near the edge
Of the water, trying the same
Syllables in our mouths.
“I’m not sure.”, Todd says.
“I think it might have been
A place...or something else.
Perhaps we could learn to say it again.”
We drove up the road using it,
Believing we would once more
Understand the word as we once had.
Without meaning at all it suddenly sank beneath
The water very delicately. so quickly neither
One of use could remember it precisely.
We did not expect this to happen.
As with all words we realized only one
Word would be faithful to us at a time.
Morning would still come. We would still speak
To one another using it. We would recall everything.
Now, when we speak it, the slightest
Conversation is full of portent, as if
The word has at last found us. It is like
Feeling our bones being ground to powder,
Like the sound of dry leaves skidding away.
The water hiding its true identity from us
Forever, even as we struggle to explain ourselves.
You can’t just throw it away. It’s
Not like a morning on the water in the
West Indies, the glide of white and gray
Gulls across the small harbor, the air
Easy on the skin, a perfection of clear
Water. It is more like the night
Sky trying to hold all those stars,
Keep them in the right order and still
Convey the information of constellations,
Ancient stories and ships sharing the
Points of light to get from one place
To another. I will forget my way
Home eventually. Tracks in the snow, some
Kind of animal. Endless white
Plains. Fumbling through it looking
For a campfire, remembering a conversation
Not realizing the importance of it all,
Until the Northern Lights start up
Now this wind was an old one,
Gray and wandering almost
Aimlessly, disturbed at the alley,
Unwilling to find its way down there,
Barely moving the paper littered
On the ground. And that voice...
I’ve heard better sound on the desert,
On the sand dunes where the marks
Of bitter winds show their pictures,
Show their stories with fabled
Hands and private dances
Owned by the night and the hare
And the coyote and the soft-footed lizard.
Still, we will listen to it. It is all
We have now and we are no longer
Ourselves young. We pull our coats
Closer to our throats pretending
It is cold or relentless. It is only
Old and finally we must climb
The trees discover where it
Has come to dwell in the high branches.
THE REMEMBERING WIND
Spring to Summer, Summer
The vernal pools with their white birds
Gathered at the edges. The gold
On the rocks. That oak tells
Everything it knows. This is
The remembering wind. This
Is its time. We will see it so
Seldom we will try to touch
Its tall choirs swirled with clover
fields and flowers of a thousand colors.
We catch at its fine strings, shaking
Ourselves to believe. This is the
Remembering wind. It glistens
Like jewel stone glistens. We are
Learning to speak once again.
The tall ships move into our
Language, their sails full of
The Remembering wind.
It is morning.