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Friday, July 5, 2013

TALKING TO FISH



Agnes-Boulloche-Ainsi-Rats-Vivent-2009


TALKING TO FISH


They do not know what water is.
They think the world is dancing
Constantly.  Songs are ecstasy as they
Enter their bodies completely.  They do
Not need ears to hear them.

o

We seldom see them in trees,
But there they are, thousands of them,
Decorations of the Amazon jungle
In flood.  Leaves are the souls
Of fish, sculptures of fish
Never previously seen.  Here
In the high jungle they become gems,
Tales of the elders.  fish.
o

We used to walk along the edges of the smaller lakes in the summer.  The crappie and small perch would rise in the evening and jump at flies or gulp bugs that fell into the water.  They would make concentric circles on the surface of the water, soft splashes in the twilight.  It was a language.  We had no idea what the fish were saying but they were saying.  Maybe it was about the heat or the rain coming the next day or what they had seen beneath the surface.  All those years later without a word yet so much of blood and its salt, reeds and thin lines trolled through the water, the quiet that came from eyes that never close, from pressure on lateral lines, from talking on and on to fish.
They do not know what water is.
They think the world is dancing
Constantly.  Songs are ecstasy as they
Enter their bodies completely.  They do
Not need ears to hear them.

o

We seldom see them in trees,
But there they are, thousands of them,
Decorations of the Amazon jungle
In flood.  Leaves are the souls
Of fish, sculptures of fish
Never previously seen.  Here
In the high jungle they become gems,
Tales of the elders.  fish.
o

We used to walk along the edges of the smaller lakes in the summer.  The crappie and small perch would rise in the evening and jump at flies or gulp bugs that fell into the water.  They would make concentric circles on the surface of the water, soft splashes in the twilight.  It was a language.  We had no idea what the fish were saying but they were saying.  Maybe it was about the heat or the rain coming the next day or what they had seen beneath the surface.  All those years later without a word yet so much of blood and its salt, reeds and thin lines trolled through the water, the quiet that came from eyes that never close, from pressure on lateral lines, from talking on and on to fish.

o



Thursday, July 4, 2013

THE WAY THE COUNTRY MOVES




Another poem from CRUISIN' AT THE LIMIT, Selected poems 1968-78, published by Duck Down Press, Fallon, NV. 1982.

THE WAY THE COUNTRY MOVES

Grey clouds of unknowing
if the answer were just
it would hold up its head
like the rest of us.

I could talk about her hair, the way the country
moves in it, making cities and towns shine oh heart
with its rose, oh reminder of the weaver, sayer of the name.

Out she came from Belvador w’hands that sang themselves
into the air and gathered to her animals and birds, sparrows
in rings around her good feet and loved them all she did.

And wind across the desert under stars, they come and go
with their bands of dogs, travelers to the other fair,
I’ve seen you there among them, caught at your ankle
and tossed you down laughing to the silks, camel smell
on your body, you said you were the watering maid
and I was son to whom?  It comes and goes so quickly
I miss the shape of your foot, the lashes of your eyes
so quick there.

Who has in hand the answer fair
I would give them to the fire
who has in hand the dreamer’s light
You’re well to call them liar.

Come out with me, come out with me
the night the stars are flame
all opened up like rose and tooth...
it shall not come again.

And what then this bird that rides above the words?
A sparrow or a dove it matters not,
it flies, it flies, it flies. 



Wednesday, July 3, 2013

'IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS POOR INFORMATION'






“In the beginning there was poor information.”
....Stanislaw Lem

There were endless rows of doors,
Unclaimed ideas, high places that had
No reason to be there.

Huge herds of animals wandering
Aimlessly over vast distances,
Foods we had no idea what to name.

Feelings that were omnipresent
And capable of causing great harm.
Ideas that probably belonged to angels.
Places where memory was totally
Unable to function.

Those dances what could not be explained
And who was dancing anyway?
Why just one moon?
Why did dogs seem to like us?
Supreme beings with no idea
Of what to do.

There were too few cathedrals,
Rivers seemed to run in whatever
Direction they pleased. No one knew
How long people lived

Music said things differently
Than anyone remembered
The same things actually happening.

Myths were true, true,
As symphonies were true.

No one was tending
The natural laws.

This writing became a labyrinth
A semantic galaxy.

Time kept looping on itself.
The place became the beginning.
There were endless rows of doors.



Tuesday, July 2, 2013

BLOOD



James Christopher Carroll

BLOOD

Sometimes the morning reaches
Toward the afternoon and that part
Of the day is unable to answer.  It feels
A tugging in its loins and remembers
The night, her hair undone, smiling
As love worked its cascade of heaven
Above him, his fingers moving in and out
Like so much weather caught between
The lips of desire. “Such joy should have
A name.”, he thought. The moon caught
In the tops of the trees unable to rise any further.
“I have trouble believing we are real, that
When we love this way there are no parts
Of day, no way to say my hands across your breasts,
My mouth licking you to ecstasy, my hands joining
Yours in touching, touching, touching.”  The
Fires begin in the blood.  The night flares with
Kiss after kiss.  I tell myself I may not feel this 
Way ever again.  I pull you close and redefine
All that I am able to recognize as mystery and wonder.



Sunday, June 30, 2013

THE CITIES ABANDONED





THE CITIES ABANDONED

The cities abandoned.  I saw you
Walking there long after the others
Had left.  It was as if a huge
Truth stretched out in front of you.

It glowed and had teeth, sparkling
Pointed and sure to find flesh
Before feeling.  Great winds
Filled with lightning moved
Throughout its body.

Could this be the same place
Where we had made love together?
Could this shower of glow discharging
Ether be the same feelings
That once were tender in our hearts.

Oh poor mankind, to be caught so far
From harbor on this night,
Slouched and desperate far from
Arms that love you.
“Come home.”, I said
But none could hear angel music
In this place, save animals
And the pure of heart.