THE HARP IN THE CIRCLE

THE HARP IN THE CIRCLE

The hard songs come through

Holes in the night sky,

An impending electricity of purpose

Gathers into patterns, constellations

Remembered from dares we took

As children, stories around 

The night time fires,

The stars, reminders of our bone

Dust congealed within our sorry bodies.

Touched with grace for a moment,

They are able to form a mouth,

Then a music, then a welter of instruments.

We hear them as animal voices,

Frogs and loons, crow talk,

The coughing of a cat,

Slap of fish on quiet water.

Oh let us sing the hard songs.

Songs of goodbye and of parting,

Of winds on the moors and

Mists moving across bogs

where plants eat meat,

Dreaming they are gods,

Where love flees a room

Dense with violins and clarinet

Laments.  Pieces of loves across

Ages of time, dead ancestors

And friends turn from our embrace

To ride the night sky forever,

To pour through shining holes in the night sky.

THIS ROOM OF BRIGHT MORNING

Scott G. Brooks

THIS ROOM OF BRIGHT MORNING

This room of bright morning,

Full of the drift come down from

The ways we have learned to speak with one

And another.  Oh yes, there were times

When one could stand upon the ramparts,

Whistling the rain down the windows, not

Caring what might be blown in to our

Sad feet.  Now, it seems things are different.

The cat crosses the alley.  It has no mind

For the dealings of man.  It has

Seen the light of oceans of fish.  They pour

Past its nose and fill the doorways of the piers

With a kind of knowledge you and I can only

Dream of; a wishing for the smells of our ancestors.

Oh sweet burden of standing this way

Before the morning.  Full of each other, the way

We want to be, I look out past the rain and its pools,

Past the drift of song caught in the puddles.  I am

Here with you once again.  We seem to understand

The language all this world noise makes.

It has a clarity known only to those who have

Loved a long time.  I do not recall any time ever

Being like this one.  Perhaps I am mistaken.

Perhaps this music is only the sound of being

Ignorantly profound, listen to the heart.

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

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. 

'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.

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.

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.