I Wonder Why There Are People

LITANY

There is a litany of the names of the saints,
Where we are unable to recall
The names of the saints.
Time after time we
Guess at them. None of them
Seem to work
Again and again we say
Names. They are always wrong.
They are, instead, the names of friends,
Of relatives, some long departed, others
Half-remembered. Their names roll
Off the tongue, easy as the phrase “pray for us.”

Like coming downstairs in the morning and
Asking if the coffee is ready yet. A simple request only.
The saints gather in the corners of the house.
Their voices full of praise, the names of all
The angels upon their lips, as if angels had memory.

Over and over again, we say these
Names.
The days pass.
We grow older.
We change our appearance
Time and time again.
Finally, no one recognizes us
Any longer.
We reside in photographs.
Our children say our names
A few more times.
We know what the saints know, implicitly.

_______________I WONDER WHY THERE ARE PEOPLE

The stars are in a hurry. The sky winds
Around them and tells the moon a slick
Story about how they used to have to explain
Themselves every morning when the night
Folded itself like a handkerchief and went back
To waiting, white ships struggling at anchor
In a dream.

While we are not terribly thirsty, the water
From the well tasted refreshing, reminding us
Of a lovely room just off the kitchen in a quiet
Cottage, near the edge of a small river, cookies
Were baking in the next room. We watched
The stars. It wasn’t an easy moment.
Nothing was make-believe. It may have been
beautiful but it had teeth that could bring a horse
To the ground had it wanted to.

There was obviously too much to lose here.
Night was arranging its shiny coat again. Leaves
Looked for directions from the wind. The moment
Was not our own, nor was it that of the stars.

This will come to you in dreams. It will seem
So real. You will be able to put on your glasses
And it will still seem real, a massive room of stone
Filled with the world flickering like bats leaving a cave.
We will want to go back. We will want a good bed.
We will want to see our loved ones again.

Let us change our clothes and wash the blood
From our hands, listen to the sleepy sound
The trains make at the far side of the landscape.
Perhaps they will not see us here. Pretend you
Are sleeping. A gentle breeze stirring the leaves.
The wide sweep of the heavens. It is so strange
And wonderful to be alive. Why does no one come here?

The New Book Has Been Published

RATTLESNAKE PRESS had a 7th birthday party last evening at The Book Collector 1008 24th Street in Sacramento and celebrated the publication of my new book of poetry A LIMITED MEANS OF EXPRESSION. The event was well attended and I did a reading that seemed to go well. The book is available through Rattlesnake Press. Go to rattlesnakepress.blogspot.com and you'll find a listing for the book. The price is $8.00 - way cheap for such a book. Please buy it and support the press and poetry etc. I'm running a photo of the image I made for the cover of the book above.

SPILLING

This poem is for Saint Therese of Lisieux. the photograph is an actual funeral photograph of Saint Therese .

SPILLING

We were not supposed to compare

The miracles when they occurred.

One was certainly not better than another;

The roses of Juan Diego to those of Theresa

of Lisieux. We were not to crumple at the

Tiniest comment. What of tears anyway?

We should be able to rise up to the very

Top of buildings without moving our legs.

Surely there would be the burning that carries

Us higher and higher to where finally

We could finally become less and less.

So we spill over and flush the earth

With our tears and quiet sorrows.

We will open the serape of Juan Diego

To see the face of the Virgin, we will find

Joy in the smallest things as we watch our

Hearts empty and fill with love like the locks

On a canal, lifting us up or lowering us

To the clear way around all obstacles,

The way singing does or looking into the eyes

of the beloved, the light reflecting, souls dancing.

Relative to the speed of the past

This is a poem about my mother's twin brother Bob Bellreng. The photograph of Bob was taken by my father Ray Wagner.

RELATIVE TO THE SPEED OF THE PAST

My mother’s twin brother was killed

At Normandy Beach while hanging

A telephone line from a pole. Never

Saw it coming. Came back in the

Late summer. The funeral was at home.

He was a handsome man, young and

Beautiful with a kind voice and a bright

Future. There were so many who did

Not come back. Every small town had

Some kind of board listing their dead sons.

Faster than that his nephews and nieces

Were growing old and laughing at how

They looked in the nineteen sixties, how

Long their hair was, how idealistic they were.

Even younger, their children are showing

Off their new babies and are being fussed

Over by relatives. There is still a war. It

Is much more informal these days. No

Boards with names on them in elementary

Schools. Now there are national monuments

With names on them. One must go to Washington

D.C. or the state capitol to see who these people were.

They still gave the same thing as their relatives,

Their lives. It isn’t legal, or barely so, to show

the boxes of the dead coming home.

The speed of the past is wildly furious.

Soon it will be lost again as it always is.

Soon we will stand in the fields of dead

And not one name will carry us away.

We will know nothing once again, implicitly.

Bach-some images etc.

The Orchestral Suites by Bach are gems, full of light and so solid. They are irresistible every time.

BACH: ORCHESTRAL SUITES

Here I am compelled to leave you.

I can see the pale violet light

Where the far mountains speak in secret

To the cumulus clouds and bunch

Them together for those afternoons

Where Bach becomes the perfect

Measure for all thought and we can

But follow, traipsing through

His math matrices with our feelings

Out where everyone can see them.

All music without words commands

The altar and demands respect.

Despite great declensions of information

It is simply not accessible.

Forever, make it part of our speech

Keep it under our fingertips

For as long as possible to recreate

At will a partita or a prelude and fugue

Or the incredible joy a conversation

Might have when we discover

Bach in a new and perfectly sensible

Landscape.

Wyeth-Brandwhyn and two poems

A WINTER SUNSET IN THE SACRAMENTO VALLEY

The day was much too warm

To truly be called a Winter’s

Day. Narcissus were in bloom.

The greening of the fields was overloaded

For the time of year, but there it was.

Evening had loaded itself on moisture,

Banked the clouds into sheets,

Stretched them across a valley landscape

And was pushing the sun down behind

The whole thing in poured golds and

metallic hues that could easily have

Been kept and put aside for

late Spring or early Summer. Five

O’clock was not used to handling

This kind of display at all.

The sky was slightly embarrassed

But would never deny that wealth

Of colors and special fashion

Such a rare gem as this could command.

And so it commanded and looking we obeyed.

BURNING THE STAIRS

There is a low wail coming

Up through my skin. When

I listen in, head close

To the radio I can feel

The pulse, the full pulse,

The pulse, pulse of the electricity

In its circuits. I can smell

The ozone. I can tell

It needs flame. Even the music.

Even the announcers voice,

Lofting and falling, selling stereos

And car tires has the stink

Of flame around it. I wish

For evening, a room far away,

The arc of a great bird

Across the sky, etched air.

The wail will have none of this.

It becomes louder and shrill.

The dial begins flickering.

Its mouth full of flame.

It begins to melt.

I quickly pick it up,

Toss it into the air.

The stairs of the angels catch fire.

The air is filled with burning stairs.

There is no way to get to heaven

Any longer.

The fire storm rages down.

It is like dreaming.

It is like moving clouds

Away with one’s hand.

I stand at the top

Of the stairs and look down,

Someone is listening to a radio

So intently

I believe

They are an animal.

Some more about my new book-some poems-images

Well, it looks like the middle of April will be the release time for

A Limited Means of Expression, my new (spiralchap) book from Rattlesnake Press in Pollack Pines. I'm currently making corrections and trying to arrange the content. Kathy Keith, the editor, did a nice job already so Im not shirting much information around. Haven't decided on the cover but will by the second week of March.

MEDUSA'S KITCHEN has continued to publish my work and gave me space for three poems and two photos yesterday, which was a surprise and very nice. Seeing it is the only place I currently submit work, I am very pleased that they like the work.

“WHICH STAR DO YOU LIKE THE BEST?
(a poem in many voices)

...Kenneth Patchen

It seemed, at that moment

As if everything that was going

To be said would be of great

Importance, verging on a profound

Discovery, a sudden understanding

Only seen when the night

Reached in the way it did now,

Casting about the rooms for

The shadows it kept under beds,

Behind doors, inside of mouthes

That had seen too much today

And were hobbled knowing so much

Could be possible but no

Way of knowing what it was they knew.

*

We left through the carved

Door to the portico that ran

Along the side of the house.

Silence held everything in its hand.

This was hard to bear. The soft

Cloth of the year was only dust

Inside a barn turning from red

To gray, unlacing itself to be the night,

Allowing all of that star light to enter

Through shrinking ceiling boards and doors

That no longer quite closed.

*

“Which star do you like best?”

She opened the night with a gesture.

“All that heat where there is

No atmosphere, a gleaming from

So many stars” She moved her hands

As if she were touching all of them.

*

“That one.” he said as the night

Doubled their numbers.

“Or that one”, as it did it again.

“How beautiful.” he thought

As he wondered how it was possible

They could not have been here every night

Looking at the stars this way,

Feeling as if all things were forever.

ON LOVE

There is no

Forseeability

For love..

It has its own door.

It names the heart

In whatever language

It chooses. There is no

Defense. We stand

Naked before it and

Are committed upon

And within, it becomes

Like breathing as

Explained by wonder.