SOME FAIRIES

Amadee Varin 1818-1883

This poem is from WHERE THE STARS ARE KEPT, published by Rattlesnake Press, Pollack Pines, Ca 2010.

SOME FAIRIES

The fairy of the heart.

The fairy of memories.

The fairy of autumn nights.

The fairy of the end of childhood.

The fairy guarding the feet of travelers.

The fairy who can speak the spells of olden times.

The fairy who can know when love is true.

The fairy of the evening summer grass.

The fairy of the fireflies.

The fairy of secret places.

The fairy who is seen but once.

The fairy who watches sleep descend.

The fairy of the Spring dances.

The fairy of long friendships.

The fairy who chases loneliness.

The fairy who appoints the stars.

The fairy who reveals what was hidden.

The fairy who can see lost things.

The fairy who protects the smallest breezes.

The frost fairy.

The fairy of winter windows.

The fairy who protects enchantment.

The fairy of distant music.

The fairy at the doors of dreaming.

The fairy called "delight of the newborn."

The fairy who attends the songbirds.

The fairy who can weave with music.

The fairy of the garments of the seasons.

The fairy lit by moonlight alone.

The fairy of the storm.

The fairy from the bows of ships.

The fairy of the starlit meadows.

The fairy of the grace in language.

THERE IS NO LANGUAGE WITHOUT DECEIT

John Singer Sargent. 1909

Kawase-Hasui - Ochanomizu

The following poem is from my book A LIMITED MEANS OF EXPRESSION published by Rattlesnake Press, Pollack Pines, Ca. 2011.  The book is out of print.

‘THERE IS NO LANGUAGE WITHOUT DECEIT’

—Italo Calvino

The thing seen

And the seer are the

Same thing, yet neither

Knows it. The seer suspects

That this is so but the world

Denies the knowledge until

A particular time.

In the latter part of the day

Three men will appear with a bag

That seems too heavy for any

One man to carry. They will offer

It for sale and will produce

Lovely tales of the contents

Of this bag.

There is a holy light that descends

Near here just before the sun

Forgets itself and slips below

The horizon as if it were about

To hide something from us.

Here we will gather. Many will

Make fires and begin to speak

Tales that at first seem ordinary

But eventually become punctuated

With giraffes and birds of strange

Plumage, alleys where the eyes

Of great cats glow and one can

Hear dice clatter to the cobble

Stones or see doorways open for

A second and a beautiful woman may

Be seen laughing invitingly, then

Disappearing behind the door bringing

A pointed kind of darkness that

Stills the voices of the story tellers

For a moment.

Tea is made and occasionally a harp

Or flute can be heard nearby making

A melody that we feel we have always

Known and wish to tell others about.

The clicking of shoes against the stones,

Small sounds that might be language

Engage us and we begin to feel

That this is truly correct.

FROM THE BOOK OF DAYS

E. Butler.  California Spring. 1918

Lebasque-Ergny

William Trost Richards, Corner of the Woods, 1864

FROM THE BOOK OF DAYS

We have seen the paintings

In the cave of the hunt.

The buffalo are so real in

The light of the torches.

They seem to move, the throwing

Sticks and spears flying about.

Today the sun disappeared

In the middle of the day

For a long time.  Then it came

Back.  Many were afraid.

I was not one of them.

The war is all around us.

There is no way to describe

What is happening.  It is

Like living inside an infection

Full of noise and sorrow.

Certainly we are lost now.

It has been many weeks since

We have seen land.  Only the sea.

Always the sea.  It is so large.

In traveling we have encountered

Many peoples so unlike ourselves

That we could never have imagined

Them.  They are each having a

Unique experience as well.  How

Is this possible?  Such wonders.

The maps are incredible.  Each

Place, each gene, is like a universe

In itself.  Yesterday we made a slight

Turn and discovered an entire

Mountain range we did not know

Before.  I saw a huge flock of bright

Green and red birds flying so vigorously

They seemed to be exclaiming.  We were

So far from them their flights resembled

Writing across the sky, yet full of lights.

Lorien

I waited for you most of the night.

Just before dawn I realized the river

Was much too high and fast for anything

To cross safely.  I know you will

Come today.  I write this to comfort

My heart only.  I shall keep the watch.

p.s.

I have never before thought of the rain

As an occasion.  Today it has become

Something I would like to share with you

I spent several hours just sitting quietly

Watching it from the door stoop.

A LIFE AT SEA

A LIFE AT SEA

I was having trouble standing

On the deck.  Long arms of dull

Light reached out across the waves

And tilted toward me as if to say

Something.  The sea birds became tongues.

The wind played harp and the old

Stories stole back into me.

I wasn’t supposed to remember

These things.  I could hear them

As if they were a freight train somewhere

In the night hurrying past carrying

Too much sorrow, too many stories

For any one person to know even

If they were never to own them.

This was not history.  My skin dissolved.

My veins and arteries unwound and

Spread across the sky.  My bones

Pushed my body apart.  Soon I would

Become the night.  The night completely.

Able to visit you in your dreams,

Tell you whatever I wanted.  I

Could see thoughts gather like

Cumulus clouds and fill the salt

Air high above the cliffs.

Children were running along the cliff edge.

They were flying kites out over the water.

I could hear their laughter.

Everyday should be like this.

I steadied myself against the

Main mast and made my way

Back below decks.  The light

Continued to glow.  Your face

Seemed to lift from the dark

Of the crew quarters.

I would be surprised to see

Others here once again.  I fell

Into my hammock.  Soon the sea

Had me in thrall and I slept

A thousand years dreaming the whole while.