Two fairly recent poemss and some photos from the net

A GO

There is a keening

On the wind, a kind of clear

Blue wanting that knows how

To use a can opener on the

Air, so that it can tear silver

Lines into the heart. Oh, there

Will be no blood, for blood is

A veil and time, a great bird

High over the roofs of this town.

We thread our way past the crowds

To discover a land drenched with moon,

Its collection of owls silently winging

Out, over the edge of the lake. There

is an idiot’s song, a lament caught

On the floor of the night. How big

It all seems, the words, the voices

From the sink of the city. It is

As if we were not to find a way

Here, as if God himself were out

For the day inventing Christmas

All over again, so that it might have

A different sound, perhaps that of many

Children, rather than the small golden

Voice two thousand years old.

When we arrive home, well

Fed and slightly tired, the block

Is strung with colored lights and

Singing can be heard from windows,

Laughter and a crisp of first frost

In the air. It must have been

Like this over and over again,

So far we have come knowing such

Things, so far we have left them behind.

BEING AS MANY AS LEAVES

Oh this is peaceful.

This light stays when all

Else fades. It is a serious

Pursuit, worthless, yes,

Useless, oh certainly and I suppose

Even boring to some people,

Those ill on the world, drunk

On its ‘nobody’s a long time’,

Sentiment and that heritage

Of, ‘if anybody even attempts

To think deeply about something

They are the sick ones.’ And here

We are driven toward a beautiful

But terrible forest full of dead

Souls unable to be serious about

Anything except the executioner

Returning to darkness and the murder

That goes on in this perfectly

Lovely world.

Listen to them growling.

Let’s go get ourselves born

So we don’t have to deal with these

Things that feel darkness and ignorance.

Fury, boys, let’s give them fury, real FURY.

EDGE OF SUMMER MIDDLE MAY

In the garden the roses are making

Up their minds as to colors and ways

They might look just after the rain.

There is a way songs begin. The problem

Is we never know when that moment is.

It usually circles around the song title

collapsing into the lyrics and winds up

Near the corner of the heart telling us

Something we already knew in a flurry

Of delight and secret code remembered

Sometimes, for the rest of our lives.

In the garden the bees are making

Their rounds, fumbling and gathering,

Finding the sweet center faster than

The Buddha did under the Bo tree,

Much much faster with no thoughts.

The sky spins by as quickly as the wind

Will allow, so beautifully arranged it

Seems random but for the birds

Outlining the edges, describing

The parameters of the day.

There is so little we remember after

All. It is only in these moments where

The garden is the world and songs are

Everywhere around us. Here is some blue.

An old description of Niagara Falls-Parrish, Robinson, Amy Bennet, Ensor , di Giovanni

AN OLD DESCRIPTION OF NIAGARA FALLS

We could not see where

The end of the land came.

The French told us we must

Leave the water and walk

For a distance of many leagues

Because of a great waterfall

That would not allow us passage upstream.

These woods were old,

Filled with highways

And worn places, used by men.

The night we heard the

Waterfall was memorable. It

Seemed a constant wind that

Did not move the trees at all.

All sound. And then

The place itself. The voice of water

Articulate and incessant

Filling all of consciousness

For enormous moments.

There could not be such a place.,

Yet there it was.

Day and night forever

Through such time as man

Cannot but fancy.

All the choirs of the angels

Singing together precisely,

In this manner, so it seemed.

The greens, the whiteness,

The bows of colored light

By day and pale ghosts of

Them in the moonlight.

This must be what prayer

Was like in power and in voice.

All our lives we bathed our

Memories in this gift.

We joined it to our children,

Drove it through our dreams,

Hovering near its mists as long

As soul would cling to flesh

And then we joined this voice;

The rapids and the rills,

The clicking of the rocks,

The huge sighing of the

Place as it continues

Its descriptions with water.

I hear you hearing this.

All of us hear you hearing this.

It is a rushing through the seasons,

A mouth unlike any other.

We look into your eyes. You look into time itself,

The way all life understands it,

Full and incomplete,

Always moving. Time is water.

Time is the huge falling

That we saw here, surely

A fair description.

Three painting by Stanislav Plutenko that I admire plus a lovely tram painting by Jacob Schinkaneder from c. 1910 and three poems of mine.

Michael Madden is a genius whose music never fails to inspire me

TRAINS

for Michael Madden

The sound of the train owns the night.

It finds itself in all the distances and landscapes.

We need never move and it swirls by, mars light orbiting,

Wiping the night as if it had an intelligence. It does not.

It is not there. It is gone before we hear the sound.

We may see it in the distance crossing a trestle or

Running into a central valley full to overflowing with

Red cars and tank cars and flatcars and cattle cars.

We are not invited to see its passing, waiting

In an automobile at the edge of the track at night, the clack-clacking

Trucks counting something, gone now. A single red eye

At the end of the snake’s body winking out in the huge night.

This beast is the neuron, the impulse moving on its own

Highways through our county, known by all, coated with its

Own history and lore, its legends and heros and more steam,

Diesel smoke and soundtracks for dreams than that body

Can absorb. It is our magic glowing room throwing itself

Through the great American night as cities and towns flash

By, always on its way to somewhere, crying the land in steel voices

.

ULTIMATE LENITION

I didn’t mean to speak

That softly and get lost

in your voice, but here I am

Unhinged and dangling,

Changed from strong

To weak just by the sound

Of your voice calling to me.

THREE GIRLS

The wind begins to describe

The movements of three girls

Who believe themselves to be

Messengers of a group

Dreaming the sounds of all

Beings breathing together.

As if a dance of this

Kind were possible without

Words.

What is possible is to hear this voice,

In patterns of rain across

The concrete, against car

Windows, racing down the superhighways,

Leaning upon the surface of the water.

Nothing will come of this detailed

Report. It will be simply weather,

A late arrival at a glittering doorway,

The arc of headlights

Around a street corner,

Necklaces of lights, the night only.

Should we see these girls

Without this kind of late brilliance

About them, they will seem

On their way to school,

Talking together, puffs of

Laughter mixing just above

The hiss of tires, disappearing

Toward the park, becoming

A part of the evening.

The poems and four random photos

COMING TO OUR SENSES AGAIN

When I touch you, all is mystery.

Ripples through the skin

Unlock one thousand doors

Within, stretches a history

Almost too much to pin

Down, to clutch, fingertips

Whorling, whirling, waking to

Knowing angels, breathing in the wind.

When I see you, see you,

See you clearly, really see

You there, before me, morning

Wound round you, nearly

Pushing up, neat as a hemline,

Every time I see you, me, we, thee,

These, together without sound,

Dancing eyes in the field of delight.

When I hear you, speaking,

Singing, loosing the girdle

Of language, untying the verbs

That wind around us

Like the ghosts of kings,

Full and with their million stories

Moving on your lips, alive again.

A music flaunted before time.

Your mouth moving to shape the fields

Where words are the kingdom and sound

The castle keep.

When I smell you, in the room.

Nothing in the room.

Proust tells us that when we find

A memory from smell alone,

It is the most powerful.

It is the one most kind,

The true bone from which

The flesh is grown to grace

Again. Rooms of you fill and fall

Away to empty space.

A chemical disturbance of the mind.

Nothing in the room, in the room,

When I smell you.

When I taste you, mouth to

Mouth or drawing with the tongue

To find the salty landscapes there,

There is suddenly no room for

Sense to be other than the

Slippery buds unveiling where

All love has wrung itself

From pore the pour against

The door of teeth, the core

Pretends at cooling, but melts

Before the lips and celebrates

Such food that is ourselves.

FALLING INTO THE FIELD OF TIME

From the edge of the boat

We could see the stars

Reflected in the water. We knew the

Many names of the moon and sang

To the fishes there below, the ones

Who swallowed stars and dreamed

The night sky beneath the sea.

The fish beieve we are their rapture

As we sing. We believe the fish

To be gems of priceless value,

Wandering through the mind,

Bearing the names of the seas.

That night we slept on deck

Listening to the wind and waves

Tell stories of fire on

Islands so far away that one

Can but learn their names,

To visit these places is simply

Not possible in a single lifetime.

When dawn came we could no longer

Tell if we were male or female.

Deer gather at our feet. We

Feed them from bowls. We see

Death with its flocks of birds

Wheel and circle overhead.

We decide to make music forever.

We dance and sail on.

HARPS

These harps that collect

In the eddies of lovemaking,

We find them, days later,

Still strung with the silk

Strings that bound us so together.

I carefully lift them from

The stream, thinking they

Have belonged to angels.

They are hung with wet and

The sweet smell of childhood,

Bright with wagons and the

Ghosts of dogs basking near

The door yeard.

They shine so, it is hard

To believe they were once

Ourselves and we played upon them,

Full and drenced in passion,

Smiles, music on our lips.

I reach to touch the part

That makes the music and all

Is water once again, a riffle,

Then a rapid, then a tumbling.

Over and over again until the

Room is great with longing,

The river spreading itself

Before me llike a song.

A couple of poems and some Wyeth paintings and one other

WALKING ALONG THE ROAD WE STOP NEAR A STREAM IN SPRINGTIME

You have found bits of song caught

In the spillway of a beaver dam. They

Are church-like in their praising. They shake

The collection of sticks

Piercing the face of the dam like so many

Bayonets. A rain begins and spills

Upon the surface of the pool, each drop a book,

A crowd, a child, a Golden Heart siging to the fools,

To what is left of the dancers, the poor shoulders

Of the river made to bear a cascade of tears.

They have built a monument on the edge

Of a cliff. It is impossible to get close enough

To look at it without plunging into the mind of God.

We stand watching the little fires in its towers,

The pitiful way it seems to contemplate the end

Of day. A vibrant eye peers from every window,

Some of them weep as only ones who have seen murder

Can weep. Ships send up flares to illuminate this place.

We walk along the edge of the pond where the grass

Grows tall and yellow. We stop and kiss each other

Before deciding to lie in this place and create

Another world, full of wings and the silence invented by snow.

We are unquenchable as acrobats before the highest throne.

House, knife, wonder, tears, cold, a flute,

Lambs, bridges, hills, the beautiful dark,

Silver bells opening like journeys, a crying,

Weaving a web around the heart that it may

Not break. All of the heavens resting

In the corners of your smile.

ONE HUNDRED POEMS

The way light eats the horizon.

The way Japanese ghosts

Have no feet. Birds gather

In the trees. They say things

To each other that we can hear

But are unable to understand.

A glass reflects the rising

Of the moon. Reading secret

Messages in the pattern of leaves

Upon the ground. There were

Pieces of conversation stuck to

His teeth. A great cultus of

Admonition flourished around

Any mention of the present tense.

The rafters were draped

With banners showing the most

Intimate secrets of the verb.

Landscape is spoken of only

In regard to feelings. There is

No middle distance. It becomes

Inevitable that dense conversation

Cover the face of the moon,

That night untie itself

From any reason and reduce

All poetry to whispers which

Remind one of the wind.

One hundred poems are written

At exactly the same moment.

They are mistaken for oceans,

And fished and thought of great

Depth. One crosses them

Full of wonder, lingering as long

As possible to watch

The waves, the shadow

Flight of birds across

Their sweet surface.