Hughlings Himwich

When I say the wind speaks to me . . . .

 

When I say the wind speaks to me

Like a lover, I am not speaking

of the wind the leaves reveal

Nor of any lover who draws me near.  

There’s neither hope nor cause for tears.

She promises she’ll never leave.  

 

Surprise

                for eve

Suddenly
this morning
I knew the rainbow
to be a bird

of my soul
taking flight 
and vanishing
into cloud and sky

as I am bound 
to do, shimmering
not with color
but surprise

to be at last
not here. 

 

Wild Iris

 

for Zoe

There’s that garden

That none

Need pardon.

There wild iris grows

Beneath the trees

it loves.

They catch the light

And make it

their own.

 

How a man becomes the sea

 

The moment she touched the old man’s hand

He lost his sight, yet standing lost upon the sand

He heard the light upon the waves like keys.

She sang and let him go and like the wind he sighed.

None knows what song she sang or how he blindly

Played with light or how a man became the sea.

Thalassa

What poets know is what is not.
It sets us free upon the shore to dance like rain
And cry out to the sea as to a friend,
Who leaves and calls us home, its true name.

Its name is οὐ τόπος, the sea of tears,
In whose waves we would gladly drown.
We dance, I say, to enchant the sea
and make it sing: κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων.

οὐ τόπος (ou topos): not a place
κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων: (koina ta tōn philōn): common are the things of friends

Spartoi

 

If we were to sow our teeth,

There would come stories

To make us shudder

Like the one about a desperately

Happy old man who gave up

His love of life to become

A gravedigger and lied

To those asking whose grave

He was digging, saying

He was looking for treasure

But had so far found only gold.

 

Windflower

 

Come with me, two

three jumps but

don’t look back.

Lately angels

have been falling.

The garden is rank

With anemone.

 

 

What makes us laugh

What makes us laugh makes us moan
and mourn for better times than these -
yet the sound of your voice, the free
falling rain, a falling sky, falls
from you to me to you who read
these words turned round and know
there never was a time when pain
did not prey upon the innocent.
I am not innocent of anything.
It makes me laugh: these words
meant to ignite a fire. 

Where no angels abide

You want to know
What life is,
But all you find
Are words, zeroes
And ones
And bread crumbs
In your beard.

Where, you ask,
Is the wild iris?
Where the feather
Of your breath?

You want to become
What you already are
While there is still a you
That cares how life
Runs through you
Like wind through grass. 

There comes a time
When life turns away
And finds itself in dust,
Where no angels abide, 
Where no one teaches you
How to live,
                            where
No one knows
You are not there.

Nighttime in the Lyceum

Before the light changed and I forgot

the rules for how to see things as they are,

day was day and night was hidden in my heart.

The High Ridge

   
   The mist on the mountains lifts

ghostly greens glimmer

   and a new day darkens the valley

far below—your fingers tracing

   a line across the high ridge

that runs just above my eyes:

   I hold my breath—a sudden

swoop of wind and wing

 

What's left to say

He was watching the parade
The clowns, the words, the trumpeteers
And in his dream he was awake
Or he was awake and dreaming.
He closed his eyes.
No matter, he heard the drums.
He opened his eyes a second time
And saw himself marching
Now to a different tune
A martial cha-cha-cha
And wet his pants.
There is little more to tell.
The daily Tribune records
That during the St. Jude Day Celebration
Saturday passed and a forgotten man
Had died, shouting blessings
Upon one and all. 

The dead don't talk

I know why

the dead don't talk

to the living:

it hurts

to remember

and we stopped

listening

Personae

I play the round

'til at last alone adrift

almost a ghost I

lose myself

and take to bed 

and play the part

of one who's dead. 

Oranges

He was determined this time not to cut his fingers as he sliced the oranges.  He would focus and keep his fingers well away from the blade.   He remembered all too well how previously his blood had flowed onto the oranges and pooled on the plate.  He knew it wasn’t just because he was getting old, fading into memory and the lure of the trees and his first kiss.  She had been as nervous as he and had closed her eyes.  Now all he could think of was feeding her oranges and the taste on her lips.  And suddenly, she had bitten his lip, making it bleed. And then, more softly, she was feeding him. She was delicious and he . . . . he was lost in the trees.  He put the knife down and wept.  

Occasional verse

From which all life comes

We bury this bird
Where it fell.

It goes to earth
Where its mother dwells.  

Morning Light

The junk in my head gathers dust
Year to year, day to night

But rises with the call of birds,
Becomes a choir in the morning light.


For Alex Thomas Coming To My House

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

Could make an old man cry. Not me! Round

The back my grandson plays hide and seek.

I’ve not the slightest idea what that means

But, Alex, you will know! I can only dream

And look for nuts on airy ground.

You see, I’ve placed a charm about the house

And made my home among earthbound clouds.

Alex, you deserve this stupid poem. Take the blame!

If you were me, you would do the same.  

If that’s confusing, Lord, just let it rain.

 

A Flea

Having not heard from you in days

(seems like years to a flea like me),

I worry, no doubt needlessly,

but there it is – the worry

worrying me, knowing

it will do no good,

and that’s a worry too,

so let’s call it prayer,

which likewise does no good

except it makes me feel better

or worse about myself,

depending, as it does,

on a dog.

All x 1 & done

At a certain age time passes more quickly,

we count days by a two by four

then all x 1 & done.

 

What is not there

Though I am known to God
As Hughlings, my friends call me
Hugh and leave it at that --
Grace takes care of the rest.

Though I do not believe
In anything or have any Jesus,
Yet I retain a kind of genius
For harmless lies.

It is as if during the day
I can still see the stars
Blazing out of the night
And truly see what is

not there. Some say
it is a harmless madness --
My friends though look deep
Into what were once my eyes

And all they see is night.

Being Blue

(for my students)

Just remember the orange
Is not in the orange.

It is always you
Like a thumb in the eye.

The blue sky
So glorious today

Is also you.
Be beautiful!

What she came to say

Though he is dying and lost in time,
She will not permit the truth be spoken
Or any other game be played
Until she says what she came to say
To one who knows her wilder ways.

(The sun and moon now count the time;
The trees and shadows bend his mind.)

She, undressing on the forest floor,
All green and gold and shimmering song,
Takes him to ground and shapes his soul:
You will not die and never know
What it is to love and be alone.  

(She holds him in a last embrace
And turns his eyes to see her face.)

Out of Time

When they removed the tree they moved the place
Or rather the place became a barren field
Where light through the green, still moving shade
No longer marks the ground like rain. 
And yet here I am with you,
Your face bent over mine the air
rippling with laughter the tree
covering us in its bright shadow the earth
yielding as we fall out of time. Out of time?
What is left but song?
Listen! the ringing in the air, this rain
These tears hammering out the tune, time and place.
He, she, and all you love, draw near. 

 

Man

What goes
like a wolf
in the morning
like the sea
in the afternoon
and the wind
at night?

The wolf is desire.
The sea is the journey.
The wind is what remains.

The answer is always man.

As you once were

Set out beneath the stars
on a solitary raft
that drifts along the shore
on a current
that will bring you
out to sea and sky
beyond all imagining

as you once were
as you will be again.

Summer Rain

If it would only rain my words would pour forth like girls and boys too young to know shame O they are bold as I would be the rain falls I am young again dance touch while the music plays so falls the rain O she is here there are tears of joy tears songs of praise for the beauty of the day earth yields up its flowers to her hand turns to gentle thunder her body lifts and holds her laughter makes the night shudder unbinds her hair and falls to me now here now there like summer rain

Leaf Fall

Follow the path
of leaf fall,
the short cut home
twixt sky and dream.

When you're there,
you'll be right here,
safe with me. 

 

One and done

You sit across the page, spelling

Your name like mine

Except it rhymes

And no one suspects you are lonely

Or looney or so hungry

you could eat this paper,

folding it into a star

popping it in the microwave

where you and I and the universe

will be one and done.

The Fall

He fell (he was always falling)

Or rather, he jumped, missing the water

That would have taken him, leaving his remains

to flow in the rhythms of his speech,

Washed clean like one hoping to please

Instead of what was, a silent heap,

Though there was heard from a nearby street

What some would call a melodious scream.

For Alex Thomas Coming To My House

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

Could make an old man cry. Not me! Round

The back my grandson plays hide and seek.

I’ve not the slightest idea what that means

But, Alex, you will know! I can only dream

And look for nuts on airy ground.

You see, I’ve placed a charm about the house

And made my home among earthbound clouds.

Alex, you deserve this stupid poem. Take the blame!

If you were me, you would do the same.  

If that’s confusing, Lord, just let it rain.

 

For Rachel

 

    I do not know the pain you feel, dear one,

    But it must be more than a soul can bear --

    I feel that and would say no more

    Than what the towering tree nearby

    Would have me say: we feel it,

    Earth and root, leaf and wind,

    The sky itself would fall for you

    and comfort you. It knows

    no other blue.

For Mary and Emma

Video Recording: For Mary and Emma

 

Hey Mary, Hey Emma,

Let’s say together

what we have made our own:

κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων.

Those who know no Greek

will understand what is essential:

we are friends.

In class, you let me ramble,

which I do well,

while you do all the work,

if you call it work

to play qui, quae, quod

and quack like ducks.

Some folks say Latin and Homer’s Greek are dead.

They’ll know better

when they hear angels like you

speak only bella Latina

and reckon things by the Αlpha and 0mega.  

Those who know no Latin or ancient Greek

will find themselves back in school.

Not you!

Valete, vos amo magis quam dicere possum.

 

For Christine -- May, 2020

 

In times like these

Christine is our Christine

Not for better or worse

But for her gift not to dwell

On what’s not possible

But on what is

and do it so well.

 

A Flea

for Charles

Having not heard from you in days

(seems like years to a flea like me),

I worry, no doubt needlessly,

but there it is – the worry

worrying me, knowing

it will do no good,

and that’s a worry too,

so let’s call it prayer,

which likewise does no good

except it makes me feel better

or worse about myself,

depending, as it does,

on a dog.

 

Nocte

 

He tripped and fell
and had a tale to tell

But all you could hear
was a door closing.

O there were whistles
and wolves and owls

But all anyone could hear
was an old man gasping,

alone at last
with a tale to tell.

 

Kiss and Tell

 
Who but a god

Could look at you

Sweetly laughing

And not die


For a kiss, dying

Again and again

Like gods of spring

that never truly


Die. Your lips

Like night

hold back the day

And close my eyes . . .

Awake! Awake!

You are no god

To kiss and tell

Of life and death.

 

a dead-wall reverie

Ibidom. Is no thinking thing here but the peepinghouse round it goes is there nothing there from sea to rounda coda no knowing no browbeating to hoedown the adamses and damses looking roundaway the wailing goes awagginawaning about the off wall but there shebares all to what is not there the museymusik makes you trot and drop so rainruns and her lastofall. There!

now east now west

 

now east now west

the road has a mind of its own

and my feet obey

 

the rest of me stays behind
treelike

 

above

the sky grows gentle

 

MY HEART OPENS

the road goes on

as if not knowing

which way is best

A broken wing

 
Who will stop and weep for you,
Who will sing your song,
Who will call a rose a rose
And trace her love in sand?

If still you breathe in silence
And look upon the stars,
Yet you may lift up your voice
And match the wind in time.

Does the storm overwhelm you,
Does day turn dark to black?
There’s none here to see you
Fall and find a sudden light.

It's March but spring it's not

It’s March but spring it's not,

Not the preamble or invocation

Of a pleuraplenty of sight and sound --

This time there’s choking

And thoughts best forgot:

A friend who's gone,

A cough, am lost. 

O well – there's time, 

hard rain, a simple rime.

For Rita Dove

Not psyche but a nail

that bites hard, holds

true and rusts into

spring ahead of

the flowers, she

outlasts the wood

the pain

me.

 

Spring before spring

           

         The spring before spring

                is in the eye,

           Awake in the deepest

                sleep of winter.

    

Night Birds

Black stone white rain
Blue smoke soft pain.

Night comes. I do not sleep
Yet dream of birds climbing
The sky to find the sea.
I fall like fire and sing

To strange boys and girls
Who close their eyes and turn
To the sea and hear

The birds singing like rain. 

When they wake, they dream. 

 

Buttons

Smoke rising burnt orange then down around the edge until the tenderness binding flung into the night curving endlessly, her gift her fire dying in my arms her body rising until nothing but the bloom of sighing herself to sleep tight as the moon and flying.

The Sound that Wind Makes

(for Maya)

I want words to breathe like I do, weep when I do, and bruise easily.

I want words to dream and remember those dreams that first set me on this path.

I want words to grow old with me and become like the lines in my face and tell me
      old stories that keep my stumbling spirit from falling and new ones that tell of
      love forever young and freely given.
I want words of no regret even for the sorry waste of all I have left undone, unsaid.

I want words to hold up a mirror and see there all who at some time have gone hand
      in hand with me through this life.

O what a wondrously crowded reflection that would be, all of them in the morning
     of their lives, young and old alike.  

O that words would fall like these tears and mark the page in silver and gold, the true
colors of night, that these words would live on in their hearts and find some rest there,
though I myself be nothing but the sound the restless wind makes on a cold night,
the wind that sweeps down the mountainside and past all the houses in which loved ones
have died and gathers up all those lost souls and scatters what is but dust and ash
through the deep space of time. 

Two Part Invention

If all there is and comes to be
A child to hold a dying sun
Then let the world our night to know
And let this song be what we love.

If all there is and cannot be
Two to bind a trinity
Then let our love forever shine
And hope for dark eternity.

Rise, O child, as a single note!
Lift this song on the desert sea
And make us all forget-me-not
That all may know love's levity!

The question yet I put to thee:
Does Death herself sing harmony?

 

River Notes

As I sit here writing tonight at my desk I am on the river and see myself in the flow of all things . . . the sounds of water, bird and wind are my voice, and all my senses are alive as though the stars were at elbow and foot . . . I breathe in the night and orion, aldebaran, and procyon come closer, and there you are again, musa, luna puella, your body curving and folding in the current, laughing and inviting me to dive with you beneath the rippling and lose myself at last, these words nothing but the falling rain.

Somewhere Else

I am thinking, my friend, that you have already seen this article: The Art of Dying.

It's a long, rambling read.  I haven’t read every word, didn’t need to, very familiar.  I’ve been comatose for the last four days, though I expect any time now to wake up and be somewhere else:

 

                    The Lake Isle of Innisfree
                                                  BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

    I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
    And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
    Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
    And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
    Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
    There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
    And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

    I will arise and go now, for always night and day
    I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
    While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
    I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

As it happens, breaks from the routines of teaching are not good for me or rather not good for the first week or so until I can think about something other than tomorrow, which I am trying to do now, the ‘something other’. The words begin to write themselves, yours truly not really there at all, but there is a prophecy I’ve heard: If you are patient, you really will not be here at all or the words  Which brings me back to the New Yorker article. May you be doing better than I am, and dear Pauline. 

        Hugh

 

    If the sky should fall
    Or worse, there will be no one
    To know and no one to care
    That there ever was an open space
    Where old love comes to rest
    and pretends still to be,

    though I would not that
    be the final word
    or any word at all.

December 12: Arthur's Day

Arthur's Day

              for Arthur Sze, December 12

To you, who’ve written 

Some slip of verse

That made me fall,

A fool in love 

With words and you --

To you, who’ve hidden songs

In a worn-out sock

That now you use just for rocks--

I say, Barefoot and all,                  

Come out and play:

It’s Arthur’s Day,

When all who sing

Shall sing along. 

 

Download Arthur Sze Poster

Download Poetry Matters 2

Download Arthur the Owl and the Dragon

 

A perfect thing

A perfect thing is known by its imperfection

thus a man whose sole desire is to die well

or a love endangered only by fulfillment

or a paw without an opposable thumb

or a cut that bleeds so cleanly

that one regrets there’s not enough of you

to feed those starving for something else.

Digging in the garden

 

Digging in the garden I find

but earthy loot: worms, beetles,

pebbles and ocean shells

and a blackened shard to cast away

for luck and there in the shade

of a supple palm, taking hold

where it should not be, a girl :

I think of Phaiakia and Nausicaa

washing her clothes for some

beggar like me, rough-hewn

in all but speech and she lingers

beside the pool, wondering

if it be a god or beast or bard

that shapes her soul seaward

to be free. She looks and looks,

not believing what she sees

or what she feels. He tells her

of a younger, stranger man

who will come for her

when the spell is broken

and she as wild as the sea. 

 

Though she's lost her way

Though she's lost her way

a river runs through her veins,

the moon in her hand. 

 

For the life of me

Yesterday before school I watched the sun rise over the trees but for the life of me I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do next.  

                                The trees                                           

                                 I can’t remember    

                                Yes! It was

                                The sun

                                 Life    

                                Above . . .