Fuck you I love you is pretty
Much the same as the golden strands
Of your hair falling from the sky
Like petals and your lips a bitter
Chocolate and the children dressed up
In grown-up clothes, high heels and
Cowboy boots to begin their journey
To the dark and lovely Afterlife.
Fuck you I love you! All the prying
Eyes of heaven are not as blue as
Yours so lovely in that shade of black
Which is the same through my eyes
As the night sky is to the riverrun
Through dark fields of wheat and fire.
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 a ribbon in the roots
of a supple tree, taking hold
where it should not be: 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 another, more handsome man,
who will come for her
when the spell is broken
and she, as old and young as me.
Last night the raccoons foraged
in our backyard: there were grapes,
bread, cheese, grapes and wine
we had left out ‘til morning.
All this while we slept
and I, dreaming of dreaming,
tasted honey and found you
close, pawing softly, hands
and feet rhythmically climbing.
In the morning there were tracks
on my arms and legs and you,
looking out, cursed the varmints
gently and, like a detective, traced
your fingers through your hair
and could not help but smile.
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.
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.
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.
-for so k
So, here you are
only different in form
prima puella
'heart blooming
irises'
even at night.
We met when raw desire
first flowed like fire
through the dark fullness
of simple night. We met
in the play of wind and wave
upon an unsung shore,
where rack and shell
called out the time to come,
the time that's now
and will always be
and be no more.
Before there was love
Or hate, our names were
Inscribed in every sigh
in the golden harvest
of our first night.
You came to be
as I lay dying, barely
breathing, ready
to be born again
and praise the light.
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.
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.
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.
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.
(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.
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.
(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!
He was losing his grip on everyday realities. Location and time became but a wandering tide, as if the sea had forgotten how to breathe. Then it happens. A skyless bird dives into song, his wingéd heart soars and he dies again and again until he is one, no one, nowhere, whole, nothing, lifted by the love of beauty that sustains all things, bird and air and light but a single note, the silent pulse of a cosmic drum.
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.
You spoke the only true word I know
And that word became an open wound
They cleaned with lye, not knowing
Your pain, your tears were like wine
That would save their shining souls.
Pick up the rifle, son
No you said
That’s no SIR, son
Pick up the damn gun!
No you said.
They called the captain
They called the priest
They called the doctor
Are you crazy, son?
No no no
Come with us!
You walked away.
I see you now forty years later
alone on that far thundering shore
“I will not fight your fucking war!”
You are carving a face out of driftwood
the face behind the face of everyone I meet
I have it still and think of you.
You came back. True to your word.
And they sent you to Leavenworth
Where your bruises became sores
Your sores gaping wounds
Your screams the blessing
That saves our sorry souls.
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.)
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.
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
Turn the page and you will find
The emptiness you have been searching for:
A blank page is waiting for you,
Alone now for the last time,
Yearning for all that is not there,
Each word you write so full of life
You'll never want to turn the page again.
The sun will spin and the moon will weave
Itself into the mystery of the night
Where now you find yourself
As you truly are: not really there at all.
Let the land flourish and be whole,
Let the thunder bring you home.
You want to know
what is your life
but all you find
are words, zeroes
and ones,
and bread crumbs
in your beard.
Where you ask
is the red iris
that is your heart?
Where the feather
of your breath
or your absence?
You want to become
what you already are
while there is still a you
that cares how light
becomes a face
and looks at you
like you were glass.
There comes a time
when love turns away
and finds itself in dust
where no angels reside,
no one teaches you
how to live, where
no one knows
you are not there.
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
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.
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.
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!
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.
Your skin like this ground
Upon which all things run
Is scarred and cracked
yet yearns for life
and wordless words
that speak of love.
You lie there
and think of spring.
You are as old as rain
and ever young.
He held her feathers in his hand
But the wind took them for itself.
There was nothing but these words
To write on this dry coarse paper,
Her skin, the red ink she died of
Running off like a mountain stream.
A hawk is as little
a darting thought
or glance
As it is a sky-wolf
or windborne voice.
It is a name
for what cannot be
named within ourselves
and would else be lost.
So we stop and die
But would bravely say,
We dive like hawks
and climb the sky.
for mickey
There is life and death
and life again, ground
to common cosmic
dust. Here we end
and begin again,
his eyes so deep
we find in death
his life and love
within ourselves.
No, Not I*
I did not do
the thing I did,
nor say aught
that I have said.
Nor will I die
Like other men.
I will decline,
and lie in bed.
*Hamlet, III.i, 96-97; V, gravediggers
* * *
Revision
If only 'lie'
would take a nap,
but like my tale
it likes to wag:
nor did I say
what I have said,
Which I prefer, but
would miss the play.
Most would say, what’s the point?
Such slender threads are all my thought.
“I am not Prince Hamlet nor meant to be” --
Eliot says and does not say,
revels here are ever ended.
She wore no more
than her eyes,
She held the ring
and spoke her vow.
Simple as breath,
as wind she died.
We turned now
to hear him speak,
but all we heard,
as he fell, was
the fall of rain
in every word.
We all agreed
they both died well.
We could not hear
each to each
their vows betrayed
in the river's deep.
Walking through days
I have walked through
long ago, same
step and stride, same
heart wanting something
more; yet today
is the only day
I can’t remember you
Walking through the years
to find me standing
here alone, longing
for the moon,
Its light buried
in my heart of hearts:
Be with you soon.
Photograph by Ber Himwich
What the eye sees
Is true, though
only a shadow
of the truth.
What remains
Is ours alone
and holds us
All as one.
No one can take
What is not theirs
To give: a heart,
a mind, a simple
soul and what
at last is grace.
Just so are we
For what remains
So simply bound
As friends.
For Emily
It's but a drop of rain -
However slight its sum -
It will dissolve the sky
and swallow up the sun
. . . . .
What can lift the fallen soul
And make it feel its toes?
Don’t hold your breath
That is the key
And be it but the air
You’ll light upon a wayward word
And turning -- dancing there
She unraveled
at my feet
like the sea
like the sea
She rose and wept
and called to me
Now I call to you
with a thousand voices
of a thousand seas.
What soft tune
What soft tune
Turns the moon
Through its stations?
No lover's art
Shapes the night
And makes it move
Only the note
Of a dying bird
In its dark nest
Sings it round
The earth
And calls it home.
To be wholly there
If we were wholly open
To earth, tree and flower,
There would be no poems
Only the chattering silence
Of wind, hoofbeat, and rain.
For to be wholly there
Is to die 10.000 times,
Each sight and sound
A thread that binds us close
and makes us whole.
Is it possible to love
and be alone? he asks,
but she, worrying at buttons,
just mutters, Some days,
my love, are better than others.
Nothing but wind
I’ve stopped dying and breathing,
But you, my love, fall upon me like skin,
Like rain that streams through my veins,
And you teach me to breathe again
And how to die again and again
Until I become nothing but wind.
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.
Love, friends, is deadly. You may wonder,
Am I suffering from a broken heart
Or has love, freely given,
Not been returned? To which I say,
Yes, O Yes, Yes!
Beat the drums and let the bagpipes play
And I will march ripe into that narrow patch
Of mind and sand and play, She loves me
She loves me not, and haply saw
My soul in two.
I shall send her flowers,
Long purples that prickly boys
Call a grosser name,
But she will say as maidens do,
"How could you be so lame?"
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.
You will come to the end
of your high story,
your body broken,
your spirit weak and alone,
the goal still distant,
yet on your lips a song
of no regret as you
set out a final time
on a ship unrigged,
your self the wind
and sky and sea.
NO SPOONING ALLOWED ON CAMPUS
So young folks
have only soup
and are always
hungry.
DON’T TOUCH THE FLOWERS!
They are not for you!
(After all, you are not dead.)
NO HUNTING ALLOWED!
Students Are Out of Season.
Spring cannot be far behind!
For far too long
I’ve been hostage
To the fates.
No more.
I will not play.
Do what you will,
I will not obey.
Of course, you will.
So runs the wind.
It's the air you breathe,
the song you sing.
So stirs the day,
You hear it still.
You will obey.
Aria says
She’s worlds away,
In this one she is lost,
Though some would say
She’s found a home
And can never be
apart. She holds
So still she travels
fast, like love
before it’s asked.
There is before me in my room
An old lamp that burns
With no bulb screwed in.
It gets its light from years ago
When my father would read to me
Of little mice who ruled the house
And left my room a fearful sight,
My toys and clothes all here and there --
He smiled his smile, as I do mine,
Beneath this lamp and its brief light.
Call Parra Neruda and see how he likes it
He has a fine wife who does what she pleases
I see
Call Parra Neruda and see how he likes it
Love’s cornered the market on health and disease
I see
Call Parra Neruda and see how he likes it
Piss off at three, we’re shooting the breeze
I see
Call Parra Neruda and see how he likes it
We die so often we forget how to breathe
(Disclaimer: This ‘poem’ refers
to no one living or dead
or otherwise not breathing
.)
Not sure what this is,
antipoetry or just
bad poetry, if
even that.
That’s what friends are for –
to bang the pot
and make it sound
like all is lost
or time for bed.
Surely, you will like this not!
Or else, I’m doomed,
though Daisy knows
there’s room enough
to brood for two.
(You know the tune.)
A rose is a rose
and nothing else
will do, she says.
A worm would settle
for nothing less. You,
you bitch and moan, then dance,
hand to hoof and hoof to hand,
dressed in nothing more
than you. You beg,
Bring down the moon!
But all I do is cough
and pee in bed
and call stray cats like you
a friend.
. . . . . .
Be well! Or if it is too
late, make the best
of a sorry fate,
Or slam the door
on what is a face
so much like yours
It must be fake.
(Myself? I can’t stop lying.
It means the world to me.)
(What is the sound of a door
already shut? A blue, blue sky
or a wish to die. Or not.)
(What do you know for sure?
Cogito,
ergo cogito.) No more.
Actually, I could go on
but Daisy says it’s time for bed,
time for love is what she means.
You know, hand in hoof or hoof in hand.
Whatever. Love or hate.
We'll not go quiet in the night.
That’s for sure!
In the name of father
mother orphan child,
let it be so.
This poem has elicited the dreaded no comment except from one good friend who did me the kindness of asking about the word ‘gimble'. Nevertheless, I continue to enjoy the poem as if it were written by someone else for whom poetry brings into view such beauty that we but suffer the more for its absence. It is a backward way of praising poetry. That’s what I think antipoetry is doing. Anyway, here is the worthless little bit of a stinker in its final ode-rous form. Hold your nose . . . . .
Poetry Stinks
Poetry gives us just enough of what is real
to make us howl and gimble in the night,
too far from moon and what is our fate
To make it right. It stinks a lot!
Fault these eyes prying out the pain a bargain this time but next in line a drowning or sketching this day or night like any other point the shortest distance is dying is such a drag who were shot out of the dark and would go on bitching and so here we stand or suffer for what praying is to breathing and sometimes bark and other times bite like fire and god knows where you're bleeding
This tree grows to the stars
in remembrance of the dead
lost to all memory, its root
the earth upon which I stand
searching through the night,
its leaves leaping into fire
giving to each lost soul
a home in the deathless dark.
Quae me amat magis quam fas est
Neminem magis quam Bubonium amat.
. . . . .
She who loves me more than she should
Loves no one more than Bubonius.