after
you thought you’d sleep, wake relieved,
never think again of fighting
but the days after fit poorly, plain and aimless
without the thrill, threat, of the ring
you hug the pain that flashes between ribs –
body’s memory of fists – carry it close for weeks
until it disintegrates, muscles regress
and you’re left with photos, trophy,
a story you’ll write sometime
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Many
Wie viel sind deine Werk'
Red-shafted flicker, red-winged blackbird, redstart.
Ruby-throated hummingbird, rose-breasted grosbeak, redpoll.
Purple finch (which is red).
Yellowthroat, yellow warbler, goldfinch.
Yellowlegs, goldeneye, yellow-headed blackbird.
Yellow-bellied sapsucker, too.
Bluebird, bluejay, great blue heron,
and blue-winged teal.
[Wie viel... How many are your works]
afternoon, (ix)
Apple is her name
but they called
her Mother Mercy,
a girl who nourished
the world's wounded
with love and
spare words
...........one day
she ran out and
no one was there
to nourish poor Apple
with words or
with care
At the corner café
she sits by the window
sipping on her yerba maté.
.
but they called
her Mother Mercy,
a girl who nourished
the world's wounded
with love and
spare words
...........one day
she ran out and
no one was there
to nourish poor Apple
with words or
with care
At the corner café
she sits by the window
sipping on her yerba maté.
.
Thanks!
For a wonderful May adventure everyone. My apologies for not getting to the poems in the last few weeks; life has a poetic way of intruding on the poetry. Thanks as well to all of you that made comments on the poems. The saga of Jay and Ellie will continue when I have more time to plot and write their story. And to muddle Mr. Churchill a bit:
We shall write on the seas and oceans, we shall write with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall write on the landing grounds, we shall write in the fields and in the streets, we shall write in the hills; we shall never surrender!
McCandless
you did it
went wild
deep into green trees Nenana River moose elk bears
lingon berries crowberries salmonberries
hedysarum alpinum rhizoctonia leguminicola
listen
all you hear are the creaking of trees
as they move with wind
a snap of branches from an animal unseen
the bang of your gun
your thoughts through your voice
if you choose to speak alone
here you are
at-one-ment
away from every human soul
you looked happy on the Stampede trail
leaned casually against a bus
relic of Fairbank City Transit
relic of Yutan Construction 1963
complete liberty
you found it
with hardships you couldn’t have guessed
the lone wolf cries
you die in isolation
are you lonely
or just alone
tragic either way
for you to march
into woods subsist
off land then starve in 1992
your bus attracts pilgrims now
you’re commemorated
in song film book hearts imagination
you could have lived instead
went wild
deep into green trees Nenana River moose elk bears
lingon berries crowberries salmonberries
hedysarum alpinum rhizoctonia leguminicola
listen
all you hear are the creaking of trees
as they move with wind
a snap of branches from an animal unseen
the bang of your gun
your thoughts through your voice
if you choose to speak alone
here you are
at-one-ment
away from every human soul
you looked happy on the Stampede trail
leaned casually against a bus
relic of Fairbank City Transit
relic of Yutan Construction 1963
complete liberty
you found it
with hardships you couldn’t have guessed
the lone wolf cries
you die in isolation
are you lonely
or just alone
tragic either way
for you to march
into woods subsist
off land then starve in 1992
your bus attracts pilgrims now
you’re commemorated
in song film book hearts imagination
you could have lived instead
lost in
Yukon not on Fodor’s 2003 map
thanks for Aca Nada
past’s men and women
read newspapers seated on grass
wait for decisions on eternal fates
trouble is geography and history
cannot be distinguished
with a visible birthmark
like identical twins
outsiders come
for adventure to get away
from debts old boyfriends
from the people they were
but did not want to be
dreams lost in archaeological
layers of time
thanks for Aca Nada
past’s men and women
read newspapers seated on grass
wait for decisions on eternal fates
trouble is geography and history
cannot be distinguished
with a visible birthmark
like identical twins
outsiders come
for adventure to get away
from debts old boyfriends
from the people they were
but did not want to be
dreams lost in archaeological
layers of time
1 am
sleepdrugged and dreamheavy the phone shrills
becomes part of illogical night-time narrative until
the cell goes off by my ear. Garbled
conversation drifts, insinuates, clears, urges, stares
resignedly into nightmare's window: mind struggles to separate
the curtains between awake and asleep
and i am driving, can't remember how
i got dressed, what i am wearing
only where i need to go, and that it's already
too late. and somehow the quarter moon
lies improbably heavy in the southwest, an unwanted
section of an orange left on an empty table.
becomes part of illogical night-time narrative until
the cell goes off by my ear. Garbled
conversation drifts, insinuates, clears, urges, stares
resignedly into nightmare's window: mind struggles to separate
the curtains between awake and asleep
and i am driving, can't remember how
i got dressed, what i am wearing
only where i need to go, and that it's already
too late. and somehow the quarter moon
lies improbably heavy in the southwest, an unwanted
section of an orange left on an empty table.
Friday, May 29, 2009
boxing club
the hardest part of boxing
is pushing yourself
through the door that first time,
down stairs to the dingy-dim,
reek of effort and old gloves,
throb of heavy metal
all biceps and sweat
muscle shirts and mashed noses
until you look closer: unicorn tattoo
on a thick shoulder, butterfly stickers
glittering on the bulb of a glove
return once, twice, and the door gets lighter,
three times, four, and leaving –
stepping into air and sunshine –
becomes a punch to the face
the hardest part of boxing
is pushing yourself
through the door that first time,
down stairs to the dingy-dim,
reek of effort and old gloves,
throb of heavy metal
all biceps and sweat
muscle shirts and mashed noses
until you look closer: unicorn tattoo
on a thick shoulder, butterfly stickers
glittering on the bulb of a glove
return once, twice, and the door gets lighter,
three times, four, and leaving –
stepping into air and sunshine –
becomes a punch to the face
Edisonia: Corporal of the Guard, No. 1
Our boy, having dismounted from the train
after a long day of others’ doings, others’ pulp
& newsprint shadows, walked to the paddock,
his empty belly a drum, his extra papers
a suit of armour, a sensational buffer between
his small bed & the long shelves & heavy
afternoons in the Detroit Public Library.
Michael Oates, footsore, dirty, would sway behind him
on the horse as it ambled through the ink-pot night
its hooves setting clip-clop type,
its hide against their legs softer than rag-paper,
its gait smooth & predictable
all the way home. On the way, they’d pass the lit
& bustling fort & nearly every night a relay
from man to man would sound through
the cooling night:
Corporal of the Guard,
No. 1!
And Edison would stop the horse & startle
Michael & watch until the man himself appeared, wrapped
in his war like a cloak. A big battle meant papers flew out
of our boy’s hands, bad news a homing pigeon
that always returned to him. But the war wasn’t chemistry,
it wasn’t intermediate or even basic telegraphy:
His family had no slaves. His family had no
slaves & nothing would change if the north won.
Our boy wasn’t officer material,
but, one night, when the call didn’t go out,
Edison piped up: Corporal
of the Guard, No.1!
And the words were picked up & passed
to the next man & the next. And the Corporal appeared,
his brows creased & his horse pawing
the dirt, nickering at the soft nag he could smell out there.
Three nights running, our boy shouted into the blissful
dark. But the third night, the dark exploded
with men, teeth and eyes gleaming as ordinance
gleams when it lands at your feet and you stand there,
curiously unharmed. Michael Oates smiled
awkwardly as a soldier caught up
the reins but our boy slid down in the hubbub
and lit out for home.
The soliders followed. The soldiers
followed, determined to shake the boy like a fist
full of dice.
Edison galloped down the cellar stairs, ran
past his locked laboratory, and made for the room
where they kept the foodstuffs.
He knew there was an almost-empty barrel
of potatoes there, having carried up a eye-full
arm-full of soft tubers and reproduced
his mother's soft sigh at things undone
the night before. Edison hefted the barrel
and emptied the last of the potatoes
into the full barrels next to it. He crouched,
pulling the empty cask over his head
and sat in the stinking resinous dark, rotten
rot up his nose while feet tromped
through the cellar, voices
calling out to his father, who’d been eager
for his news of the war, only to have half an armed
regiment in his sitting room, bristling mad.
You’d think he was the enslaving enemy, those soldiers
glowered
so.
(Do I need to say that Samuel aped an overlord
with a switch the next morning, having found our boy
laid out in his bed, stinking, happy?)
after a long day of others’ doings, others’ pulp
& newsprint shadows, walked to the paddock,
his empty belly a drum, his extra papers
a suit of armour, a sensational buffer between
his small bed & the long shelves & heavy
afternoons in the Detroit Public Library.
Michael Oates, footsore, dirty, would sway behind him
on the horse as it ambled through the ink-pot night
its hooves setting clip-clop type,
its hide against their legs softer than rag-paper,
its gait smooth & predictable
all the way home. On the way, they’d pass the lit
& bustling fort & nearly every night a relay
from man to man would sound through
the cooling night:
Corporal of the Guard,
No. 1!
And Edison would stop the horse & startle
Michael & watch until the man himself appeared, wrapped
in his war like a cloak. A big battle meant papers flew out
of our boy’s hands, bad news a homing pigeon
that always returned to him. But the war wasn’t chemistry,
it wasn’t intermediate or even basic telegraphy:
His family had no slaves. His family had no
slaves & nothing would change if the north won.
Our boy wasn’t officer material,
but, one night, when the call didn’t go out,
Edison piped up: Corporal
of the Guard, No.1!
And the words were picked up & passed
to the next man & the next. And the Corporal appeared,
his brows creased & his horse pawing
the dirt, nickering at the soft nag he could smell out there.
Three nights running, our boy shouted into the blissful
dark. But the third night, the dark exploded
with men, teeth and eyes gleaming as ordinance
gleams when it lands at your feet and you stand there,
curiously unharmed. Michael Oates smiled
awkwardly as a soldier caught up
the reins but our boy slid down in the hubbub
and lit out for home.
The soliders followed. The soldiers
followed, determined to shake the boy like a fist
full of dice.
Edison galloped down the cellar stairs, ran
past his locked laboratory, and made for the room
where they kept the foodstuffs.
He knew there was an almost-empty barrel
of potatoes there, having carried up a eye-full
arm-full of soft tubers and reproduced
his mother's soft sigh at things undone
the night before. Edison hefted the barrel
and emptied the last of the potatoes
into the full barrels next to it. He crouched,
pulling the empty cask over his head
and sat in the stinking resinous dark, rotten
rot up his nose while feet tromped
through the cellar, voices
calling out to his father, who’d been eager
for his news of the war, only to have half an armed
regiment in his sitting room, bristling mad.
You’d think he was the enslaving enemy, those soldiers
glowered
so.
(Do I need to say that Samuel aped an overlord
with a switch the next morning, having found our boy
laid out in his bed, stinking, happy?)
Die Himmel erzählen...
Erzählen: to tell.
Predict
Bright azure and white,
patches of gunmetal gray.
The wind— you never know.
Instruct
Take an umbrella.
A jacket, at least.
Recount
Clouds moved in so fast!
The classroom was dark.
Got soaked on the way home.
Declare
Look, it's finally
stopped.
["Die Himmel erzählen": the heavens are telling.]
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The third day
Denn er hat Himmel und Erde bekleidet in herrlicher Pracht.
Heaven
Tulips
fill their cups with sunlight.
Earth
Holes dug for daisies,
damp-earth scent released.
Clothed
Impatiens. How many ways are there
to be pink?
Glorious
Evening and morning fragrant
with lily-of-the-valley.
[more quoting from The Creation: "For he hath clothed heaven and earth in glorious splendor."]
watching
he watches through the camera viewfinder,
reduces the fight to cute, harmless –
you miniature, an actor on the screen
throwing a small fist at your opponent
or, perhaps, placing a cookie in her mouth,
letting her pat your face
lens filters blows,
shrunken punches don’t hurt
as much – you, her, him
but he tries again and again to hold you
safe, still, with the pinch of shutter
he watches through the camera viewfinder,
reduces the fight to cute, harmless –
you miniature, an actor on the screen
throwing a small fist at your opponent
or, perhaps, placing a cookie in her mouth,
letting her pat your face
lens filters blows,
shrunken punches don’t hurt
as much – you, her, him
but he tries again and again to hold you
safe, still, with the pinch of shutter
Learning Curbside
Along the road he found
three pots, large as the one
cracked at home, in need
of serious replacing.
Right there at driveway’s end
left for neighborly scavengers
along with two mismatched
wooden chairs, one green,
one blue and a purple striped
umbrella for a table he hasn’t
made yet. Each piece of trash
turned treasure as he lifted
it into the trunk of his old car,
relocating garden bounty
before the day-late trash truck
made its rounds. This is the way
it works around here, silent offers
sit like school children waiting
for a yellow bus, taking them
away to learn how to be more.
three pots, large as the one
cracked at home, in need
of serious replacing.
Right there at driveway’s end
left for neighborly scavengers
along with two mismatched
wooden chairs, one green,
one blue and a purple striped
umbrella for a table he hasn’t
made yet. Each piece of trash
turned treasure as he lifted
it into the trunk of his old car,
relocating garden bounty
before the day-late trash truck
made its rounds. This is the way
it works around here, silent offers
sit like school children waiting
for a yellow bus, taking them
away to learn how to be more.
Morning, (vii)
everything in a state
of metamorphosis
..........until it isn't
..........life tasting stale
as day-old bread
an open bottle of wine
i love yous spilled carelessly
last year sometime
.
of metamorphosis
..........until it isn't
..........life tasting stale
as day-old bread
an open bottle of wine
i love yous spilled carelessly
last year sometime
.
Night letters #25, 26 Y, Z
why night letters, you ask
I wrote them for you
the one who laughs
for you
the one who mourns
for you
the one who loves
for you
the jealous
and I wrote them
for you, woman cocooned
in folds of blue silk, double-edged
burkha
and for you
the one who hates
and for you
and you
and you
who just likes
to read a lifetime
in three simple lines
I write my night letters
tired into late May,
but now I have to leave
you, my words
all, to catch a plane
head out into the wilds
of army and my brain
on overdrive trying to collect
the road to war
in tiny laser raindrops
goodnight friends, readers
goodnight....
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
that's me for 2009... sorry I couldn't contribute more thoughtful comments, more thoughtful work this year, but most of you know where I am/where I'm going, and juggling home, war and writing is a very tricky thing
best,
sms
billiards, a riel man's game
Gabe was a hustler,
ran the ferry
and the best game in town.
The only pool hall on the prairies.
With a cue, or a rifle,
broke the closely clustered game, shot
them down where he wanted them.
Led a hunt at half the age of most
men who led. Had his first rifle at 10.
The fifth bend in the river is still
his.
Big Gabe and Little Lou.
Gabe named for an angel,
Louis for a king.
When the time
of reckoning came the angel
flew.
The king lost his
crown.
God knows which was
harder to live with,
die with.
And of either man, no direct
descendants survived.
Left corner pocket.
Sink them all.
ran the ferry
and the best game in town.
The only pool hall on the prairies.
With a cue, or a rifle,
broke the closely clustered game, shot
them down where he wanted them.
Led a hunt at half the age of most
men who led. Had his first rifle at 10.
The fifth bend in the river is still
his.
Big Gabe and Little Lou.
Gabe named for an angel,
Louis for a king.
When the time
of reckoning came the angel
flew.
The king lost his
crown.
God knows which was
harder to live with,
die with.
And of either man, no direct
descendants survived.
Left corner pocket.
Sink them all.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Black, the Shining - for Jonathan
i.
the babies are not safe, she says. the crows are attacking bald people. she herself, because of the cancer treatments and hair loss from chemo, is wearing a hat so they will not be tempted. she peers through her backfence, over to ours. clutching a sunbonnet, sweet Joanne, who will die later that summer. she prays for each person in the neighbourhood as she showers each day. her husband jokes he knows what she thinks of him based on what body part she is washing when she names him. the crows flap nervously from our pine tree. i laugh at her supersitions on behalf of the bald. she asks if i heard the shrieking that morning at 5 am. drunken revellers returning home late, children up early on the weekend? no: a balding businessman jogging down the alley on a saturday morning. the crows - swooping. diving. threatening. Joanne, watching from behind gauzed curtains, decided his bald head drew them. irresistable shine, like mr. clean. we abandon our backyard picnic, bald baby on each hip. children scattering alongside, holding their heads. one crow follows us all the way to the house, perch by perch: as the backdoor swings safely shut, arrows back to sentient pine.
ii.
from our front step, watch strangers clutching at heads, waving arms as they run down our street. looking above them, swatting, sometimes crying out. and the crows. their guttural cries. how they triangulate so the victim is always between them. once our corner is passed, they yo-yo back to original posts. shake-kneed victims stumble off kerbs, stop rush hour traffic with crucifix arms and gethsemane faces. inside, the children begin to hope for pedestrians, want to invite friends over, predict traffic accidents, cheer for the birds. i read up on crows.
iii.
a large group of crows: a murder. we look out our window, and see a murder. for neither the first or last time.
iv.
i contact a researcher via the internet, describing the corvid behaviour. he excitedly asks me to videotape it. crows group in families - adults without mates or children will come back to their parents to help raise younger siblings. the four or five regular adults chasing people may be an avian couple with teens, protecting nest or distressed youngster. excitedly i tell my partner.
v.
partner decides to take nest down. children and i protest. would we not do the same were we threatened? we should help them. cotton balls or bearing balls in his ears, he ignores all others, dons welding helmet from days gone by, leather gloves, overalls. steel-toed boots. climbs the pine tree, with a tennis racket in one hand.
vi.
i wish i had a video camera.
vii.
they dive at him half-heartedly as he ascends. he throws the nest to the ground - we are dismayed at how loosely a crow's nest is made. secretly i hope it will not take long to remake. there is nothing inside. the children cheer.
viii.
more screams at dawn. who knew there were so many bald joggers? but even people with hats are attacked. and one boy in particular. the boy across the alley. the boy with the slingshot.
ix.
i see the boy again, aiming into my yard, the crows wheeling around him. his eyes blank and hard as chipped marbles. instinct makes me run out, and there is the victim. slingshot found the mark days ago, this crow can't fly, only jog one broken wing trailing. black shining eyes meet mine. i've solved a murder.
x.
i speak to the boy; his parents; Joanne; my partner. the children run out to see the wounded crow, give him food and water. their father follows and in front of us all, decapitates the crow with a golf club. the last day i ever thought of him as my partner, though more and less would follow, and none of it related. unless crows have malicious ghosts. once a tree fell on him, broke his leg. i had an alibi.
xi.
the crows still live in our pine tree. they cry out if he comes by. memory serves, re-serves.
xii.
i find a crow on my front lawn - his wing is broken. i get a cage from a neighbour, win him in with bread and water, speak peaceably, call the university vet college. he is cared for.
and the crows still live in our pine tree.
the babies are not safe, she says. the crows are attacking bald people. she herself, because of the cancer treatments and hair loss from chemo, is wearing a hat so they will not be tempted. she peers through her backfence, over to ours. clutching a sunbonnet, sweet Joanne, who will die later that summer. she prays for each person in the neighbourhood as she showers each day. her husband jokes he knows what she thinks of him based on what body part she is washing when she names him. the crows flap nervously from our pine tree. i laugh at her supersitions on behalf of the bald. she asks if i heard the shrieking that morning at 5 am. drunken revellers returning home late, children up early on the weekend? no: a balding businessman jogging down the alley on a saturday morning. the crows - swooping. diving. threatening. Joanne, watching from behind gauzed curtains, decided his bald head drew them. irresistable shine, like mr. clean. we abandon our backyard picnic, bald baby on each hip. children scattering alongside, holding their heads. one crow follows us all the way to the house, perch by perch: as the backdoor swings safely shut, arrows back to sentient pine.
ii.
from our front step, watch strangers clutching at heads, waving arms as they run down our street. looking above them, swatting, sometimes crying out. and the crows. their guttural cries. how they triangulate so the victim is always between them. once our corner is passed, they yo-yo back to original posts. shake-kneed victims stumble off kerbs, stop rush hour traffic with crucifix arms and gethsemane faces. inside, the children begin to hope for pedestrians, want to invite friends over, predict traffic accidents, cheer for the birds. i read up on crows.
iii.
a large group of crows: a murder. we look out our window, and see a murder. for neither the first or last time.
iv.
i contact a researcher via the internet, describing the corvid behaviour. he excitedly asks me to videotape it. crows group in families - adults without mates or children will come back to their parents to help raise younger siblings. the four or five regular adults chasing people may be an avian couple with teens, protecting nest or distressed youngster. excitedly i tell my partner.
v.
partner decides to take nest down. children and i protest. would we not do the same were we threatened? we should help them. cotton balls or bearing balls in his ears, he ignores all others, dons welding helmet from days gone by, leather gloves, overalls. steel-toed boots. climbs the pine tree, with a tennis racket in one hand.
vi.
i wish i had a video camera.
vii.
they dive at him half-heartedly as he ascends. he throws the nest to the ground - we are dismayed at how loosely a crow's nest is made. secretly i hope it will not take long to remake. there is nothing inside. the children cheer.
viii.
more screams at dawn. who knew there were so many bald joggers? but even people with hats are attacked. and one boy in particular. the boy across the alley. the boy with the slingshot.
ix.
i see the boy again, aiming into my yard, the crows wheeling around him. his eyes blank and hard as chipped marbles. instinct makes me run out, and there is the victim. slingshot found the mark days ago, this crow can't fly, only jog one broken wing trailing. black shining eyes meet mine. i've solved a murder.
x.
i speak to the boy; his parents; Joanne; my partner. the children run out to see the wounded crow, give him food and water. their father follows and in front of us all, decapitates the crow with a golf club. the last day i ever thought of him as my partner, though more and less would follow, and none of it related. unless crows have malicious ghosts. once a tree fell on him, broke his leg. i had an alibi.
xi.
the crows still live in our pine tree. they cry out if he comes by. memory serves, re-serves.
xii.
i find a crow on my front lawn - his wing is broken. i get a cage from a neighbour, win him in with bread and water, speak peaceably, call the university vet college. he is cared for.
and the crows still live in our pine tree.
The Favorite Present
A little boy who just turned three
is not so much a sleeper
as a sleuth.
Enamored by a TV show where clues
are gathered
in an all important
handy dandy notebook
with a spiral at the top
just big enough to hold a blue crayon,
the boy is emphatic the notebook be
always at hand
or rather tucked in his britches
to use at any moment a clue surfaces.
In a pile of expensive presents
he wades with the small orange
cardboard cover poking from his jeans,
the prize he will not let out of his sight
no matter how the expensive toys
weigh around him and givers implore
his bright eyes for attention.
He pats the stiff surface of the notebook
in satisfied wonder and says again,
“It’s just what I wanted.”
is not so much a sleeper
as a sleuth.
Enamored by a TV show where clues
are gathered
in an all important
handy dandy notebook
with a spiral at the top
just big enough to hold a blue crayon,
the boy is emphatic the notebook be
always at hand
or rather tucked in his britches
to use at any moment a clue surfaces.
In a pile of expensive presents
he wades with the small orange
cardboard cover poking from his jeans,
the prize he will not let out of his sight
no matter how the expensive toys
weigh around him and givers implore
his bright eyes for attention.
He pats the stiff surface of the notebook
in satisfied wonder and says again,
“It’s just what I wanted.”
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Evening, (x)
31 mots au mois de mai:
.
.
je me suis endormie
dans ton jardin
…………………….ce soir
sous la tout petite lune
qui flottait
…………………..là-haut
les étoiles s’amusaient
à jouer………cache-cache
…………parmi les branches
bourgeonnantes
c'était beau
comme un rêve.
.
.
.
je me suis endormie
dans ton jardin
…………………….ce soir
sous la tout petite lune
qui flottait
…………………..là-haut
les étoiles s’amusaient
à jouer………cache-cache
…………parmi les branches
bourgeonnantes
c'était beau
comme un rêve.
.
Candy
After the war
my father was sent
to Germany
for the Occupation.
He used to stand
on the roof of his hotel
throwing
Hershey bars
to the kids
below.
They were abandoned
by the war-makers,
left to roam the streets
for food and friends.
The country was a mystery
to a skinny soldier who
never
had enough to eat
a day in his life
‘til he enlisted.
He could not fathom coming
all this way
and have
food to throw away—
just rain chocolate on folks
who
weeks before
were called mortal enemies
but now stood grounded
in the street—
hands uplifted in hopes
of catching GI rations,
the sweet germ of new truth
falling
in brown wrappers
from a uniformed city boy
who understood hunger.
my father was sent
to Germany
for the Occupation.
He used to stand
on the roof of his hotel
throwing
Hershey bars
to the kids
below.
They were abandoned
by the war-makers,
left to roam the streets
for food and friends.
The country was a mystery
to a skinny soldier who
never
had enough to eat
a day in his life
‘til he enlisted.
He could not fathom coming
all this way
and have
food to throw away—
just rain chocolate on folks
who
weeks before
were called mortal enemies
but now stood grounded
in the street—
hands uplifted in hopes
of catching GI rations,
the sweet germ of new truth
falling
in brown wrappers
from a uniformed city boy
who understood hunger.
night letters #24 w
wild cards
no one knows which way this'll go
how he'll be next time
he sees her, or she him;
ace of diamonds, king of hearts?
a mitt full of jokers,
now that would be a laugh;
will she club him with her beauty?
will he no-trump her
with ambivalence?
and what about that queen of spades,
what cards does she have left to play
that whining, fucking bitch?
Edisonia: the aches of a candy butcher, ca. 1860
Our boy, having learned to inventory
the everyday, meets two dandies & their slave
as the train pulls from the station in Detroit.
Lazy, tired, the Southerners buy Edison’s round
armful of newspapers & toss them out the window,
instructing the slave to pay the bill.
Our boy brings all the print he’s got,
all of the polite columns with their rumblings
on abolitionists, slavers, lynchings - out the window.
Edison knows enough to play to the crowd
when someone else is paying. Wise sarcastic boy,
next he presents a stack of novels
taller than he is. Out the window. Cracked
hickory nuts, popcorn balls, molasses candy? Out.
His coat, hat, shoes? Out.
And finally his trunk, tied with a rope & dragged
from car to car. It all goes out the window, except the trunk.
The slave pushed that out the back door.
He & Edison watched it settle heavily next
to the tracks. And then the slave paid up,
knowing exactly
how much it cost to free him, what argument
might pick his lock. (The newsprint caught & soared
like smoke or sooty birds
aimed at the heart of the sun.)
the everyday, meets two dandies & their slave
as the train pulls from the station in Detroit.
Lazy, tired, the Southerners buy Edison’s round
armful of newspapers & toss them out the window,
instructing the slave to pay the bill.
Our boy brings all the print he’s got,
all of the polite columns with their rumblings
on abolitionists, slavers, lynchings - out the window.
Edison knows enough to play to the crowd
when someone else is paying. Wise sarcastic boy,
next he presents a stack of novels
taller than he is. Out the window. Cracked
hickory nuts, popcorn balls, molasses candy? Out.
His coat, hat, shoes? Out.
And finally his trunk, tied with a rope & dragged
from car to car. It all goes out the window, except the trunk.
The slave pushed that out the back door.
He & Edison watched it settle heavily next
to the tracks. And then the slave paid up,
knowing exactly
how much it cost to free him, what argument
might pick his lock. (The newsprint caught & soared
like smoke or sooty birds
aimed at the heart of the sun.)
Goose woman speaks
I was always long-necked,
thick through the waist, and broody
but being with child
cinched it. Some women knit booties, spend
months learning how to turn
the heel. Others rearrange their spare
rooms, become morbidly interested
in pastels. Me, I yanked out my hair, hank by hank,
lining the crib with the long black stuff.
(By the time baby lifted her hand
to me all she’d find was licks
of down.)
The crib was soft, the crib
was soft, but skin-to-skin is best, they say,
and I was all ruddy, starving skin, feeding
her at all hours, reduced
to dining by the fridge’s dim light those times
she settled. (She seemed to know
when I’d had enough and would rouse,
squawking arms out-thrust.) My hair grew in.
My weight dropped like a wet bird
so her father started bringing home
crumpled take-out bags, the food half-eaten,
or shrunken fruit out of season, the strawberries
wooden, the apples sharp; shoddy groceries
to be sure, but what can you do
when your baby is never further
away from you than the tips
of your outstretched fingers?
I tried to tell him: what’s good
for the goose is good for the gander.
But he learned early that the nine-to-five
was salvation after the dim all-day-all-night
of our rooms. And, if by some trick of the light
he got lonely, all he had to do was stand on Portage,
listen to the sirens and let the wind
have a go at him.
thick through the waist, and broody
but being with child
cinched it. Some women knit booties, spend
months learning how to turn
the heel. Others rearrange their spare
rooms, become morbidly interested
in pastels. Me, I yanked out my hair, hank by hank,
lining the crib with the long black stuff.
(By the time baby lifted her hand
to me all she’d find was licks
of down.)
The crib was soft, the crib
was soft, but skin-to-skin is best, they say,
and I was all ruddy, starving skin, feeding
her at all hours, reduced
to dining by the fridge’s dim light those times
she settled. (She seemed to know
when I’d had enough and would rouse,
squawking arms out-thrust.) My hair grew in.
My weight dropped like a wet bird
so her father started bringing home
crumpled take-out bags, the food half-eaten,
or shrunken fruit out of season, the strawberries
wooden, the apples sharp; shoddy groceries
to be sure, but what can you do
when your baby is never further
away from you than the tips
of your outstretched fingers?
I tried to tell him: what’s good
for the goose is good for the gander.
But he learned early that the nine-to-five
was salvation after the dim all-day-all-night
of our rooms. And, if by some trick of the light
he got lonely, all he had to do was stand on Portage,
listen to the sirens and let the wind
have a go at him.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Evening, (ix)
.
build it and she will come
believes the bowerbird
..........meanwhile
..........you and i
eternally searching for
home.
the roar
of easy laughter
behind
a latched door
a whiff of her of him
a key that fits the hole
outside my window
sparrows sing goodnights
balanced on
branches
so elaborately linked
my eyes can't
....................pull
apart the.knotted.elms
as entwined
as two bowerbirds
at
home
.
build it and she will come
believes the bowerbird
..........meanwhile
..........you and i
eternally searching for
home.
the roar
of easy laughter
behind
a latched door
a whiff of her of him
a key that fits the hole
outside my window
sparrows sing goodnights
balanced on
branches
so elaborately linked
my eyes can't
....................pull
apart the.knotted.elms
as entwined
as two bowerbirds
at
home
.
Lulled by Downpour
Days of bath warm rain
quilted with thunder
exceed the corners
of flowering beds.
Each herb tucks neatly
to the task of root-reaching—
quiet fingers receive
the drink.
Lavender buds swell
like pale raindrops
on tips of emerald feathers
mounding under late blush iris,
crowding finger buds of scarlet daylilies
making their premier performance.
The calm sound of rain
stitching softly on the roof,
soothes the house—
sews satin ribbons of water
fluttering wet outside
window panes,
and sends sleep
after the lightening
turns down.
quilted with thunder
exceed the corners
of flowering beds.
Each herb tucks neatly
to the task of root-reaching—
quiet fingers receive
the drink.
Lavender buds swell
like pale raindrops
on tips of emerald feathers
mounding under late blush iris,
crowding finger buds of scarlet daylilies
making their premier performance.
The calm sound of rain
stitching softly on the roof,
soothes the house—
sews satin ribbons of water
fluttering wet outside
window panes,
and sends sleep
after the lightening
turns down.
The Moment
Rarely do we catch
a leaf fall from a branch,
the moment when before
becomes after. When what’s left
of the baby's umbilical cord
starts to shrivel and shrink,
a rare mushroom we find
on the change table,
a familiar pink knot
in its place.
---
Dear May Dayers,
I think this might be my last post.
Congrats to you all for finding time to do what you love.
Hope to see these poems elsewhere in print soon!
a leaf fall from a branch,
the moment when before
becomes after. When what’s left
of the baby's umbilical cord
starts to shrivel and shrink,
a rare mushroom we find
on the change table,
a familiar pink knot
in its place.
---
Dear May Dayers,
I think this might be my last post.
Congrats to you all for finding time to do what you love.
Hope to see these poems elsewhere in print soon!
mirror
you’ve only ever used a mirror
to shrug at wayward curls
never primped
powdered
glossed
brushed
blushed
waxed
or tweezed
but now you can’t pass
without switching into stance,
tucking chin, lifting fists,
throwing quick one-twos
at your reflection
until you’re satisfied
with the ridges of muscle
flashing along your arms
you’ve only ever used a mirror
to shrug at wayward curls
never primped
powdered
glossed
brushed
blushed
waxed
or tweezed
but now you can’t pass
without switching into stance,
tucking chin, lifting fists,
throwing quick one-twos
at your reflection
until you’re satisfied
with the ridges of muscle
flashing along your arms
night letters #23 V
veil
indigo folds, view the world
through filigree, I not an I,
me not a me, we just are,
a shadow we; tickle tockle
clock clock over dry stone,
over dry muck streets;
still, I caught you looking-
we have great shoes,
we have great feet-
don't we?
Segmented
In langen Zügen kriecht am Boden das Gewürm.
Imagine the procession, that fifth day,
after all the impressive creatures
the line of moist grey bodies
pulling their segments in, stretching them out,
making for the nearest bit of dirt.
Disappearing one by one.
"You got good soil here,"
says the handyman, digging.
"Lots of worms."
He turns the clods over and there they are,
curled around dandelion roots:
dirt-eaters, leaf-shredders,
tunnel-makers.
Slimy things without eyes.
Vollendet ist das große Werk.
Job done, he waits for pay.
Der Schöpfer sieht's und freuet sich.
Sets down the spade. Says:
"She's ready for planting now."
[Quotations are from Haydn's oratorio The Creation.
In langen... In long procession the worms creep along the earth.
Vollendet... The great work is completed.
Der Schöpfer... The creator sees it and is pleased.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
champ
his clippings brittle
on the brick wall
yellow with lamotta, dempsey, louis,
as he checks memberships
in the club where he trained
decades ago, between bouts
north in logging camps
sweatpants over gut
gone soft, three-days’ beard
around his smile, says the same line
every time you walk in
i feel safe now that you’re here
and you forget
how close he’s lived
to blades, fists,
how different that is
from a one-hour boxing lesson
behind the desk
thick fingers blunt
on the small square keys
of a calculator,
shy as he neatens
a stack of bills
in the cashbox,
his writing a shock:
proper and finely-looped
as a schoolteacher’s
how easy he is in the gym,
holding heavy bags,
squeezing his fingers to show
how the glove should square
with a last snap,
using this hands to retell
facts he’s learned
with his body, pass along
stories carried in muscle
and you know it’s only
that his mind can’t make a fist
around your name,
that too many knuckles
have shaken his skull,
rattled brain like a die
loose in a palm,
but you still smile
every time he calls you champ
his clippings brittle
on the brick wall
yellow with lamotta, dempsey, louis,
as he checks memberships
in the club where he trained
decades ago, between bouts
north in logging camps
sweatpants over gut
gone soft, three-days’ beard
around his smile, says the same line
every time you walk in
i feel safe now that you’re here
and you forget
how close he’s lived
to blades, fists,
how different that is
from a one-hour boxing lesson
behind the desk
thick fingers blunt
on the small square keys
of a calculator,
shy as he neatens
a stack of bills
in the cashbox,
his writing a shock:
proper and finely-looped
as a schoolteacher’s
how easy he is in the gym,
holding heavy bags,
squeezing his fingers to show
how the glove should square
with a last snap,
using this hands to retell
facts he’s learned
with his body, pass along
stories carried in muscle
and you know it’s only
that his mind can’t make a fist
around your name,
that too many knuckles
have shaken his skull,
rattled brain like a die
loose in a palm,
but you still smile
every time he calls you champ
View Through My Window
After the sky pressed down like a damp quilt
the hidden rain exploded before my eyes,
snagging every leaf twisted up for its wet burst,
clogging new window screens with giant drops.
The tropical downpour predicted for a timid
spring night drenched every dog-walker passing
by the quivering rose hedge, pink blooms laughing
at the soggy fur and soaked sneakers running home.
the hidden rain exploded before my eyes,
snagging every leaf twisted up for its wet burst,
clogging new window screens with giant drops.
The tropical downpour predicted for a timid
spring night drenched every dog-walker passing
by the quivering rose hedge, pink blooms laughing
at the soggy fur and soaked sneakers running home.
my owl, my little cabbage, my split pea soup
elle chuchoté comme le vent
qui envolé parmi les fenêtres
et les trouvé toutes fermées
'ton coeur
c'est mon nuit quand je prie
dans ton lit' elle reprendé
les mots saignant
dans l'aube
qui envolé parmi les fenêtres
et les trouvé toutes fermées
'ton coeur
c'est mon nuit quand je prie
dans ton lit' elle reprendé
les mots saignant
dans l'aube
Evening, (viii)
.
She lies with tired eyes
When the world is asleep
Her toes twinkle to the speed
Of her thoughts
Uncomfortable with the
Idea of endings and beginnings
She can't say if morning
Will come too soon or too late
It is time
That she prays for
Twenty-six hour days
Years that last an eternity
She will run out of time
She worries
Out of time
.................She will run
.
She lies with tired eyes
When the world is asleep
Her toes twinkle to the speed
Of her thoughts
Uncomfortable with the
Idea of endings and beginnings
She can't say if morning
Will come too soon or too late
It is time
That she prays for
Twenty-six hour days
Years that last an eternity
She will run out of time
She worries
Out of time
.................She will run
.
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