it is not that kind of exchange—
skill for skill, love for thanks
or even one small word of appreciation.
if we were all the little teapots
of the world—handle, spout,
bowl—we’d know
we were made to be held,
receive, pour
Inspired by Hafiz, “Energy in Sounds,” translated by Daniel Ladinsky
the devil told that lie
we sold ourselves
for work is all and only
guilt comes of pleasure
these things we Should
Should Not be doing
always something looming
over what we’re dreaming now
it rides our joy weary
drives it to the ground
Don’t say you have never asked yourself
if the world needs beauty as much as it needs
food. May I toil not as a lily of the field,
starscattered while you trudge upright
acknowledged paths, useful.
Like train tracks we need not touch
to hum; with practical passion, quiet
prayer, you swim south as I arrow north
shivering, surviving, a drop-in-this-ocean
way of happening
Title and last line borrowed from W. H. Auden’s “In Memory of W. B. Yeats.”
I’m thrilled and honored that Marcy Erb of Illustrated Poetry is featuring an excerpt of one of my poems in her artwork today.
destined to melt
between mosque and market—
cobble-sore feet, sizzling
döner-grill heat
we drape treasure shops
breathless, swept tea-tide
of scarf hawkers, sea-glare
then from prayer call
to thunder crack, sky blacks—
brief deluge on fountain square
unwilts us, rejoicing like tulips
The Bridgekeeper ist eine deutsche Frau;
my trip to London hinges
on the unanswerable question:
Do you work only in Germany?
I don’t work (I say), I dream
and released, fly
to the plane laden
with oceans
and centuries
of vision
escaping
Our theory of reason shot
from the sky, assaulted
on the street, flattened,
drowned, mud-slimed
We demand pattern
in the random,
news-desk explanations
of humanity’s implosion
as if
this could keep us safe
We barricade minds
and hearts, lulled
by deafening
static
Here, see: cupped in my hands
the last of them—spice-scented,
thousand-petaled, gold—
believe me
Friend, the world has gone
dust-dry, apostate
but I have a spring,
winter-heart hidden
These are the bloom
of all our life’s fruit,
watered, deep-rooted:
have them
Erste und immer: whining.
Cogs on the tourist trail tracking
up Schlangenweg’s steep cobbles—
90 degrees, sun, blackberried
dry-wall view over the Neckar
to the Schloss, medieval-gated
university town.
Parents these many years; ergo,
we take it with a grain of philosophy.
Today we drove to Heidelberg to hike the famous Philosophenweg (Philosopher’s Walk) via the Schlangenweg (Serpentine Walk). erste =first, immer = always, Schloss = castle
In the wake of Odysseus
tide-washed smooth skin
soft sleek hair unbound
a singer and you’ve known
the words. The horizon
is empty all rocks submerged
nothing for it but to sail
into her arms and never
question (a gift horse, regret).
Graceful Press Poetry 