contemplation 2

stunned, chained—where is this cog in the great machine,
this puzzling piece in the grand design? is my part beauty,
remembering, simple love? how does beauty stand
against a landslide? how does memory shine
in a millennium’s weight of darkness? how does love open
one fist, finger by finger by finger, and then the next?
can the chain be fingers clasped, my one hand holding yours
or the children I give, having built them of love?

Inspired by Hafiz, “The Heart’s Coronation,” translated by Daniel Ladinsky.

“The pawn always sits stunned, chained,
…
there is nothing but divine movement
in this world.”

contemplation 1

what could I teach but to give and give
and practice when you can’t preach:
put off this skin and its masks, coat, hats—
yes, even dress, shirt, pants and all the jewelry.
what is there to shine but heart?
when the birds only drink of yesterday’s rain
can we splash through the puddles, regardless?

Inspired by Hafiz, “Everything in Your Kingdom,” translated by Daniel Ladinsky.

“Borrow from your inheritance God has left for you,
…
This is the place to utilize gold,…”

parables

what is this heaven
that you should reach to me
some modern marley’s ghost
warning

(just that the veil is thin
on longest coldest nights
a snowscape
of when you fell?)

or a gentle messenger
sent to wake me
from selfish dream—
roasted meat, mulled wine
hot fire

To the shade of Christopher Marlowe

My darling Kit, they’ve caught you again
no worldly stage enlarged enough
always this rank and compare
parse, parsimonious
praise too faint too late
you can’t escape
betraying
knife-edge
words

 

Having fun with this news item, my enduring fascination with Marlowe and (why not?) another nonet.

How Poetry Saved My Life (in London)

in cars, airports, airplanes, trains

this tote carried me and my goods

in iambic pentameter, Wallace Stevens,

I wish that I might be a thinking stone

 

(to admire far-below surroundings

of fair-furrowed hay-gold,

corn-green fields: why

you prospered, why

Saxons wanted you)

 

holiday humanity at the wax-works

shouting and camera-flash but here

in his corner, Dickens, and yea verily

Shakespeare, standing

 

then after the kerfuffle over Baker Street

while hungry, footsore we rattled

in the packed train all subterranean

children on our way to who knows

where or why: a song of apple boughs

pasted on the wall, Dylan Thomas,

and I was green and carefree

under the new made clouds

and happy as the heart was long

Siren Song No. 1

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).

 

Literary in the Forest

Miss Havisham, dear Ophelia, let us flee

this dark house, the cruelty of misplaced

desire, the paneling of which is suitable

only for our coffins. Let us find another wood,

a brighter home of our own choosing, lush

with fern, moss-hushed, honeysuckle glinting,

scenting the sunlight and the hill-born(e)

breeze. Let us step from the shade into glade

of pink foxglove, listen for rocks’ water-song

and silence of trees.

                                            There is no revenge in pity,

no sympathy in surrender, so cast off your wrecked

dresses, your sodden tresses; care not about full-

filling hours. We will study butterfly wings, speech

of birds. We will deck ourselves with wild roses—

or toss them at the b(r)ook.