Posts tagged poetry
Posts tagged poetry
in the midmorning as I walk along the green. In the sun, the words with which He comes down from heaven, “like the dewfall”, glitter on all the tongues of grass. Until then I had never understood those words. Did He descend like the rain, or condensate like the sweat on the back of a lover’s neck? With Him bathing my feet I see that it makes no difference, that it does not matter how He gets here, what matters is that He’s here. And I walk along the green with God’s words on my feet.
The next day, early class. While the sun is still a rumor I cross the green again. This time, the sprinklers, automatic ch-ch-ch-ch-ch, evenly spread the dew over the grass. Thinking back to the day before, I shake my head and head for the sidewalk. Still, when the sprinkler touches me with a drop of reclaimed water, I cross myself all the same.
I probably spend too much money on books.
But when a poet makes me laugh, think, or feel personally victimized, I buy their bloody book.
are a funny lot.
I sent a letter to Philip Dacey, one of my favorite poets, and to my great surprise I got a reply. One the back of a flyer for a reading that took place in 2002.
In other news, Mr.Dacey’s son is a philosophy professor at my school. Which means that I have read poems about him doing all sorts of embarrassing things as a kid. I can’t believe I didn’t put that together sooner.
Damn you, Pablo Neruda. Of all people, why do you have to be relevant right now?
and don’t forget
to always use condoms.
Balcony. Look over the rail and see
the edge of the world.
Down below is Eden
where no one uses the sidewalks.
Mysterious stain in the corner.
No empty spaces on the bottom floors.
The stain has filled them all for the weekend.
Look up through the center of the stairwell.
If one could hang suspended
in the middle of it all
like a spider in Heaven,
it would be Heaven.
But upon what would one feed?
Elevator out of order.
In case of fire, break glass.
But don’t take the stairs.
Break glass, and jump.
Maybe you’ll rise with the smoke
and be home at last.
When she objected that the bedroom
was too hot that summer day
for what I had proposed and suggested
we create a spectacle of ourselves
for the audience of trees and shrubs
in our backyard, I had forgotten
about the apples.
And when we spread wide open
the sheet and sleeping bag on the grass,
out of sight (mostly) of the road,
and released our entire bodies,
piece by piece of clothing,
into the arms of the air
(which, unaccustomed to such
an opportunity, puffed excitedly),
I was not thinking at all
of the apples.
And even when we laid ourselves down
and sanctified that country acre as it had
long deserved to be sanctified,
sending birds racing between trees
while the whole world gathered itself
in her eyes, into which I looked and looked,
I did not see the apples.
But later that afternoon,
as I carried our clothes toward the house,
and she, walking ahead of me, stopped
to pick up a windfall apple and tasted it,
declaring it delicious and urging me
to take a bite, I most certainly noticed
not only the apple but the garden
surrounding it, like a scene
from a familiar story, one including
a man happy in his skin and a woman as
tall and shapely as she was naked—
naked, that is, except for the Raybans,
which she’d slipped on when she went
to get us each a beer after our holy
expense of energy and which,
with their Vogue-like stylish incongruity,
saved me from an insufferably poetic moment
and let me enjoy the very apple
that the apple was.
Cider Press Review, 2004
The Joy of the Blood of Stars
(Joie du Sang des Étoiles )
Near the Beginning, there was no light,
though all of the stars were shining bright.
A race of beings, paranoid with shame,
had no desire to play the stars’ game,
and jealously cloaked their planet in night.
The King of the Stars saw the darkness they sowed,
choking with clouds their once sunny abode.
From his vast face fell a celestial tear,
for the beings grew paler with each passing year.
“Very well, my children,” he said as he shouldered the load,
“So that you might see me, I shall explode.”
Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth,
inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
Finally got this from Amazon. This is the rest of my evening.