Poems

Genius

Two old dancing shoes my grandfather
gave the Christian Ladies,
an unpaid water bill, the rear license
of a dog that messed on your lawn,
a tooth I saved for the good fairy
and which is stained with base metals
and plastic filler. With these images
and your black luck and my bad breath
a bright beginner could make a poem
in fourteen rhyming lines about the purity
of first love or the rose's many thorns
or the dew that won't wait long enough
to stand my little gray wren a drink.

Poet’s work

Grandfather
  advised me:
    Learn a trade

I learned
  to sit at desk
    and condense

No layoff
  from this
    condensery

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

my grandfather and home

i

my grandfather used to count the days for return with his fingers
he then used stones to count
not enough
he used the clouds birds people

absence turned out to be too long
thirty six years until he died
for us now it is over seventy years

my grandpa lost his memory
he forgot the numbers the people
he forgot home

ii

i wish i were with you grandpa
i would have taught myself to write you
poems volumes of them and paint our home for you
i would have sewn you from soil
a garment decorated with plants
and trees you had grown
i would have made you
perfume from the oranges
and soap from the skys tears of joy
couldnt think of something purer

iii

i go to the cemetery every day
i look for your grave but in vain
are they sure they buried you
or did you turn into a tree
or perhaps you flew with a bird to the nowhere

iv

i place your photo in an earthenware pot
i water it every monday and thursday at sunset
i was told you used to fast those days
in ramadan i water it every day
for thirty days
or less or more

v

how big do you want our home to be
i can continue to write poems until you are satisfied
if you wish i can annex a neighboring planet or two

vi

for this home i shall not draw boundaries
no punctuation marks

The Fisherman

People arrive by water, unspeaking ones
keeping close to the hulls of the anchored ships,
startling at the bump as they heave to.

                                                    Early summer breathes
soft and low, wafts the curtains, caresses
grass, lightly stirs the hair.
It's sunrise, it is the hour
when nets are lifted, the hour of tremulous light,
its hesitant, uncertain brightening
from house to house as it conjures voids
and visions that abscond - look -
over the trees and beyond the hedges.

A time suspended between what is hidden
and what stands open, when it seems
the real is not inside us, but in some oracle
or miracle about to reveal itself, a time
that dupes men - and any hope it inspires
can be hope only for a sign or wonder.

My mood detaches me, makes me strange
shades by the water's edge
and on the wet sand: I keep watching them
behind those spars and stunted poplar trees.

Forgive me, it is a mark of the human
to search out, as I do, what is close to us,
humble and real, in hidden places -
there and nowhere else. I crane my neck
to follow with anxious eyes the fisherman
who comes over to the breakwater and hauls
from the sea what the sea allows,
a few gifts from its never-ending turmoil.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
  For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

How To Be Alone

if you are at first lonely, be patient
if you’ve been not alone much
or if when you were
you weren’t okay with it
then just wait
you’ll find its fine to be alone
once you’re embracing it

we can start with the acceptable places
the bathroom,
the coffee shop,
the library.
where you can stall and read the paper
where you can get your caffeine fix
and sit and stay there
where you can browse the stacks
and smell the books
you’re not suppose to talk much anyways
so its safe there

there’s also the gym
if you’re shy you can hang out with yourself in mirror
and put your headphones in
and there’s public transportation
because we all gotta go places
and there’s prayer and meditation
no one will think less
if you’re hanging with your breath
seeking peace and salvation

start simple
things you may have previously avoided
based on your avoid being alone principles
the lunch counter
where you will be surrounded by chow downers
employees that only have an hour
and their spouses work across town
so they, like you, will be alone
resist the urge to hang out with your cellphone

when you are comfortable with
eat, lunch, and run
take yourself out for dinner
a restaurant with linens and silverware
you’re no less intriguing a person
when you’re eating solo desert
and cleaning the whipped cream from
the dish with your finger
in fact, some people at full tables will wish
they were where you were

go to the movies
where its dark and soothing
alone in your seat - amid a fleeting community
and then take yourself out dancing
to a club where no one knows you
stand on the outside of the floor
until the lights convince you more and more
and the music shows you

dance like no one’s watching
because they’re probably not
and if they are
assume it is with best human intentions
the way bodies move genuinely to beats
is after all, gorgeous and affecting
dance until you’re sweating
and beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things
down your back like a brook of blessings

go to the woods alone
and the trees and squirrels will watch for you
go to an unfamiliar city
roam the streets
there are always statues to talk
and benches made for sitting
give strangers a shared existence
if only for a minute
these moments can be so uplifting
and the conversations you get in
by sitting alone on benches
might have never happened
had you not been there by yourself

society is afraid of alone though

like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements
like people must have problems if
after a while nobody is dating them
but lonely is a freedom
that breathe easy and weightless
and lonely is healing if you make it

you could stand
swath by groups and mobs
or hold hands with your partner
look both further and farther
in the endless quest for company

but no one’s in your head and
by the time you translate your thoughts
some essence of them may be lost
or perhaps it is just kept
perhaps in the interest of loving oneself
perhaps all those sappy slogans
from preschool over to high school’s groaning
where tokens for holding
the lonely at bay

because if you’re happy in your head
then solitude is blessed
and alone is okay

its okay if no one believes like you
all experience is unique
no one has the same synapses
can’t think like you
so just be relieved
keep things interesting
life’s magic things
in reach

and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected
the community is not present
just take the perceptive you get
from being one person in one head
and the fully effects of it
take silence and respect it

if you have an art that needs a practice
stop neglecting it
if you’re family doesn’t get you
or religious sect doesn’t not meant for you
don’t obsess about it
you could be, in an instant
surrounded if you need it
if you’re heart is bleeding make the best of it
there is heat in freezing
be a testament

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elisium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken
Himmlische, dein Heiligthum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
was der Mode Schwerd getheilt;
Bettler werden Fürstenbrüder,
wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

C h o r.

Seid umschlungen Millionen!
Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!
Brüder – überm Sternenzelt
muß ein lieber Vater wohnen.

Wem der große Wurf gelungen,
eines Freundes Freund zu seyn;
wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja – wer auch nur e i n e Seele
s e i n nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle
weinend sich aus diesem Bund!

C h o r.

Was den großen Ring bewohnet
huldige der Simpathie!
Zu den Sternen leitet sie,
Wo der U n b e k a n n t e tronet.

Freude trinken alle Wesen
an den Brüsten der Natur,
Alle Guten, alle Bösen
folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Küße gab sie u n s und R e b e n ,
einen Freund, geprüft im Tod.
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
und der Cherub steht vor Gott.

C h o r.

Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahndest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
Such’ ihn überm Sternenzelt,
über Sternen muß er wohnen.

Freude heißt die starke Feder
in der ewigen Natur.
Freude, Freude treibt die Räder
in der großen Weltenuhr.
Blumen lockt sie aus den Keimen,
Sonnen aus dem Firmament,
Sphären rollt sie in den Räumen,
die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt!

C h o r.

Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen,
durch des Himmels prächtgen Plan,
Laufet Brüder eure Bahn,
freudig wie ein Held zum siegen.

Aus der Wahrheit Feuerspiegel
lächelt s i e den Forscher an.
Zu der Tugend steilem Hügel
leitet sie des Dulders Bahn.
Auf des Glaubens Sonnenberge
sieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,
Durch den Riß gesprengter Särge
s i e im Chor der Engel stehn.

C h o r.

Duldet mutig Millionen!
Duldet für die beßre Welt!
Droben überm Sternenzelt
wird ein großer Gott belohnen.

Göttern kann man nicht vergelten,
schön ists ihnen gleich zu seyn.
Gram und Armut soll sich melden
mit den Frohen sich erfreun.
Groll und Rache sei vergessen,
unserm Todfeind sei verziehn.
Keine Thräne soll ihn pressen,
keine Reue nage ihn.

C h o r.

Unser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet!
ausgesöhnt die ganze Welt!
Brüder – überm Sternenzelt
richtet Gott wie wir gerichtet.

F r e u d e sprudelt in Pokalen,
in der Traube goldnem Blut
trinken Sanftmut Kannibalen,
Die Verzweiflung Heldenmut – –
Brüder fliegt von euren Sitzen,
wenn der volle Römer kraißt,
Laßt den Schaum zum Himmel sprützen:
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist.

C h o r.

Den der Sterne Wirbel loben,
den des Seraphs Hymne preist,
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist,
überm Sternenzelt dort oben!

Festen Mut in schwerem Leiden,
Hülfe, wo die Unschuld weint,
Ewigkeit geschwornen Eiden,
Wahrheit gegen Freund und Feind,
Männerstolz vor Königstronen, –
Brüder, gält’ es Gut und Blut –
Dem Verdienste seine Kronen,
Untergang der Lügenbrut!

C h o r.

Schließt den heilgen Zirkel dichter,
schwört bei diesem goldnen Wein:
Dem Gelübde treu zu sein,
schwört es bei dem Sternenrichter!

Rettung von Tirannenketten,
Großmut auch dem Bösewicht,
Hoffnung auf den Sterbebetten,
Gnade auf dem Hochgericht!
Auch die Toden sollen leben!
Brüder trinkt und stimmet ein,
Allen Sündern soll vergeben,
und die Hölle nicht mehr seyn.

C h o r.

Eine heitre Abschiedsstunde!
süßen Schlaf im Leichentuch!
Brüder – einen sanften Spruch
Aus des Todtenrichters Munde!

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
     Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
     Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
     This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
     Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
     Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
     'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
     Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
     With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
     Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
     Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
     Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
     She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
     Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone --
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy:
Be silent in that solitude
 Which is not loneliness -- for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
 In life before thee are again
In death around thee --  and their will
Shall then overshadow thee: be still.

For the night -- tho' clear -- shall frown --
And the stars shall look not down,
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given --
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever :

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish --
Now are visions ne'er to vanish --
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more -- like dew-drop from the grass:

The breeze -- the breath of God -- is still --
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy -- shadowy -- yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token --
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries! --

The Wild Old Wicked Man

'Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home,
Those hands to close the eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
When an old man's blood grows cold?
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

Then said she to that wild old man,
his stout stick under his hand,
'Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
can never close those eyes.'
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
Bawdy talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

'A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

'All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman erect upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

'That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all a while
Upon a woman's breast.'
           Daybreak and a candle-end.

Phantoms

A migraine's aura
swallows an eye
from a face
into gapless, absent
folds of unseeing.
 
 
 
His scars concealed,
the three-legged cat
limps fluidly along
a soft shore
redrawn by storms.

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

This is No Case of Petty Right or Wrong

This is no case of petty right or wrong
That politicians or philosophers
Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot
With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers.
Beside my hate for one fat patriot
My hatred of the Kaiser is love true:—
A kind of god he is, banging a gong.
But I have not to choose between the two,
Or between justice and injustice. Dinned
With war and argument I read no more
Than in the storm smoking along the wind
Athwart the wood. Two witches' cauldrons roar.
From one the weather shall rise clear and gay;
Out of the other an England beautiful
And like her mother that died yesterday.
Little I know or care if, being dull,
I shall miss something that historians
Can rake out of the ashes when perchance
The phoenix broods serene above their ken.
But with the best and meanest Englishmen
I am one in crying, God save England, lest
We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed.
The ages made her that made us from dust:
She is all we know and live by, and we trust
She is good and must endure, loving her so:
And as we love ourselves we hate our foe.

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

An Acrositc for my only Daughter :
Receie good Counswel of the Wise, nor let
Unhallow'd Lips Provoke, or Cause to Fret.
Be Wise and Virt'ous, Modest, Chaste and Grave,
Increase in Learning, practice what you have,
Enter the List 'gainst Sin, with Courage Brave.
Be not Exalted far abouve your Sphere;
Regard those Minds that truly Noble are :
Esteem a real Friend, if such there be;
With Kindness overcome an Enemy :
Set not your Heart on Pomp, and Worldly Pleasure,
Tis not a lasting, nor a solid Treasure.
Employ your Thoughts on Good, delight in Reading,
Receive the Lord, and Live, and Die Believing.

All overgrown by cunning moss

All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of “Currer Bell”
In quiet “Haworth” laid.

This Bird – observing others
When frosts too sharp became
Retire to other latitudes –
Quietly did the same –

But differed in returning –
Since Yorkshire hills are green –
Yet not in all the nests I meet –
Can Nightingale be seen –

In Jerusalem

In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy ... ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t be safe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Muhammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me ... and I forgot, like you, to die.

Heritage - Haim Gouri

The ram came last of all. And Abraham
did not know that it came to answer the
boy's question – first of his strength
when his day was on the wane.

The old man raised his head. Seeing
that it was no dream and that the angel
stood there – the knife slipped from his hand.

The boy, released from his bonds,
saw his father's back.

Isaac, as the story goes, was not
sacrificed. He lived for many years,
saw what pleasure had to offer,
until his eyesight dimmed.

But he bequeathed that hour to his offspring.
They are born with a knife in their hearts.

All Hallows

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

Bury Hill by John Galsworthy

To this green hill a something dream-like clings, Where day by day the little blunt sheep graze, Threading the tussocks and the toadstool rings, Nosing the barrows of the olden days.

An air drifts here that's sweet of sea and grass, And down the combe-side living colour glows; Spring, Summer, Fall, the chasing seasons pass To Winter, even lovelier than those.

The dream is deep today, when all that's far Of wandering water and of darkling wood, Of weald and ghost-like Down combinèd are In haze below this hill where God has stood.

Here I, too, stand until the light is gone, And feed my wonder, while the sheep graze on.

Turning West

I wake again to the psuedo-moon cast by the neighbor’s security light into this cold October room; and turn,

searching for the name of an orange flower by imagining the hummingbird’s summer love of it, but the word hides;

worrying over a grown child, 3,000 miles away, seeing her walk Boston’s lonely streets after waiting tables, alone on tired feet;

wanting with Aphrodite’s passion, awakened by a briny desire for a man’s thick fingers on my hip;

wishing for a deeper forgiveness of my parents, knowing they will die soon, like falling stars, and my sure sense of them will fade, gone like the name Crocosmia aurea;

I go to the garden and notice a sliver moon slipping west, reach for a dark fig from a low branch, feel the tiny scratches of chickadees on the fruit, turn west with the moon, and eat.

Old flames

The cabbage tree was, they said,
dead. There was nothing they
or anyone could do
now or any day --
how sorry they
were, and sad.

But the cabbage tree heard them --
they never noticed
it shaking its head:
it shook it so hard
stars were said to have spread
from where the cabbage tree stood:

a blossoming, new constellation
across that night sky south.
Someone said just
yesterday,
some fires
you can't put out.

At Brunswick Heads, New South Wales, September 2006

The river is brown-hued, wide.
In its shallows small black fish appear,
hyphens of life,
pleasing barefoot children.
The river is pelican-ushered to the sea.
 

The beach curves south to a crop of hills
where a white lighthouse stands,
its spiraling stairs now climbed
by camera-burdened tourists.
In the sky, there’s a small plane, silver-bellied,
gone when you turned
to a Ruth Rendell paperback.
 

This coastline asks you to name yourself,
fisherman, beachcomber, surfer, retiree,
to examine whether you’re more than that.
 

A gull,
eases from rock to sky,
becomes a speck and miracle
.
to a small boy, a sandcastle lord,
standing sandy-kneed, squinting.
 

The wind, the waves, play their games of give and take,
the horizon searches its deep pockets
for the makings of tomorrow’s weather.

Because Thou Art

Because Thou art All-beauty and All-bliss,
  My soul blind and enamoured yearns for Thee;
It bears Thy mystic touch in all that is
  And thrills with the burden of that ecstasy.

Behind all eyes I meet Thy secret gaze
  And in each voice I hear Thy magic tune:
Thy sweetness haunts my heart through Nature’s ways;
Nowhere it beats now from Thy snare immune.

It loves Thy body in all living things;
  Thy joy is there in every leaf and stone:
The moments bring Thee on their fiery wings;
  Sight’s endless artistry is Thou alone

Time voyages with Thee upon its prow
And all the future’s passionate hope is Thou.