May 2013 – Page 7 – Via Negativa

May 6, 2013May 6, 2013 by Luisa A. Igloria

Never Pray for Happiness

Here is the fog this morning that blankets all
then lifts— See? there are the boats, lanterns

on the pier, rooftops coming into view: proof
that given a chance, a change in weather,

some things come back— Or never really left.
That’s why the monk bows a blessing, and the beggar

whispers thanks or fuck you; even the light bulb
sputters, the filament cracks when the light goes out.

These things shouldn’t be difficult to notice; or
I like to think nothing’s ever forsaken for long.

In response to Via Negativa: How to Live.

May 5, 2013May 5, 2013 by Dave Bonta

How to Live

A quaint command:
think of kindness, thank for kindness.
After supper, good music and bed.
Strew the streets with herbs for joy of going.
Never pray for happiness as long as the sun
and moon endure.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 5 May 1660.

May 5, 2013May 5, 2013 by Luisa A. Igloria

The soul, having waited in line, demands audience:

When is this window going to open? Damn right
we’ve been here for a while: gotten up well
before the crack of dawn, stood on the sidewalk
swatting clouds of mosquitoes biting our ankles;
followed instructions, taken a number, filled in
all the boxes and answered ridiculous questions
as patiently as possible— When was your most
recent return from a non-democratic country
in the last five years? Do you think blintzes
are superior to crepes? Why are you traveling
to Marseilles by yourself? Where is your man-
friend or escort? Why do you think only a small
percentage of the population makes
over $125,000 a year? Do you have anything
of value to declare? What day is it? What century?
Above the vacant counter, the clock ticks next
to a faded poster reminding every citizen to file
returns. Everyone’s clerk to the crown, floor
custodian in the hierarchy— but regent
and sovereign of his own retinue of pain.

In response to Via Negativa: Warp.

May 5, 2013July 15, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Berzerkers

This entry is part 4 of 12 in the series Bear Medicine

Bear Shirts: shock troops of the god. Howls of hot metal plunged into blood baths. Bare of hauberk or byrnie, gnawing on the affront of a linden shield.

It begins with a shiver, a sudden chill. Teeth chattering, the face goes strange, like the map of an unknown country. Not bear, but a bear-shaped terror — the wariness of the perpetually hunted, turning to hyperarousal & an ecstasy of rage. Then steel cannot cut, fire cannot burn, tenderness cannot reach.

And in the aftermath, weak enough to perish in the fair-haired hero’s crushing hug.

May 4, 2013 by Dave Bonta

Warp

War is a roar, a Vive le Roi
from one to another possessed servant
with the king’s lips.
The speakers suffer nothing more
than to be loyal, dutiful, faithful
and obedient ninepins.
No place to belong to,
every man is clerk of the signet.
Minister and army tell me
that pain is a present.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 4 May 1660.

May 4, 2013September 17, 2015 by Luisa A. Igloria

[poem removed by author]

In response to Via Negativa: On the Contrary.

May 4, 2013July 15, 2016 by Dave Bonta

Bjorn and Bera

This entry is part 3 of 12 in the series Bear Medicine

She thought she recognized in the bear the eyes of Bjorn, the king’s son, and so she did not try to run away. —The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki (trans. by Jesse Byock)

From palace to cave: one wound closes & another gapes. It turns out the king’s cattle are horned marauders, a scourge on the land. I cut them open & find shredded leaves, aborted destinies. But when the sun goes down the trees stretch, reclaiming the crofts, & I return to my mountain & to you.

When you saw me bloody in the pens, your fear was only that I would leave you among those bewitched creatures shaped through the ages by human hungers. Here, our desire is like water from a glacier, white with the milk of stones. We remember who we were before furs & fabrics, even before they gave us names & trajectories.

I can get more naked than any other beast. Tomorrow I will lie down in a circle of hunters & let them try to find me in that mountain of flesh. Only your hand slipping under my shoulder will recover the gold ring that, in another story, might’ve pierced my septum. From our union will come wild hunters of men.

May 3, 2013 by Dave Bonta

On the Contrary

The land troubles me,
and I am against the sea.
I cry out at the sight of a ship,
and hear bullets go hissing overhead
in a transport of joy.
I perceive unknown letters
in familiar words.
Strange things please me.
I put great confidence in the thoughts
of a thick-skulled fool.
Ordinary business must be
not served but feared.

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 3 May 1660.

May 3, 2013 by Luisa A. Igloria

No other government

but fire in the body, joy in the bones—
Heresy of a state that, having grown tired
of hate and bullets, must plot
the overthrow of all false forms of discipline
except the dream of wings
flying over the fields, dispensing
letters, books, music, poems,
paper leaflets shaped like clouds.

In response to Via Negativa: The Radish Gospel.

May 3, 2013May 5, 2013 by Dave Bonta

Shift

This entry is part 2 of 12 in the series Bear Medicine

I grew into the bearskin with great suddenness: a flourish of yeast flocculating in a tun. I fed on the dead parts of myself, the regrets & second guesses, the loneliness, the fears. My untrimmed nails hardened into sickles & my bad teeth gleamed like roots in the dark. But now all aggression had left me. I wanted only to raid the settlements of ants & bees & savor the pale malt grains of their larvae. The bees I let live went around lifting the skirts of blueberry blossoms so they too could die the little death & turn into something rounder, darker, sweeter. When the hunters came I was heavy with the fat of the land.