Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
We have such small bones,
such slight hearts, such
ordinary hopes we scribble
upon strips of paper then feed
to the fire that flickers
in the hollow of a bowl—
Quickly the flame consumes
what we lay on its tongue:
small now and sleek but soon
wild bud grown bold—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I believe you, poet, when you write
of how the night is now more night
in the grove, how lightning
has nestled among the leaves*—
And you know that something heavier
than lightning glints in the branches,
has come to roost there too, ancient evil
waiting as if with forked ghost hands,
ghost wings to descend upon a passing bus
and tear the girl’s clothes from
her body, ram the metal heft
of that old, ineradicable hate
into her sex, into her gut—
In the cold of New Year’s day, hundreds
sit in a Darjeeling square to sing
a song: imagine the blood of evidence
made visible, not washed away; imagine
how the body wants only to arch
toward the infinite, how the smallest
fingernail or severed tendon wants to be
restored to the un-butchered whole—
~ *Octavio Paz
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
“…Time running like a chain stitch, a sovereign without an heir.” ~ seon joon
Fevered, I ran through a dream without waking,
panicked there was no way to return to un-dreaming—
Butterflies beat in the wake of my going
which became indistinguishable from my coming—
How does one complete tasks that are waiting
if caught in a dream without waking—
How does the dreamer unpin from its weaving
the wing of thought from only inward-turning?
In response to thus.
Here’s the end of the furrow, where the animal turns and hefts the plough. And it is another row, beginning at the head or at the foot, depending on where one chooses to engage the coulter and the share. The wood is old but tempered. It has worn to a roughened sheen. The metal parts help force the energy into the topsoil, into the sod. There is a rhythm that might be observed, a neatness that might be said to resemble stitching. The animal lumbers— it doesn’t sing the song of the shuttle flying through gathered floss, nor of the hummingbird exploding its ruby-colored threads. The field is wide as a year, wide as a century, wide as time itself. I call it by name; I rub its flanks covered with stubble, regard its soft dark eyes shaded sepia. When nothing has yet taken root, it’s almost impossible to imagine each hoof-print unwinding a bobbin of green. Or the land pin-cushioned with fingernail flecks of grain.
In response to thus.
Plummet of heart to foot-sole—
Of wing to thinnest skin,
blue strip of still
flowing water—
O for the countless times
I’ve tumbled through that hole
in the floor—
Gold tassels and cord,
billowing skirts, curtains
I thought surely curtains—
Down and into the sooty
dark, so far so far
I thought—
Bring me a measure
of that square of paper
where someone’s drawn
a constellation,
string rosy with knots
of light on which I hoist
myself up and up
as all things must
obey what comes
after the fall
In response to Via Negativa: Dropping.
the roses open despite the cold.
One touch of the child’s hand
and their garments float away—
no compass but the wind, nothing
to provision; no destination
that we don’t already know.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Where are you now? Here
is the obvious answer.
But where? A brown body
with ragged wings rests
in the fork of a branch.
It won’t stay. Immigrant,
diaspore, forever
arriving or departing
on the shore of mixed
expectations. When
does its permit expire?
Intently, from within
the window which holds
my own countable hours,
I watch for cues,
for turns toward more
hospitable weather:
hedging time until
renewal of the lease,
until some wind-
fall rearranges
calculations on the slate.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Nieve, neve, neige,
yuki, shui, nun—
There is no true
word for this white
in any of my
native languages—
But I know bukel,
bulong, daga—
seed, leaf, soil;
bisin, pait,
sam-it, alsem— hunger,
bitter, sweet, sour;
and I know rabii,
mysterious night, is darker,
studded with points
of brilliance:
raniag, bituén,
búlan—
In response to Via Negativa: White Night and thus: Quigley Canyon.
1620s, from Fr. feston, from It. festone; a festive ornament, apparently from festa, celebration, feast
Every day, the neighborhood and its routines with only slight variations: the man who works for the newspaper brings his only daughter to the corner to wait for the school bus, then gets into his white Jeep and drives away. There are not many young children her age around here, but that might change in a few years. The music professor who lives in the last brownstone on the row walks a dog, a golden retriever, around the triangle and back. This dog is a loaner; it is not the same dog who was his longtime friend and companion but had been given or sold— I forget— to a different family on this street. This dog, the one he loved the best, returned to him when the daughter married and moved away; it wanted to die in its old home. He is stooped and walks more slowly now, but he still gives private lessons to college students. He inclines his head thoughtfully in a way that suggests he is always listening for music. Each New Year day, the couple in the middle of the row open their home and hold a potluck. Everyone was surprised to learn they had just gotten married last Saturday, after 29 years together. Week before Christmas, the woman who lives with her husband on a boat docked in the river was trying to put up Christmas lights. She was on a tall ladder, up near the mast; wild current coursed through wire and her tiny frame. She says, she could not unclench her lips even to scream. It was early twilight, no one was about. By some miracle or weakened pulse in the circuit, she broke free, threw herself off and into the water. We are near the coast, not too far inland. Otherwise there might have been fresh snow, branches laid over with crystalline webs obviating any need for lights.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
“By by, lully, lullay…” ~ Coventry Carol
“someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in today’s date…” ~ Dennis O’Driscoll
It’s evening, and raining. The parents have gone inside, the grandparents, the aunts and uncles, the cousins visiting from out of town who remind us not to believe everything that other people say, nor lend out any amount of money on this feast day. We get to work, setting aside torn wrappers, ribbons, boxes for delayed trash pickup Saturday or for recycling next Tuesday. Someone says, as dishes are rinsed and put away, Can you imagine returning gifts you bought for Christmas for your little one who will never walk through the door again? The last thing we ate was a square of yellow cheese, a piece of plain bologna. Nobody touched the carrot cake. Blobs of holly, dark red clusters droop over the neighbor’s fence. Some shingles on the roof will need replacing. The gutter may need to be cleaned. And water runs continuously in the tank of the downstairs toilet. I used to have a number I could call; no matter, tomorrow will serve just as well. My friend on a cruise down the banks of the Rhine emailed to marvel at the Christmas markets and bazaars in town after little town, the wooden toys, the cookies flecked with pepper and warm spice. My son came to me in a dream last night, she wrote; in the dream, he was very young, he was laughing and running down the main street of our home town. I gave chase, caught up with him. I woke breathless, as if it were true and he hasn’t been gone now for 9 long years. When I woke, the light was pale yellow through the window. Dear G, here, where I am, it is long past evening; but even in the dark, there is something musk-tender; a little sad, solemnly sweet.
In response to Via Negativa: The slaughter of the innocents.