Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
“…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.
[Blessed pain, I lived in Axe Yard
disturbed by the river, an army without desires,
handsome but poor;
worn chapel of time, made this day.]
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 1 January 1659/60
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.
Bones aren’t this color.
Their darkness is on the inside,
not the outside.
This is the white of a tunnel
in a paraffin candle
from which the wick has been pulled:
burning isn’t an option,
you have to keep moving to stay ahead
of the cold on its pale horse.
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.
Because the electric guitar had no hole,
in the middle of a song
the old bluesman lowered his mouth to it
& plucked the strings with his gold-
capped teeth.
Because the sawhorse had no head,
it didn’t know which way to run
when a plank saddled it,
& it let the saw whinny
for both of them.
Because the hermit had no wife,
he bought a clock
with a loud tick
& wound it faithfully once a week
with a little brass key.
Because the trailer had no cellar,
its inhabitants rushed out
& threw themselves into a ditch
when the tornado came howling
its one blue note.