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Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

The years teach much that the days never know*

This entry is part 39 of 41 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2012

The years teach much that the days never know—
You know, the parts that live beyond the margins,
beyond what sage or bearded philosopher could know—
Theory is when you think you know the sound of shoes
on the grass; praxis is the knife-edged blade made known
to unsuspecting flesh. At noon the sun is overhead,
a yellow crayon smudge you know lies somewhere behind
thick tarp of cloud. You know its whereabouts the way
your heart lists toward all it may have ever known
of ardent love or quiet kindness: not one particular
thing, or one blazing example you once knew from long
ago. Not that it makes a difference: the heart’s its most
inscrutable mystery. Joyless, it knows to yearn for joy;
in fullness, knows to sense the turning of the wheel.

* ~ Emerson

 

In response to small stone (185) and Morning Porch.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Wake

It doesn’t seem right,
looking at “the old moon

in the arms of the new,”
the dark part glowing

a bleary orange
with earthshine,

that we can still emit
so much radiance.


In response to Vigil.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Vigil

“… every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.”

~ John Donne, “A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day”

O loves, o little ones, tonight
we see the sliver of a moon—

impeccable stain of milk
on saucer’s rim,

last tapering cursive
letter on the slate—

and as the dark speeds up
some more into the deeper dark,

Orion’s belt floats high
above our heavy hearts:

O sorrow, you
have changed us all—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Nocturne.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Nocturne

For I am every dead thing.
John Donne, “A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day”

December night. Meteors streak
through the bare crowns of oaks.

I watch the sky as if it were the sleeping face of a dreamer.
All that blazing action without a sound!

And the longer I look, the more unfamiliar it becomes,
wholly itself & yet possessed. Wild. Vulnerable.

I want to be present the way an oak is present
& stretch empty arms into the void.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Fourth Wall

“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.”

~ Mary Oliver

Would you like to be cremated? asks the niece of the woman propped up in the bed, ailing, waiting for her end to come— which could be this evening, tomorrow, the day after, the week after, next month. The undertaker and his sons explain the options and arrangements, what they will do, how they will wash and clean and dress, make the body ready for the family and community to come and view. Outside it is cold, it is winter, the tree line sharper than a drypoint etching on a metal plate. Someone is shoveling snow in a driveway, someone is splitting and stacking wood for the fire. When it is a child dying almost as soon as he is born— disjointed body and no sight— anyone can see there cannot be a bulky machine brought in to break up the earth. The undertaker knows that would be unseemly; and so he writes, Have the sexton, all dirt and indifference, remain at hand… The smell of loam is faintly sweet-sour, like milk left on the windowsill overnight. It could be love, it could be grief, it could be the end, the middle, the beginning, all equally lit and brilliant. Anyone can see how hard it is to slide the last button into its hole, push the box into the fiercely burning chamber. Still, the lips demand their carmine and their blush. Dusky limbs treasure the network of veins through which, so recently, the world plucked hard at the days’ bright threads. Goodbye for now, au revoir; know that each kiss I give you means so much more than fondness, uncertainty, or distress.

 

In response to thus: postage.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

I’m kind of a big deal on the web

Poets take note! There’s another critter out there even more adept than we are at hiding behind an enormous effigy of itself made entirely of garbage:

New Species of ‘Decoy’ Spider Likely Discovered At Tambopata Research Center

From afar, it appears to be a medium sized spider about an inch across, possibly dead and dried out, hanging in the center of a spider web along the side of the trail. Nothing too out of the ordinary for the Amazon. As you approach, the spider starts to wobble quickly forward and back, letting you know this spider is, in fact, alive.

Step in even closer and things start to get weird— that spider form you were looking at is actually made up of tiny bits of leaf, debris, and dead insects. The confusion sets in. How can something be constructed to look like a spider, how is it moving, and what kind of creature made this!?

It turns out the master designer behind this somewhat creepy form is in fact a tiny spider, only about 5mm in body length, that is hiding behind or above that false, bigger spider made up of debris.

Posted on by Dave Bonta

Sacrifiction

This entry is part 20 of 22 in the series Alternate Histories

Somewhere between gratitude & reciprocity, things started to go wrong.

Because we were given time, we invented drumming.

Because we were given trees, we invented floor-length dresses.

And because we were given crops, we invented sacrifice.

When God sent a messenger to the sacred table & said Stop burning my meat — give it to the needy instead, we invented elaborate rules for hospitality that involved frequent bathing & fine clothes.

But because the needy were still exceedingly numerous, we went over God’s head & invented games of chance.

This invention was the mother of Necessity, otherwise known as That’s Just The Way Things Are.

And we took our chances and groveled in the dirt.

Posted on by Luisa A. Igloria

Poem, at the possible end of the world

Now or never— I too would like to make a grab for it: that chance, your hand, your beautiful shoulders, some wild, un-shy unstoppering of affection, the dip in the fountain, everyone kissing in doorways and the sky sudden as a flush of wings. Loop them around and around in my hands, as many as you can: the world’s many-colored skeins like streamers around a maypole, like old-fashioned favors hidden beneath the bottom layer of a wedding cake: miniature plaster key or treasure chest, glazed pink heart, cherub’s arrow, and the prize, the prize— tiny gold band winking a rhinestone bauble. Out they come from under, coated with a film of yellow or red velvet cake, crumbs and cream, piped sugar icing; and we put them all in our mouths still attached to strips of satin, lick them and lick them till they all come clean as doves wheel in the rafters and pelt us with grain.

 

In response to thus: I would like to see.