Poetry for Whom?

Bah.

Poets writing poems

about writing poetry.

For whom?

Other poets I guess,

but not for me,

not by me.

Instead

I write a poem

about poets

writing poems

about writing poetry,

and it's for you !

Then I go back

to navel-gazing,

or would if I had one,

but that's another poem

you're looking forward to,

I'm sure.

Pendulum

 

In our spot

the dog and me

at the top of the field

with the sun going down

behind Sugar Loaf

and the Long Moon

rising at our backs

seen through the Middlecreek woods

I can't tell

if it's peace of mind

or mild depression

likely both

slow swings

back and forth

it's not a long arc.

To Be Continued

 

Laved in moonlight

I ache to burn

in sunlight again.

One revolution

leads

to another.

Slow Fade

           

These still days

these still and empty days

as the earth whips 'round the sun

tilted toward the darkness

I'm trying to be still

still enough to feel my vanishing

like falling snow on open water

a fade to nothing

trying not to think

as mystics teach the only way

to fully know the now and failing

(the mind has a mind of its own)

conscious of my breathing

eight counts in and twelve counts out

to feel the slowing of my heart

emptying and fading

trying not to drown in memory

of when we were strong and in love

and everything was possible—

once we were magnificent—

thinking so is lovely

these still days

these still and empty days

tilted toward the darkness.

Awaiting Vaccination

New York Times photo illustration

 

i remember

i work to remember

touch

          your ungloved hand

          my unmasked face

an imprecise

joyful thing

the heat of it

          tenderness

          i work to remember

          

Christmas

          

If alone it is

then outside shall we be

across the hill and into the trees

under the sun's low arc

snow popping underfoot

winter in our lungs

an expanse of light and silence

as if a God were born

and now we have another Eternity.

—with a line by Fernando Pessoa, 1922

The Spring

 

The splatterware cup

          is still there

          under the stones

there at the back of the woods

there where the water springs from the hill

          cold and clear

in another light snow

          there where we left it

          cold and clear.

Solstice in the Dark

Solstice sunrise

Awake in the dark

          at the moment of solstice

stepping outside

          wrapped in a quilt

into the power of silence

Trumpeter swans

          calling high up

above the cloud cover

          in what I imagine to be

a clarity of stars

Back out at daybreak

          hoping for clearing by nightfall

to witness the Great Conjunction

          of Jupiter and Saturn

although the sunrise will do.

Going Deep

                   

Deep     on a winding path

to a place beyond knowing

dark white haze above the snow

in the quiet mystery

of morning before dawn

each day alone

another enlightenment

with the years closing in

content to dwell     at ease

with change and loss

inhabiting the constant

waiting     on the end

going deep into wind

we may not meet again.

—after Hsieh Ling-Yun (385 to 433) 

New Age Tidings

 

Hear it if you can

Easy to be down just now     these brief days

so I listen to the sea     because I can

I have the will     to call it up     to remember

the past so huge     the good the bad

I choose the good     and hear the sea

breaking breaking     on a flawless beach

at the edge of a continent     on the Earth

in the Solar System     near the center

of the Milky Way     in an endless universe

I have the will     I can

It's true     loss the human story

each of us     our tragedies

everything we love     we lose

once I thought     my pain unique

childhood terrors     a father's cruelty

the splattered wall     the bloody sheets

replaced too soon     my daughter's lightness

as I held her wasting frame     my awakening

in her room     to abject silence

I've come to know     no one escapes

There's no forgetting     and so

I make a choice     because I can

to hear the sea     I tell myself     buck up

who needs another chance     to keen

when I can hear the surf at will     and find

comfort in the waves     and in this fire     and wood to burn

and joy in strength     my legs    with woods to walk

comfort in the texts of friends     joy in family

eyes to see     a head to understand     a heart to know

I'm not alone    comfort and joy goddammit     comfort and joy.

Still Life XX XX Civilized

 

Half-eaten pear on plywood

digitalized     bowdlerized

sliderized     unrecognized

iconoclasts who thrive inside

racing droves in warehouses

tenderized    idolized     televised

and monetized     god bless america

but is it art?

Solstice Nearing

 

Let us call it Winter 

Let the dusk fall

And the moon rise

When I try to answer

I only sound farther away from myself

Let us speak of the things that are left

Wet Snow Woods

New world overnight

the dead and the dormant

left lovely

apotheosis of the fallen

warm flesh left to wonder

if they'll ever know such grace.

Something More

 

Rifle shots at dusk

on the last day of deer season

         echoing effervescent

up the wooded vale

melt dripping off the roof

          watch it darken through a silvered screen

this poem is for you

          but you'll never know

you     standing at the edge of a rising sea

          heavy deep and heaving

where you've been all your life

clinging to a moment

          when all things were possible

raising up the sunken feelings

          of the enormous past

you know what I'm saying

something salvaged deep inside

          memory and gunfire

          you in your unknowing

at the edge of a rising sea

          I'll believe in you

          if you'll believe in me.

East Before Sunrise

                                                 Earthsky.org

Far enough removed

to tell our truths

you with your silence

me with my poems

equally cryptic

East before sunrise

the young moon honed

to a cutting edge

out of bare trees

Venus dissolving.

Born of December

          

In the remoteness winter brings

the sound of the fire in the grate

soothed us like the sound of the sea

We stayed in the woods

separate together without speaking

in the comfort of each other 

'til the ground was brighter than the sky

and the trees stood on their shadows

long on the snow in the moonlight

And the morning twilight

and the evening twilight

made the whole day.

A Ghosting Snow

A ghosting snow

          fine and light

prolongs the dusk

turns all to outlines of itself

          along the woodland path

now more evident

in the hush of evening

          and its apparitions

here where deer have passed in twilight

and here where grouse have stepped

          among the flattened ferns

tracks across my own

that bind me closer to this land

          in unexpected ways

as do the tracks preserved

in the cellarway cement

          small tennis shoes

that break my heart.

Inclement

   

I don't think about you

as much as I used to

sky trapped in ice

released on the pond

as the afternoon warmed

I found the letter you sent

the one without words

just the outline of your hand

early December

snow and rain.

Watching the News: No Ideas But In Things

Growing up in the fifties

Neighbors leaned out of windows

To see a pretty girl pass by

While bombs fell out of the sky

And flames lit up the mirrors.

Outside, you notice it has started snowing.

Fevered forehead against the cold windowpane,

You watch the flakes come down one at a time

On the broken bird feeder and the old dog's grave.

Just the silence

Growing deeper

As the child leaps from the window

With her nightclothes on fire.

The more you reflect on things,

The more you feel sure of nothing,

Except being here,

Holding on for dear life

To a few eccentricities—

The wild apple tree at the road's edge,

The old blue pickup truck,

 

The one with the flat tire,

And the rusted, cast-iron stove

You meant to take to the dump.

—A cento created of full and partial stanzas from Charles Simic's poetry

collected in "That Little Something," Mariner Books, 2009.

Title includes a seminal line from William Carlos Williams' Paterson.

Ghost Ship

 

Ghost ship sails backwards

in time's longest nights

into the fears of childhood

unable to sleep

tires snapping gravel

at 3 a.m.

the father is back

no land in sight.

One Hill

 

       

Forty-six winters

On the same hill

So much is lost

But oh what we had

Only one hill

Many winds