Editor's Note: We're looking for poems that in some way grapple with the implications of faith, or the lack thereof. Whether poems have formal structure or not, we enjoy the unexpected, the unusual, the experimental; but we also like those "universal" themes (note the post-modern scare quotes) that poets keep coming back to again. For what it's worth, some great canonical poets who wrote religious themed work which we enjoy include: William Blake, John Donne, W.B. Yeats, Rilke, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Allen Ginsberg etc. Send what you've got, for either online or print.
One from the Chaos – Eros or Gaia – you are not.
Those who call you first born are not wrong; yet, you are not
Part of the Protogenoi, nor part of a prophetic line,
Nor do you dwell with Brahman, for Hindu you are not
What is your place in seconds, minutes, hours or all time?
What moment can we make you when moments you are not?
And space is none the better, and provides less to define
Agnostos Theos Paul claimed yours, though unknown you are not
For when you passed the cave and caused Moses’ face to shine
You were not ineffable! Unknowable, absent, gone – you are not!
Yet, in my darkest hours, when I am reaching for you, Divine,
I often wonder if you are reaching back, and fear that you are not.
I know
or think I know
the heat is coming from behind
at my back, reaching, begging me
Turn!
Slow motion:
First, Why am I turning?
…turn
What can I see?
…turn
And what will it change?
…turn
Gravity of regret – What if…
All aflame, this city, this history;
every familiar street and face
pulling me
dry.
DO NOT LOOK BACK
chiseled
at my base –
Why not? They wonder,
the pilgrims and passersby
passing by.
And I know
(or think I know)
the heat is coming
from behind.
As the world that lives on the other side
Of TV screens starves and swats away
Tiny flies that live on rice and children,
I find a quarter to give the little Mexican
Girl with her chicklets and smile
As she runs to the churro man and buys
One for the shorter boy she calls hermanito.
I should’ve given her a dollar or two…
The waiting room is dark
Across from me are other shapeless faces
All of us with his picture in one hand—
A reminder of the lost art of form—
A tiny white candle in the other.
I light the candle of a handsome man
Who comes in sometimes for blood.
It won’t light. I give him mine and wonder
Why my matches and my energies cannot
Ignite this one. No glow—just a waste.
Accept defeat, crumble the wax stick and cry
To the slipping nimbus of God
Between clouds like slow, white sheeted
Gurneys rolling in the halls.
As the dusk begins to color everything
In peach colored fire and shade,
In this cool of the day I envy her
Her gift to cover every
Piece of land and sea and streets and rooms
I can see and give them hues and peace.
As she sets the streets get darker
And street lamps with a fraction of her light
Start to take her place
One by one, giving shape to night.
I saw Jesus today
bagging groceries at the A&P.
He wore a red apron
with a name tag that read, “J.C.” and
a Notre Dame football cap backwards
over his dark curly hair.
“Charlie, I need a price check
on a can of garden peas,” the checker
in lane two said. “68 cents, Doris ,” Jesus said
quickly. “68 cents!” the manager yelled back.
She looked at Jesus, dumbfounded.
“I like peas,” he shrugged.
“My register’s jammed again,” the checker
in lane four said. The maintenance guy
worked hard on it. “I don’t know, it’s stuck
good,” he said. Jesus left his post. “Do
you have a screwdriver?”
“Yes.”
“May I?”
Within seconds, Jesus had the register working
again. Everyone stared at him. “My dad
was a carpenter….he taught me a few things.”
Two weeks later we went golfing,
Jesus had the day off at the A&P.
“I like it there, I like seeing all the people,”
he said. He played real well. Even when he
was in the sand, he managed to save par.
I shot a four-over 76. He shot
a 12-under 60. “Golf is fun,” he said,
“but bowling’s my game.”
We talked about dogs. A
gentle spaniel He had when
He was ten. Sipped our coffee
at a diner in Terre Haute , Indiana .
He told me He was enamored
with the metaphysics of Springsteen.
And baseball. And that the answers
are almost always near palm trees.
I admitted that thunderstorms
were a comfort. He told me
that when people think He is
listening, He’s usually home
working in the garden. “So
much static. Like blips up
and down the radio dial,” He said.
He put a $1.62 tip in the
waitress’s hand, touched it,
but there was nothing He
could do for her.
“From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David…sent messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her… Then she went back home. The woman conceived and sent word to David, saying, ‘I am pregnant.’”
-2 Samuel 11:2-5
"David/Was deluded by Bathsheba, and suffered much grief…it would be a great gain/To love women and not trust them, if a man knew how.”
- Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Come, my love, and stay with me; you cannot pass me by,
You who are lovelier than summer stars that seed the twilit sky.
My mistress sits amidst shadows pregnant with perfume.
The ochre and black brocade gleams in a dark mass
At her back, rich enough for royalty: her bridal gown
Heavy with gold and mourning. I can almost hear the life
That already moans inside her belly, sinking like a stone.
Take my hand, and I will sing you songs with sweet melodies,
My heart is soft and ripe with love, no need for tears like these.
Naked and white, my mistress seems to draw the light
Inside her the way shells collect the ocean’s music:
A reminder of home, the rocking cradle of tides.
But it’s not enough to shift the sands. She cannot curse
His summons, nor reverse time; his letter trembles in her hands.
We’ll dance tonight in satin shoes, and waltz to harps and birdsong,
Slip secrets in each other’s hair and wander gardens all night long.
I don’t think she ever knew how her skin, cool and smooth
As an alabaster jar, holds the lamplight and far-flung gazes;
She never dreamed that lust would send Uriah to die
And history would forever malign her for seducing David,
The king with honey-sweet promises and an eagle’s eye.
Come with me, bewitch me slowly with your girlish charms,
And we will melt together sweet and golden in my arms.
I bathe her feet in scented oils. She is quiet and subdued,
Thinking of him, no doubt, her white chemise like a shroud
upon her lap, a wisp of cloud rising from her bath. When I
finish her skin glows with the radiance of polished coins.
Why hesitate my dear, your husband is away, but I will stay
Until the moon falls from its bough, and time dies away.
Gold bands her arms, pearls are netted prettily about her hair.
Her lily neck bows as if weighted with the gathering dusk,
Dew before dawn: the water cools and about her shadows pool.
Just ask and I’ll give my kingdom’s fruit to you my dove,
With me you’ll always taste the richness of a king’s true love.
She sighs and shivers slightly as the darkness closes in
And muffles her with its thick mantle of inescapable sin.
Straddling two worlds
and possible more than that
these are the songs he sings
If, as scholars suggest, there were two Taliesin’s – one a historical figure of the 6th century and another much older mythological figure- this is of little interest to the poet. It satisfied the historian & the sociologist of poetry to unearth such facts but this in turn sheds little light on an area that is known by the innate quality of the verse which outstrips all historical & sociological significances.
Yet it is precisely this double consciousness which is so appealing - a mixture of Celtic & Christian sensibilities which speaks to the modern mind with a stark beauty, a sensuous stripping away of everything but the bare essentials & speaking, as he affirms, sometimes more in prophecy that in verse.
For it is to the internal, eternal music of the verse that the poet responds & so decides on a faithful & direct translation –of which there are several, all of which have proved useful to me- or a version in which the voice of the Poet enters into the voice of the poet so as to produce a version which while not a faithful rendering of the line by line text is more faithful to the spirit & verve of the original in a way that no strict translation can be.
This latter approach is the approach adopted in the present instance. Indeed, not only is it a version rather than a translation but is a version which, in the spirit of Taliesin, I have added lines of my own composition to the body of the work. There is no written permission for a poet to do this –yet all poets do so when they enter into a voice which is unique & appealing. & Taliesin is appealing. One that the reader responds to –as if within the archaic there lay the seeds of the truly modern.
Nor is this to be thought of as a definitive version. Many have gone before & many will come after & each will approach the Poet from a particular angel which is precisely the beauty of this verse –that it is ‘open’ & not ‘closed’; that it allows us participation in the oldest rites of verse; that it sings to us from its time into our time as if they were one & the same.
I have fled with strength
I have fled as a toad
I have fled as a crow
finding little rest
I have fled with vigour
I have fled as a chain
I have fled as a deer
caught in the brambles
I have fled as a wolf
then as a wolf-cub
I have fled as a thrush
I have fled as a song
I have fled as a fox
into uncommon places
I have fled as a martin
which availed me nothing
I have been a bird
with a greening twig
I have been a bird
above sacred waters
I have fled as a squirrel
that vainly hides
I have fled as a stag
into the high places
I have fled as an iron
in a glowing fire
I have fled as a spear
I have fled as an arrow
I have fled as a word
which gave rise to words
I have fled as a message of joy
as a message of sorrow
I have fled as a fierce bull
stamping the earth
I have fled as a boar
seen in a ravine
I have fled as a grain
of purest wheat.
I have been begotten
yet am not begot.
Childless
yet father to many
I have been a hawk
with claws of flame
I have been a victim
of the hawk
I was entangled in the skirt of a hempen sheet
That seemed the size of a mare's foal.
I was thrown into a dark leather bag
And set adrift on a boundless sea
Which was to me an omen of being tenderly nursed
When the Lord God gave me my liberty.
So, what was first – the darkness or light?
On what day was Adam created?
What is the foundation under the world?
Who is it from among the multitude who receives no instruction?
It is the hard-minded, the hard-hearted one.
He many be wise in human knowledge
But he will loose the heavenly country.
From where comes the day?
From where comes the night?
Each thing in creation has its own colour-
The eagle is grey, the linnet is green, the night is dark-
Why is this?
The deeper movements of the sea are not seen
The core of the rose is not seen
The roots of the mountain are not seen.
Who attended Christ in the long night of his suffering
And what was the best measure that Adam accomplished?
Who will measure the width of hell-
The thickness of its veil, the width of its mouth,
The size of its terrible stones or the tops of its trees
And the many stinking fumes about its root?
From where came the night and the flood?
Why does night hide from day?
Why is it not seen?
There are tricksters of the soul who will yet lament
When they will be tried before a court of ravagers.
Wailing?
Yes there will be wailing for all that is lost
By those who now give no attention to such matters.
I have known the good company of skilful men.
I am old
I am young
Have been and never was
Yet I will not tell you everything.
Something’s are best kept secret and I can keep those secrets.
There are those who make bad poetry and call it the best
Well, I am not one of those
I reap
I sow
But there are those who cannot plough a straight line.
There will be commotions and turbulent times-
Seek no peace-
it will not accrue to you.
So, and therefore, before the sand fills up my mouth
Before my little existence ends
Before I am placed in that wooden box
Let there be a festival in my soul..
The books cannot tell of such joys and neither can I
I hope and I hope –
which one of us does not do this?
No, nothing can be said of death with any certainty
Except that, in spite of my books, it will come to me and every one.I know the laws of grace
Concerning skilful payments
Concerning happy days
Concerning a tranquil life
Concerning the protection of ages
Concerning the rights of kings.
Concerning similar things On the face of the earth.
When the mind is active
When the sea is calm
When the race is valiant
When the high one is supplicated
When the sun covers the land
When the bird of wrath is drawn When the dove returns
When the earth is green
Who chanted those songs? The wise? Thefoolish? The in-betweens?
And - if they are true - who has considered them?
How many winds,
how many streams?
How many streams
how many winds?
How many rivers in their courses?
How many rivers are there?
I know what I know
The earth –
what its breadth is
what its thickness is
I know the noise of the blades
Crimson on all sides
I know the regulator
Between heaven and earth.
When an opposite hill is echoing
When devastation urges onward
When the silver vault is shining
When there will be gloom
The breath
when it is black
A cow
when it is horned
A wife
when she is lovely
Milk
when it is white
Holly
when it is green
In the multitude of fields
When the cow-parsnip
is created
A wheel
when it is revolving
When the mallet
is fiat
When the salt
is brine
When the alder is
a purplish hue
When the linnet
is green
When the lips
are red
Or a woman
when restless
When the night comes on
Absence of sun
Brevity of moon
Night made in the counter-image of day
Yet no one knows where the sun is made
-some things are made and unmade -
-yet what is made can be defiled-
A stain on a new garment
It is difficult to remove
The string of a harp
why does it complain?
why does it sing?
The cuckoo
why does it complain?
why does it sing?
Who keeps the agreeable portion?
Who led the camp?
What brings out the sparkle
From hardness of stone?
When the goat's-beard plant
is sweet-smelling
When the crows
are of a waxen hue.
What is the imagination of a tree?
The agreement of day Couples with the agreement of night Beauty begets wisdom Beauty and wisdom commingle The tribe of heaven will not be put down Their end has not yet been spoken
I know good and evil
I know the cuckoos of summer
Where all things will be in the winter
A river while it flows
I know its extent
I know when it disappears
I know when it fills
I know when it overflows
I know when it shrinks
I know what base there is beneath the sea.
I know its equivalent
Every one in its retinue
How many were heard in a day
How many days in a year.
How many shafts in a battle
How many drops in a shower
When the fish shall contain it
When the foot of the swan is black
My mind is expressed
In Hebrew In Greek And the sweet Celtic tongue
A second time was I formed
I have been a salmon
I have been a dog I have been a stag
I have been a roebuck on the mountain
I have been a stock I have been a spade
I have been an axe in the hand
I have been a pin in a forceps
I have been a speckled white cock
I have been a stallion
I have been a violent bull
I have been a buck of yellow hue
I have been a grain discovered
Which grew on a hill
He that reaped me exerted his hand
In afflicting me.
A hen received me
With ruddy claws I rested nine nights
In her womb.
I have been matured
I have been an offering To the living and the dead
I have been dead I have been alive.
A branch of ivy A berry on a bush
I have been a convoy
I have been poor I have been rich I have been and am the many in one The one who is always the one
Who am I?
I am Taliesin.
And I delineate the true lineage
Which will continue to the end
In the pattern of Elphin.
Feel breath’s inflow
cool the septum,
the outflow barely felt,
a stream
warm and moist
past nostrils’ edges.
Watch each phase
begin and gather speed,
then slow,
pause
and turn.
Mark the shudders,
the catches;
see when they have ceased;
the breath grows smooth,
grows subtle
till it scarcely moves.
See the mind
grow still,
the monkey thoughts
that rose and chattered,
float off and leave
behind a silence;
breath ceases.
Listen to
that silence;
in it bliss can rise
as tiny, inward,
arpeggiated
harmonies —
hear fluteless fluting.
Moon swollen almost full; the rains retreat
has slowly drawn towards its end, and now
on full-moon eve you stand in tiny conflict.
A few days past the moon, you’ll bid the monks
farewell, take up your teaching and your life
outside the monastery. Moon-eve’s the day for shaving.
As here with hair on scalp and eyebrows, so there
without you’ll stick out like a hand in plaster.
Today, though, the Cambodians come to offer
dâna, to reaffirm their refuge in
the triple gem of Buddha, Dhamma, Sangha.
You love those people, simple in devotion.
You’ve sat impassive on their floor beside
the monks, while turn about and spoon by spoon
they’ve stepped by, filling bowls with rice that mounted
high and higher, to each six times a monk’s meal;
and with that rice you’ve watched your mountain-tall
alarm rise, and let it go, for generous
it is accepting gifts as well as giving,
albeit you could not eat it all by far.
Incense will hang thick; the abbot will
suppress his allergies; those gap-toothed peasant
folk will bow and chant the precepts. And so
you pay a compliment that won’t be noticed:
you shave, a twenty-minute job for you
with razor-blade unguarded. You take a bowl
of water, sit on a stump and lather head
with hands, and stroke by careful stroke, working
by feel you shave with naked edge, mindful
each lapse of mindfulness is paid with blood.
We’re told in Genesis the Lord God blessed
the creatures of the sea and of the air:
‘Be fruitful. Multiply. Fill the waters.
Fill the air.’ Again we’re told he said:
‘Let land be full of beasts of every kind,
that walk and creep.’ He then made man and bade him
not only multiply and fill the earth,
but master all, subdue the fish, the birds,
the beasts, and reap the seed of plants for food.
It seems the Lord did not foresee the powers
that man might find at last to hold at bay
microbes and other perils, merrily
make free to breed through every season, turn
that first command to curse, crowd the earth,
exhaust the soils and mine the seas for food,
to hew and burn the forests, wilder the climates
to storm and flood and drought.
Did the Lord
like men of power believe in laissez faire,
that nature would like markets ‘self-correct’?
Did he like a man of faith put trust
in providence? Or was he simply made
by men of faith? Is this the reason, then,
that underneath it all the Lord of Hosts
was less than wise?
From Divine poems
All my rage and joy and puzzlement at creation
(cards in a deck I keep dealing myself)
are so much strewings of ant dung
compared to creation, to its smallnesses
of ants and ant dung, and the hugeness of dark,
cupping in its hands so many miniscule stars.
Distracted by the mere immediacy of me,
blinded by body, perception and death
that waits to cup me and lift me up,
I brush past the light-reflecting world
as if it’s a dog I'm trying to avoid.
At my infrequent best, I'm stunned
by the arc of vision from this one point
fountaining unstoppably over the universe --
not as something I am doing here and now,
but as a conduit of something the universe does
like breathing, through me, unearned and wondrous.
It is then, as I look around for a god to thank,
that the angry old man stares back at me; he is
a stained glass window, pouring and altering true light.
an ongoing symphony
in which what thoughts are about
relate to each other
as chords and melody
make love to the idea.
and which floods
over the earth
and tosses ripples
in all directions,
is uncertain.
The ripples are real.
The idea and the song
are real, are one.
Meat and principle.
The seed cracks
and God emerges.
Which began?
Have I traveled so far for this?
Tilman Riemenschneider’s Heilige Maria
mit Kind, rough sandstone draped in Saxon sorrow
for a human Jesus meant to die.
And this Marienklage, skeletal Savior
on the mourning Mary’s lap; she’s seated
on a bank of skulls. What kind of
Good-News faith is this?
Art calling on each mortal
bone of God; grieving him to the grave.
But where on these unmoving faces is Almighty
hope? I move on to the Verehrender Engel,
marble angel without wings, eyes upturned and
hands unclasping; fingers so startled
at God’s vision that they begin to open,
flower-like, with praise.
It is a thing that you keep in your wallet, on your bookshelf, hanging on the wall. A photograph. The saints manned cameras
with black sheets over their heads saying, “watch the birdie!”
They held the light so bright Jesus
went blind. When they came out from under their sheets, he’d run off
II
Where was a woman. There were two with three distinct mouths. Who held the threads.
On the first day nothing happened. On the third day, nothing happened. The kingdom of
Heaven is like a cancer which spreads through the body. There is no cure but
Amputation. Each of the three women was never without the touch of the other two in
Spite of the lack of limbs they suffered. They sold everything to exchange nothingness
For a thing that could be raised to the sky, encouraging a bird to land.
III
There was a forest where the world was old. Underneath its skin there were tunnels Where cave fish traveled, carrying desire on their backs. They had no need for the need Of eyes. Inside their ocular cavities there was an unfathomable emptiness. They took the desire to the deepest place beneath the forest, before the earth turned to fire. Turning their backs, they swallowed indifference by the mouthful. A girl was walking in the forest. She slid ten fingers into the dirt and said “I can feel the earth’s heart.”
IV
The first woman’s eyes could not turn left or right. She didn’t speak any language Natively. The second woman’s eyes could not stand still. They encircled the world, they Seared the world through her cells. The third woman’s eyes beat wings like carpets Against lids that could not rise. Light streamed inside her body through invisible slices in Her skin. The dialogue of sight became their religion. They kept their churches dark. They cleansed the Feet of the poor in basins. They slept on hard floors inside a rich obscurity, Noticing everything.
V
The Church is like the woman who hides her lover. From the wound of the lover comes a mustard seed, which the woman unknowingly consumes. The seed fills her body with yellow flowers. Suddenly the woman cannot talk because of the yellow flowers that grow from her mouth. She cannot hear because of the yellow flowers filling her ears. She cannot see because yellow flowers overtake her eyes.
VI
There was a woman whose mouth could contain the world. She kept the world there gently embraced against her tongue. Often, Nothingness flew through her window and landed on her shoulder. Nothingness pecked at her teeth, attempting to devour the heart of the universe. One day she overcame her anxiety, settled her hands against the wings of Nothingness until he, too, became calm. She stroked his head until he lay it against her lips. Gently the woman arched the muscles in her throat, and swallowed, bringing everything together inside her.
VII
The Church is like the old man who cupped the mystery tight in his hands. He was asked the important questions. He answered that to disclose one shred of the mystery would be to divide it, and that it could not be divided. Then another man arrived whose love separated the old man’s hands. The mystery clothed this new body in light smacking its lips until the planets began to revolve
i wish for no shame after that resurrection of nakedness
air breathed into its frail body by the thumb of each
new lover; i wish against that shudder that comes
months later in the tenderest pocket of skin when you
think i can’t believe she saw that, and the loneliness of
having been seen. tell me what to do with this tenderness
that creeps in, the longing for silence between us swallowing
up our analyses, those complicated things we use
to bind ourselves safe against twin beds and walls. i
used to channel it towards God. my friend had a heart
transplant and was disappointed saying later, i thought it
might change me. but i always knew there was nothing
that wouldn’t change me. what you need to turn off is
not your heart but your electronic devices: things that
sing. there was a woman everywhere i turned
i kissed their palms where the flesh was open. scarcely
clinging to whispers, faces are nothing. jesus was singing
don’t you put me on the back burner, you know you gotta
help me out. but only women were allowed
at the crucifixion the men stood in drag writing their love
poems holding the flasks that caught the blood. i wished
for a religion, i shuddered thinking i can’t believe
not with these palms over my ears and thumbs plugged
in my eyes. they slice the skin, the failing heart is removed
by transecting the great vessels and a portion of the left atrium.
the patient’s lover must wait thirteen weeks before
reminding the patient of who she is. i waited and waited
she climbed many mountains i put my finger in the wound
but i had never believed it was a wound in the first place.
maybe jesus was singing when he was alive again, if i could be
who you wanted, if i could be who you wanted but his lovers
were too many and never made him forget who he was and he said
i thought it might change me. i kept my earphones in,
my ipod turned on, i listened to a thousand songs
but never forgot there was always that
purple string around her hair, that origami pelican
its mouth wide its breast waiting its eyes wide as the
wheels lifted into the body the body into the air the flask
in my hand above my mouth
Salvation Army and
the Christians arrived today,
Christmas, like every other Sunday morning
feed the homeless, chasing the rats from the bathroom,
basement, kicking the dead flies out of the corner spots
where the cat used to lounge
clean the toilet bowl, a form of revival and resurrection.
I privately pastor to these desires though I myself am homeless.
I forgot what it’s like to be a poet of the cloth,
savior in street clothing with a warm home to blend into.
I watch them clamp the New Testament in one hand,
And pull a cancer stick out of the pocket with the other.
It’s all a matter of praising the Lord.
Everything is nonsense when you’re in a place where you don’t belong.
Even praying to Jesus from a dirty dusted pillow seems strange and bewildering.
Someday I will walk from this place and offer spare meals by myself to others;
feed the party in between the theology, the bingo of sins and salvation.
I forgot the taste of a Stromboli Sandwich with a six pack of Budweiser
with or without the Chicago Bears¾it would make every Sunday a Salvation
Army holiday.
Today is a fairy creating miracles from the dust of the floor
multiplying fish and chips, baked ham, ribs with sauce Chi-Town type,
dark color of greens and veggies tip me to the Christian
clock on the wall peeking down on lost and unsaved.
I feel like a fragment.
A birth date the way again to begin, fragmented.
Pinto beans mixed with graffiti fingers,
Christians arrived on Christmas day¾
they always do every Sunday morning.
I pastor to these desires.
It’s all a matter of praising the Lord.
The Christians arrived today.
Do what I tell you to do
your face is like flour dough
your nose like a slant directionally
unknown like an adverb
tossed into space.
Your hat is like an angel
wedding gown draped
over vodka body
like a Christ shield
protecting you in innocence.
It is here I kiss your lips as a total stranger;
bring myself closely to your eyes;
camp out on your narrow lips
and wait for the morning
before I slide like a sled
deep snow, away.
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed over as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside−approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears starts
to mount in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.
-2007-
Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
I come to you with your blurry
eyes, crystal sharp mind,
your countenance of grace−
as yesterday's winds
I have chosen to consume you
and take you away.
"Oh, where did Jesus disappear
to”, she murmured,
over and over again,
in a low voice
dripping words
like a leaking faucet:
"Oh, there He is my
Angel of the coming."
-2007-
__________________________________
when the first shudder of lung began the light
emerged the bird stretched the flesh between
its beak the work was not incongruous with
the path.
there are spaces which
we asked for and david
foster wallace
in the cupboard
there was
the girl in
the yellow
dress
but the footnotes
there was not enough
paper
the stairwell
was filled
with the smell
of girls
being conceived
the graphs and charts
encountered by the civilians the foreskin
implied a participatory deity happened like
but the only evidence of we used our
the savior was tongues/ not
that he had disappeared to finish but
and that he was male
it’s got to be
shaped
like something
but the way she turned
it wasn’t as if we had
known each other for
the best thing about being a poet is that you know
that whoever writes the elegy will
french you
they were the ashes
of a baby
but the baby
was artificial
but she wasn't a
poet,
she was a cyborg
this wasn’t the first time
she tore the splinters from
her hair
we asked if the newness
was necessary
but we were told
that there wasn’t a thing
to express
except failure.
in fact we were
the first children
of the new generation
we had gathered to sing songs but none of the
songs spoke specifically to our particular problems
joseph beat the drums with his brown palms
his wife was faint with child
there was the girl in the yellow dress
there was the family
whose living room it was
why did you let them caption the white
space in the interview? isn’t it easier
to do Mad Libs?
i said, chickadee
i said, honey-pie
i said, sweet-heart
i said, baby
i said, love-bug
i said, jesus,
i said, how long has this
been going on?
it’s not so much an experiment with color as much as it is
an experiment with the girl in the yellow dress
this is the eagerness if the new
this wasn’t a transcript
a narrative
it was a speech
designed to be broken
there were always
men with swords everywhere,
men with nails
we liked the way each other looked but she just said
that was my first time
there is no getting around it
it was that conception
in the stairwell
she had forgotten the pill
on purpose
the angel said, honey-pie
you are making me crazy
and there was just that silence
and my cells formed
later gaining
consciousness
there had to be some shape
there was nothing left
no space for the remainder
there was just
the girl
and my father looked
into my face and said
this is my first
time
Three
three barges on the river
three in the morning
three barges sailing out of then into history
primordial story
three barges led by the barge named Galilee
I had a vision
guidance of passion
guidance of flame
the only life I countenance
and the heart went out of me at that moment
that moment and every moment since
went out - came back again - fluttered like a sparrow trapped in a cage it was trying to escape
but there was no escape
the heart was taken as ransom for the voyage
in the burning of the flame
how could I speak?
how could I speak?
how could I speak but in passion, in flame, as I stood at the makeshift harbour seeking a boat that would take me to Gaza or Jerusalem
ancient destinations
having come with my name and history as payment - but that was not enough for the captains had their own plans
“If you do not take me then who will - how will I ever reach Jerusalem?”
but they did not listen
we were clashing voices - opposing histories
yet all the time I was thinking of Christ and the woman I left sleeping until they got so confused in my mind that I could not tell one from the other
call this wilful blasphemy or the joyous wisdom a fool delights in -I will not disagree
I had a vision in which all was revealed
this is the only life I can countenance
sleeping women are beautiful in their sleeping but Christ outshines all in the mildness of September
“so you there, you sailors” I called again “can we not strike some bargain that will better us both?”
but they were not listening
if I had my cares then so had they and if the two met then they did not converse but left me there on the quay wall as the hawsers were loosed and they set sail for destinations glowing sweetly in my mind
I had a vision
no where but in the imagination
homeless now - no inhabitant of the desired city
my life become my exile
and the singing of an exile’s song
so
without permission
nor needing any except that which I granted to myself
I stepped onto that barge which called out to me the scriptures of water and land entering my mind like a prophecy fulfilled - one meant specifically for me to adhere to
sail now the latitudes and longitudes of the heart
sail to ancient destinations
sail where her sleeping invades my dreams
her sleeping invades my dreams
she who has the redolence of harvested apples
a danger
terror before beauty
but a destination also
yet what destination did I need as I placed myself on the brow of the barge named Galilee offering guidance gleamed from exile, from water, from wind
‘sleep well and may you sleep long’
was my silent prayer – a prayer answered by no answer
‘sleep well and may Christ guide your thoughts’
a prayer offered to the world for the world
for seamen who longed for ancient harbours
who tied the knots of love into a binding knot the mind follows to its conclusion
or at least as far as the next knot in my hands
as I stood there urging the sailors on to our common destination which would prove to be the smile of Christ and nothing less - unless it was that sleeping woman
she who I carried like a fruit in the mind
she with the smell of apples and henna in her hair
she with a history I embraced as my own
she to whom all lines are written as they are written for Christ
in which the urge to depart and the urge to arrive meet in a gentle confusion the heart recognises then claims as its own
much as it claims the waters and by-ways that must be moved over as I wanted to call aloud
“row sailors, row”
though there were no sailors at the oars
only the chugging of the engine as the boat moved towards the given destination of its name
sail now the latitudes and longitudes of the heart
sail to ancient destinations
where the hawser that held me to Christ held me to history
the only life that can be countenanced
I sang psalms, I sang shanties of my own composition
I shuffled in imitation of a dance
as much for that sleeping woman as for that beautiful one
these are the weavings of passion and flame
the only life that can be countenanced
sometimes you can’t tell beauty from beauty
nor one history from another as they tangle in a knot that holds your heart to water and land with gestures that seem outlandish to onlookers
but they do not know your history or allegiance
not that it mattered
nothing but flame
nothing but flame
not that I cared for the thoughts nor the condemnations of the world as I thought of apples and henna and wished her a goodly sleep in the arms of all that she loved
“let that be your guidance” I said to myself and to the winds of time as out of/into a new history the barged moved resolutely on
downriver
downriver
no exile now
no harbour foreign to our flow
moving in a beautiful glide with the water’s flow until I knew you cannot make one journey without making another in which you touch all the voyages of the past
longing to sail with Captain Christ or whoever came aboard
downriver
downriver
towards Gaza
towards Jerusalem
no exile now on water or land
but they would be empty, would be meaningless if I did not already have them in my heart – which I had - tangled as they were with my love for that woman of apples and henna and love for all that sought such a destination in the world
guidance of passion
guidance of flame
guidance as we moved downstream past all the towns of Flanders
past harbours that called out to us
past harbours that ignored our passage
past the greeting of children on towpaths like the one where this began – but where oh where would it end?
sail now the latitudes and longitudes of the heart
not in Gaza
not in Jerusalem
but in what both sites give to the heart so I called out
“you there, you on the towpath, do not give up your dreams - the city that will name you already names you in its heart and you enter its history”
so did they listen?
who can say – yet that was not my concern as I counted out the knots on a rope finding that they were many while under the stars I sang songs to the captain and companions
I had a vision in which all was revealed
Christ of midnight be our guide was on my lips though not everyone was pleased with this
even so the song continued under the stars conditioned as it was by them
as all things were in that sable darkness of soft wind and water spray
the light ruffling of the mind
it moves over many waters
it moves over the longitudes and latitudes of desire
the nods of agreement as certain words drew a response
desire
passion
such things
which came to this
psalms of water
narratives of water
joy for the night under stars offering the chance to sing from which I retracted nothing but offered my singing to the wind while a slow realisation grew in my mind
it is a splendid instrument
that there would only be the journey
that there would be no arrival
that the name of the barge was a deliberate lure to ally me to its purpose
that the hawser that bound me to history bound me to Christ
that there was no better binding unless it be to that sleeping woman who also invaded my mind with promise and passion
until –I have told you this- she was meshed in the name to which I had given myself and given with no regrets
so that when it was my turn to take the steering wheel I held it firm as I pointed east
into the passion and the comforts of the mind
so why am I telling you this?
I had a vision
because this is no fable unless it be the endless fable of our lives
these are ancient stories
because there is a passion in all voyages that loves to please itself in endless journeys
passion and grace
passion and grace
the barge that is named Galilee moves on and I move with it though we will never come to Jerusalem
Gaza Jerusalem Galilee – they shine in the mind
they lure the mind with passion, with grace, with history
they send out a homing signal which, when answered, induces the passion to begin
that is the true beginning
these are the weavings of passion and flame
Christ and that sleeping woman begin the passion I adhere to for there can be no better
I on the towpath
I on that boat
I telling of the journey as we moved past harbour and quay-wall
I had a vision in which all was revealed
guidance of passion
guidance of flame
the only life I can countenance
past the sleeping town of a Flemish morning inducing love in the heart and fire in the mind
may it always be thus
may it always be what the mind requires of apples and henna
may the hawser be strong to hold me to Christ
this is the core the rest is merely mutterings and mumblings of no importance
the barge moves on and I move on into the passion and the fable of the morning
turn, turn again where the river turns again
I had a vision
three barges on the river
three in the morning
three barges sailing out of then into history
primordial story
three barges led by the barge named Galilee
this is the only life I countenance
Nay, Eve did not
Eat the apple
Rather, she ate an onion
A really red hot onion
Nor was she seduced
By the ugly serpent
But by a handsome human
Who became her sole partner
So, the human history
Has been infused with
Women’s tears
And men’s guilt
Just as the shadow beyond the light
Is fictional, and fictional is
The word on the paper or screen
So is this hand also fictional
That writes from the heart of the night?
All the feelings swarmed together
What I meditated, flows
I wonder if this life of mine
Is a premature birth
Of a metaphor inseminated?
Sunlight pierces
Through the cigarette-ash cloud
At fisherfolk trembling,
An outrigger waddling where fish abound.
An eclipse once swallowed their world,
Claimed both boat owners and humble
Apprentices uprooted like water hyacinth
Or day-old stubble.
Dawn at this blue desert
Past the season of fruit,
After the Dies Irae2 is but a memory
Is unsought, not understood.
Ruth lost a child,
Weaving summer days,
A full-blossomed hibiscus garden
To hungry shadows beneath rays.
Mere nightmare?
A stump, once her foot, is all too real
Like a reproach. The sea
Is silent. Can cracked depths heal?
Where Anung naps
Ruth hopes is safe. On Judgment Day
Waves will uncover the dead
Like thatched mats rolling across the bay.
Yesterday was Christmas
As the day before their flood.
Ruth dreamt of the maiden who risked life
To bear a child, destined to shed blood.
Sweet flow of fetal blood
Tip-taps in sync with Ruth’s heart and lets
Her partake of creation.
She’ll fill Anung’s crib as fisherkin their nets.
1An Indonesian province that was ravaged by tsunami.
2A funeral song.
I.
White candles flicker,
lighting up stained glass
colored with red and purple
hues while we spit out
our languages by fire,
bodies sanctuaried.
A new mother lays a long-
fingered hand on her son
as if to say he is mine.
II.
One window boasts a ram,
pure white with large horns,
spindle legs, sharp bones
jutting out. He smiles
a human smile
through animal teeth.
III.
The men stand over
the Eucharist table,
heads alternately
bowed or raised
to the vaulted ceiling.
The people come,
fingers poised like
pairs of chopsticks
over Chinese take-out,
ready to take, eat.
If the moon is God's fingernail, then the sky is
His cupped hand, suspended over the earth
like a child's fingers over the mouth of a flashlight.
He makes a parapet with the hollow of His palm,
leaving us in a shadow, the writer's side of day (ink
marking our fingers like a swastika marks a Nazi).
I watch the sky, wait for new ink to cascade over me,
over us. But if the night were liquid, it wouldn't stain us;
it would spew out like comets, ricocheting from
our arms, our elbows. I know this, because the night
doesn't change us. We only feel dream-turbulence,
turbulence from the only stories we can write ourselves.
Take away from me all
that has blown in like litterings
trees give the ground after a storm:
the leaves, dead, undead, flat-handed
pressing to pavement; discarded
fruits of premature pecans, acorns,
single-winged whirligigs still green;
nests meshed together from trash
and feathers; eggs like single broken
eyes; baby birds, wings
not yet fleshed for flight.
We hold our souls like winter
holds the earth. Until thaw,
until we leave the shells of our bodies,
star-poured into blossoming.
is it not enough knowing
even genius is ill-spoken, and that our thoughts
will fade like the morning
clouds?
is it not enough knowing
there's no greater accomplishment
than death?
nothing's enough, of course.
but as for you, for whom the gods
make dying real
if you must sacrifice your life for anything
let there be this: grace
and remember the matadors
those noble falcons, remember socrates drinking
hemlock and falling
to one knee
it's the ultimate rhythm of things
the dance & the
breath
to finally understand,
and afterwards, to understand deeply
a life given up like this was never a life lost
and to turn away from man,
after having learned
to let go -
finally, that's best.
how you tame a lion is with a chair
and whip, but with a man it's best to grab
a bible and beat him over the head
with it singing god and country
and man oh my... praise be to america's wet-nurses
vibratingbedsalesmen mudbug-
harvesters undertakers failed honkytonk
coverbands anyone who's anyone
whose half-a-mind believes
in the voice of a mob
and the pursuit of life liberty and
that which is wholly
purchasable with a preferred line of credit
at jose's flower boutique & whackshack
back behind that truckstop
off yeehaw junction where the nuns all disguise
themselves as french-
tickler dispensers
and the feeling one gets
having been raised irish-catholic
when your final thought
always involves a line of priests
jockeying for hand-me-downs
outside the xxx goat-foot-emporium and how
did you say
philosophy was
born?
EXPLORING A FLOWER
…(T)he beginning of poetry in English occurred when an illiterate farmhand was aroused from sleep by an angel who then prodded him to versify the Book of Genesis.
Robert B. Shaw, “The Muse at Loose Ends”
I who cannot write, write.
There are those who know miracles cannot be miracles.
Thin lipped, her eyes wide open, she stands to sleep
and I wonder if, when night lives, this is her time.
I know the Bible.
I have heard it often enough.
Yet word for word, verse for verse, I cannot read.
Read I must.
She holds the railing,
sways with the movement of this thing she rides,
lips so thin when hair drips before her ears,
they bleed into her face.
I need to meet her.
She can teach me all things.
The last thing left is this slab of stone dead
Cold, numbered and lettered rising
From the earth’s brown green grass,
Dead flowers in bright bouquets with plastic
Stems and petals pink, orange,
Torn, faded, wind, rain, saboteurs.
Every now and then someone comes
And comforts the stone, lays a hand across it,
Traces numbers and letters with a finger.
Someone cuts away the weeds, finds new
Pieces of plastic, cleans up the debris.
Here the House of Job. The House of Sisyphus.
The Mansion of Worry and Sometimes Worse.
The color has not faded from my world
and I am the last person left in my world.
Can you not see this? Is lightning that bright?
Is there not a Godhead named Mithras
watching over goats and ewes and every colt?
Yes, yes, and no.
The sea has a way of washing itself,
the hand of thick grass holds to its own rhythm,
stone finds a detour and a stream and more stone.
The feet of the umbrella pine lift from a crush of earth.
Once upon a time there was such a thing.
Moon madness. This I know.
