|
A Beginning After the Towers FellMoon, sweet moaning moon, drone on. Lover of the waves of the sea, Wake me at midnight. Tell me there is hope. Be there night after night. Yet moan, Yet know our moonshine habits. Yet know our weakness, Knowing your own. Wake me at one, at two, at three, When I can see you shining, Shining bright whiteness Into our bedroom, Where we fall, Victims of our own fight for energy, Where we fall asleep. Wake me at four, five, or six, When your color matches the clouds. Be like the seagulls Who remind us We live on an island, A sea island, Beneath the moon. Over and over, Appear to us, Teaching us that even you Are perishable, Though we have known you Since the beginning Of our days. I took the towers for granted; They seemed like the truth to me. Still the moon shines, Lighting up the sky, Like the towers of light That month the city could afford it. Those towers of light vanished too soon, Mocking the aurora borealis. A Beginning A cat hurries beside us On padded feet, cottony, strong. Winding down the cycles of time Spiraling up or down the staircases Of love or enmity Ever moving toward a newer reality Hoping again and again for some truth I trudge after you Like a cat Assuming you know where you are going (And I want to be in that place, with you) And you know It’s not so bad This place where we find ourselves Happy just to be together Humming a tune, old or new, Or laughing freely and openly Or just enjoying the simplicity Of a cat, curled up on a futon, Impatient with our indignities, But wise enough, all things considered, Watching us build structures Out of dominoes, Ever waiting for the decisive moment Of collapse, which amazes her. I see her emotions, as she sees mine She won’t put up with fear, Or unjustified anger, which is all anger, And all fear, related so closely to anger. She trudges on beside us, Not assuming we know where we want to go, But enjoying our company. So this is how we live, Initiates into the mystery Of emotional illusions, And happy to ignore them. Enmity or love? Either one can be seen As a pretence, but for us, Why not try love? Musical Abandon the silence at the end of music played, a generosity always recognized once the silence is seen as habitual and therefore comfortable— the silence we habituate to ourselves by filling our minds with talk or common noise this is a different kind of silence this is a holy silence not perpetuated but rather born straight up like crocuses driving up through the earth not impersonating flowers these are real creatures this silence that your music delivered as an acquaintance or one more darling child born or begun: let us hear the silence for the first time— your music actually did this; our experience tells us so, though it flees; we forget it might happen again, after you play music, again Heart of Gold: A Confession for Julie Madwoman, drunk, philanderer, I don’t see how you can love me. I tweeze hairs from everywhere On my body, tweeze and shave, Hoping you haven’t seen me In the sunlight. I have evil Thoughts about everyone. I used to wear a cross Between my breasts, until It got too heavy. Now I wear your gold and diamond locket With my holy mother’s picture In one side. The other side is empty, Waiting for my father, a saint, to die, too, So that I may show off Both my holy parents, But more than that, my suffering. You bought it for me, extravagantly, Thinking I was worthy. I know I am not worthy: Lord, make me worthy. Those two lines I got From a celebrated poet. The only good lines I get Come from nowhere, From someplace outside of myself. I grab other people’s love, Being nice on the outside. Yours comes from inside Your heart of gold, and diamonds. I hope you are not deluding about me. dad: a look back your hair is white and you move with a certainty that is uncertainty you talk fast in the morning before your coffee and your youngest child is thirty one but it isn’t these positive qualities that define you now rather it is the negative fact that your wife of what would have been fifty one years this December is dead my mother no longer smooths over everything saying daddy’s just grumpy he’s got a bad cold saying polly never could replace me in his heart i’m not threatened but you’re grumpy all the time now and it’s not just the gruffness i learned to associate with love as a child you smoke your cigars with disdain as if they were the cigarettes you gave up forty five years ago the one thing you still relish is golf something that made her a widow long before she died your trailer plastered with signs of the hole-in-one you got the summer after the spring when she died but after all is said and done you led us in prayer on christmas day and i understood that your magic remains not so much because she still loves you but that god does Wedding Day I have known you long— Through this love and that love, This hope and that disappointment. But now comes your wedding, And there is something that rings true In him and you, joining: You so wholly happy. He’s a mystery, ever, to me— But you are so happy. May you always be thus! Willy is gone And I am here Sitting alone Looking out the window Looking at the light In the leaves On the tree Still The leaves are golden For a moment Canning You asked me, was I happy? I hid; scrambled for words That would veil this secret: I am. But some things Are really better left unsaid. It’s my own recipe for preserves. Walk With Me And talk with me a little while, My friend born when the lilacs bloom. He has senses so balanced That the scent of the lilacs pervades him And he walks right through it, Smiling a little as he thinks of jokes Assuaging his fears of financial imbalance. As for me, the flowers’ scent grasps me And I yearn for memories of New England Where lilacs grew in my grandparents’ yard. Gasping, I bend to sniff The scent he accepts unconsciously. Rich people walk by with armloads Of pale purple, Hugging their treasures on their way home, Where they will fill large pitchers And set them on their kitchen tables, With a sense of satisfaction. I envy those who can afford to buy These wild bouquets, While my friend walks on, Thinking of mathematical formulas While I skip beside him like a child, saying, “Don’t the lilacs smell so good?” He keeps walking and when he speaks His subject is not the lilacs. “I didn’t get enough sleep last night,” He muses, ignoring the passersby. He knows where there are lilac bushes In the park, fenced in, where These folks can’t pull off branches— They must buy them. He has a special vision of these flowers. He says they bounce on their stems like slinkies. Just Keep Writing Dangerous imagination, Lay me down— Lay me down to die— Strange feelings, And fear of the strange Drag me into places Where I am pinned down, Turned inside out Yet craving the strange, Yet due to no truth, Yet ever condemning My own poetry— My pride taking me into places Where I’ll do anything Any kind of contortion To get that applause meter going, Or worse, the laugh meter roaring, Yet ever striving to find truth By traveling down twisted lanes Looking for stories To prove my mettle, my ego— What am I saying? Just stand up On the seat of the swing And swing yourself, Pumping, Going higher and higher— No one can see— But what fun To sail up Into the sky-- Home |