In the foothills by the one road
leading up a mockingbird leaps
into shortlived flight from grass to low
branches: on its fully extended wings
the white wing markings meet
into a lowercase “o” which is
the foothills’ song: quiet
unmarked and not to be mocked
Behind the cloud mass the sun is uncoiling and coiling
dragon wrapped around itself spitting fire behind a waterfall
And for a moment as I think of home it is eclipsed entirely
by an imperfection in the windshield where six months ago
a pebble fell from nowhere as I drove up this very mountain’s
westward spine bounced with a crack, oblivion leaving its mark
A man wise in these things called this a “star break”
and of no danger to the integrity of my vision
Soon sun the mountain will shrug you off you will drop below
the ragged day’s line into tomorrow while I take the only road
I can to find what I left is now ahead of me and waiting behind
a light in windows, laughter drifting through the gap
I will be checking out this rather cool topic in my rather cool and little city this weekend. Angela Carter and Stan Galloway are area poets whose work I have enjoyed hearing in person.
Printer extraordinaire Emily Hancock of St Brigid Press will also be bringing copies of the mini-broadside of my translation of Li Ho’s “Sky Dream” for the event. I will not be selling this myself and I’m not sure if Emily has it for sale yet on her site, but you can always write her if you’re interested in seeing more. The poem is printed on very thin Unryu paper backed by grey Magnani Pescia paper, in Bembo typeface. The matting creates the shape of the moon which of course our poet Li would not bother to name in his brilliant and strange piece of verse, and will I think be available in a variety of night-sky-ish colors.
I believe St Brigid Press will also be issuing this poem’s companion translation of Li Po’s work, as well as a few other translations of classical Chinese verse. And of course as I attend this event I’ll be taking with me my time-travelling version of Mei Yao-ch’en, the great 11th century poet with whom I have spent so much time these last few months…
I will be one of four area poets reading in Staunton Thursday April 17th at 7pm at The Space, a newly renovated performing arts center in the heart of this great little city’s historic main street. Not sure what I’m reading yet. Any requests / suggestions?
This book does not care if you buy it.
This poem does not care if you buy the book.
Even I do not care if you buy the book.
The three of us have been waiting here
To tell you this, but even more—perhaps
you have just been thinking of that person
Whose love has kept you alive without you
knowing it these many years, perhaps you
Are remembering that person now.
Are they right beside you, unaware your
Love flows stronger than ever? Have you
not exchanged words in years? We are here
To tell you—put down this book, do not look
back, you were never looking back but always
Straight through the eye of his soul.
Put down this book now and go to him.
Or, if you are still here, at a loss for words,
I will help you. Go buy this book
And leave it face down where he
will find it, and notice this poem,
That is why we are here, after all,
And we will see what can be done.
Some times you have to go
deep enough in so
there’s no way
out
before a sense
of real direction
develops
*
Orange sun sets through gap in clouds
in the midst of a spring snow flurry
does nothing know its place?
or I have forgotten nothing
has its place here
*
Mist rises from trees
ghosts of foliage
longing for last summer
Sometimes I feel a ghost
in myself a burning off
that I mistake for rising
It clouds the moon
between us
*
Navigating mountain fog road
I slow to the speed of the visible
The sun only a white rumor
all wild empty air just out of reach
Descent brings clarity
a painted line, the next curve ahead
truths higher than any
enveloped peak
photo: Herbert Gambill
1.
Your red dress and leather jacket in Brookline.
You rented a room from a family named Antler.
This should have been a message to me:
animals would gather on us like moss.
I communed with a skunk around a garbage can
in a dead silent, achingly cold early morning walk
away from your apartment. One sunrise we awoke
on a cold spring porch to find two squirrels,
One laying upon the other calmly,
looking at us from a limb on porch level.
[from] 3.
If our love was a street sign, William
Christenberry would have stolen it.
4.
“You take care of your family
and I’ll take care of mine.”
This was the first time we were recognized
as what we were becoming.
In the middle of the spring night,
visiting the horse in the barn
Beneath a thousand hovering swallows
**
7.
A mile walk to Bull Street
with ten bags of groceries.
8.
The dog at the daycare fence knew you
so you took him home.
9.
Cardamom husks. Emptiness.
***
13.
Everything fell with the towers
but us. Everyone in love
Must have felt that.
14.
We suddenly find ourselves
with a view of ancient gods.
Why are we so at home
under these foreign skies?
We suddenly find ourselves
again. Spring expands to summer.
People bring you stories
and you show them the stories’ faces.
15.
Outside is the cat with the human face.
And others. Inside, another face:
Sophia’s. And I am home, with you
and her and the animal kingdom.
16.
So much joy, so little work.
But I can hear the clock ticking
to find a safe haven as surely
as I can hear the second heart
beating inside you.
17.
We moved from magnolias
to snow and road salt.
I wore suits to work. I dreamed
our daughter’s name.
I held your hand in wonder
as the doctor unwound
the cord that had stopped Aurora
from rising; free, she blustered forth.
But held still in Granny’s arms,
both dozing in their own direction,
In late summer light.
*
[from] 19.
That most rich May!
*
21.
Wandering the desert of our basement
even the camel-backed cricket
finds its oasis.
22.
Back in a big old house
in a small old town.
The proportions of anxiety
slowly shrink back to the size
of stray cats. Surrounded
by tombstones and gypsies
we are calm, and
play returns.
23.
Our old soul companion has fallen.
24.
Music is filling the house
flowing out from the windows
The moon clambers over
an abandoned building to listen with me.
Our dogs spread out in the backyard
below like quarter notes across
a hilly composition.
*
The New Orleans Review posted my poem “The Push Pull” today. A nice way to celebrate the first day of spring!
By the end of every day I want to leave nothing unsaid
who knows when the next time to say it will be?
If it is tomorrow so much the better
I want to kiss my son’s head carry my daughters
as they sleep from our bed to theirs
though it is not as easy as it was a few years ago
and touch foreheads with each dawn
before light burns our silent words away
*
Hollow-boned bird on the twig of this moment
knowing that twig is not home but all there is
to perch on I want to catch up with my own
lightness full of all that wings will cover
or carry with a piece of the end of the day
to add to the nest which will be good enough
when I alight at dawn and for the dusk
I will one day wordlessly drift down to
Always a surprise to hear your voice
and realize you are still with me
I must persist in you and grow less quiet
now and then like a song that comes to mind
or maybe like the years hum a little louder
without recognition above the level of crickets
distant trains garbage trucks or maybe you have
loved me this long and I’m still surprised by that
Translations from the English 