This Turning
what one says
depends not on
words the wind
begins it does
not end but
lends itself to
an end this
turning may be
an answer the
sound of intent
so concealed a
word displayed is
only a word
not an end
nor the beginning
Another oldie from the eighties. It seems that even my poetry was thinner then.
I’m honored that Marcy Erb has illustrated one of my poems. It’s interesting to see what someone else discovers in my words.
Snow Country
desolate the reach
of space a
curved line of
white empty as
the loneliness one
feels the tone
is different on
a day like
this she says
unaware that her
words fall like
snow in the
mountains soft quiet
in the roar
no one hears
Another piece from the eighties…
Cardinal
Question: what is air if not
the means by which we
see and feel? Sound creates only
itself, another version of the original
sense. I move from shadows to a deeper
darkness, hoping to find that point where absence
ends. But there is no end, only
continuation, a cry for those
who offer their hands in ambiguity. Sometimes
a cardinal’s call fills our
morning with questions. So
little of all we touch
is felt. We are the air. The air is.
Many thanks to Shinjini Bhattacharjee for including one of my poems, with an audio recording, in Hermeneutic Chaos, Issue 11, alongside work by Nancy Bevilaqua, Kenzie Allen, Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick, and others. This is a lovely, well curated publication, and I’m excited to have work in it.
Self-Portrait with Orbit
An arced path around a central point, bound to but held apart,
as in night’s returning grace, or standing waves.
In periapsis, you reach out as I slowly withdraw.
Gravity does not prevent departure but prolongs it.
The acceleration of a body is equal to the sum of the gravitational forces, divided by its mass. I rise from the chair but can’t escape.
Not circular but elliptical.
Where falling away and curving from never meet.
Realizing that I am neither focus nor center, I discover place
in symmetry, in flow and subtraction.
A cloud obscures the sun and you close your eyes.
I wither at the thought of scaling or relative size, or your departure.
In the simplest Klemperer rosette, four bodies cycle their dances,
heavy, light, heavy, light, in a rhombic configuration.
My arteries fill in opposition to desire.
Wanting you, I absolve weight and listen, accept my place.
“Self-Portrait with Orbit” is included in The Circumference of Other, my offering in the Silver Birch Press publication, IDES: A Collection of Poetry Chapbooks, available on Amazon.
First posted in March, 2014.
This is not a translation, but rather a version, my “take” on a famous Tu Fu poem. I claim no abilities in translation, neither speak nor read Chinese, and instead depend upon the skills of those who have ventured into these difficult reaches. This is where the poem carries me, a middle-aged Texas hill county dweller, in the Year of the Horse, 2014.
Night Journey (after Tu Fu)
Wind bends the grass along the road.
A lonely truck passes by.
Stars reach down to touch these hills
and the moon drifts behind.
No one will ever know my poems.
I am too old and ill to work.
Circling, floating, who am I
but a vulture looking down.
Here’s a literal translation of the piece (or so I believe), found on chinese-poems.com:
Nocturnal Reflections While Traveling
Gently grass soft wind shore
Tall mast alone night boat
Stars fall flat fields broad
Moon rises great river flows
Name not literary works mark
Official should old sick stop
Flutter flutter what place seem
Heaven earth one sand gull
My goal was to retain the mood, as I understand it, of the original, and to place it into my personal context. An interesting exercise.
O at the Edges 