Glass with Memory
When I remember you
glass comes to mind,
but nothing so transparent
as an unclothed thought
or warmth trickling in
through the pipes or
under the haze of
the second night’s sheet,
no two alike except
in appearance, but under
the lamp’s unconscious glare
I find warmth spreading
across the hard surface,
telling me all is
not lost, that smoothness
persists beyond our reflection.
“Glass with Memory” made its first appearance on the blog in February 2017.
On Air Conditioning
The man who owns everything wants more.
Another offers his sandwich,
accepting grace with a smile.
Like vapor condensing in a coil
to remove heat from the air.
Difficult to comprehend.
Harder to live.
by Stephanie L. Harper and Robert Okaji
I remember what I cannot say
in the moment before
I somehow say something else,
instead,
but like a river reversing course
seeps its brackish warmth
into crisp mountain runoff channels,
my backdraft, too,
threatens
to stifle the resident cutthroats
along with their prey.
Nothing will remain safe for long
from the toxic sediments I bear
upstream, resisting
the current’s translucent
promise to rush me past the crest
of undulant reeds between
the salt marsh and open sea;
for no twist in the shoreline,
nor cloudburst’s surge could un-speak
the daylight
from its collapse
into the ocean’s black throat.
“Flux” first appeared on Underfoot Poetry, and is one of several pieces (with more to come) written during the past year in collaboration with Stephanie L. Harper, whose wisdom, patience and good humor enrich my life daily. Thank you, Daniel Paul Marshall and Tim Miller for taking this piece.
Ghazal to the Night
The sun carries this river to the night.
Balmless flesh, lies. A letter to the night.
What folly, your mineral dream of power.
I inhale your bones, oh smoky altar to the night.
A stump is neither owl nor island, lifeboat
nor storm. This resin, a gift of myrhh to the night.
My email disappeared to emerge a year later.
Why? Remember what we were to the night.
Hey, winged smile, describe yourself in colors!
Empty your veins and pockets, donor to the night.
This cup, that glass. The song of empty bottles.
Casting off, Bob hands his anchor to the night.
* * *
“Ghazal to the Night” first appeared in Eclectica in July 2018. I am extremely grateful to editor Jen Finstrom for publishing my poetry over the years.
I enjoy working with this form. It’s a bit challenging, but ultimately rewarding. For a little information on ghazals, you might read this article at poets.org. Superb examples abound in Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English, edited by Agha Shahid Ali. The introduction alone is worth the cover price.
Thunder
The low rumble says “look out, I’m coming,” but never specifies what to anticipate. Lightning strikes? Floods? High winds? Sometimes even the rain neglects us. Our pup hides under a blanket in her crate, and I contemplate a run to the store for beer and wine. Three years ago tornados were spotted in this area; they never touched our hills. The storm’s downdrafts bring us the fragrance of ozone. I marvel that three oxygen atoms combined in the atmosphere to produce such delight. How I remember inhaling deep draughts of summer storms in my childhood’s last years, watching thunderheads roll overhead, dreaming of victories and love and certainty, not yet knowing that desires change, that the unexpected always seizes its turn.
Under this roof
we smile at the clouds
our kettle whistling
“Thunder” first appeared in The Zen Space in July 2018.
My poem “Inscrutable” has been published in Volume 3, Issue 1 of Ink in Thirds. Thank you, Grace Black, for taking this piece!
My poem “Self-Portrait as Wave” has been published in the first issue of Kissing Dynamite. Many thanks to editor Christine Taylor for taking this piece.
My last five posts of 2018 are reruns of five of the most viewed posts on this site during the year. “Wind” benefitted from being featured on the WordPress Discover site, and is by far the most viewed post ever on the blog.
Wind
That it shudders through
and presages an untimely end,
that it transforms the night’s
body and leaves us
breathless and wanting,
petals strewn about,
messenger and message in one,
corporeal hosts entwined,
that it moves, that it blends,
that it withdraws and returns without
remorse, without forethought, that it
increases, expands, subtracts,
renders, imposes and releases
in one quick breath, saying
I cannot feel but I touch,
I cannot feel
* * *
“Wind” first appeared in Blue Hour Magazine and is included in my first chapbook, If Your Matter Could Reform.
Ghazal of the Bullwhip
Who hears braided tongues lashing the glare still?
The language of pain writhing through white air, still.
Or herding cattle you pop and crack above the horizon,
pastoral and flowing. But sharp, a sonic nightmare, still.
You ask how love blossoms through decades and more.
That look, a caress, the perfect words – all quite rare, still.
Oh to be a larks head knot, strengthening when used.
Delicious hitch, unmoved water, tight square, still.
I fall, you fall. We fall together in pleated silence.
The inevitable loop of the captive’s bright snare, still.
No gods today, but voices trickling through my skull:
Bob, Bob, they say. Not again. Even you should care. Still!
* * *
In response to a comment, Daniel Schnee dared/challenged me to write a poem about a bullwhip. To make it interesting I decided to combine his theme with my latest enthusiasm, the ghazal form.
This first appeared on the blog in September 2017.
Uccello
the wind is what
the stillness
desires to say
each instant
collapsing into itself
like a bud
returning
to the seed
listen
the birds in my tree
are silent
as echoes
before their brief
lives are
silent
something thrashes
in the leaves
the feather
spiraling
slowly
is not only what
it is
as the candle
is more
than flame
or a moment
curling
to darkness
the question
is of clarity
I built a frame
but placed
nothing in it
the wind
blows through
quietly as if
between silences
there exists
only silence or
light
the familiar embrace
unfolding
Originally published in 1987 in a short-lived publication called The Balcones Review, this is the opening of a longer work. When I last looked out my window at that same tree, I heard the birds, no longer silent.
O at the Edges 