This is kinda fun. The Slag Review published “Scarecrow Pretends” back in January, and now this has appeared on the Long River Review’s blog. I’m always grateful when someone extends the life of one of my poems. Thank you, Benjamin Schultz.
(Hotel Eden) In Full Light We Are Not Even a Shadow
Which is to say clarity persists in
increments, in the silent space between
color and lens, within parables seen
in the incomplete: straw, hand. Imagine
white valued more than manner as hidden
thought remains obscured. Lower your eyes, lean
forward. Perspectives tilt towards the mean,
suggesting purpose. When we examine
intent, do we find it? The irony
of bottled cork, of sullied paradise,
a coiled wire, the parrot whose voice,
unheard, implicates us. What felony
must we commit to admit the device
in play? Pull or release? The mimic’s choice.
Notes: “In full light we are not even a shadow” is a line from Antonio Porchia’s Voices.
Hotel Eden is the title of a piece of art by Joseph Cornell. An image may be found here:
http://www.wikiart.org/en/joseph-cornell/untitled-the-hotel-eden-1945
This made its first appearance here in March 2015.
Few essays on writing poetry grab me by the collar, slam me against the wall, and say “Listen, dammit!” But this one did.
Camille Dungy’s words sear through the fog. She tells it slant. She tells it true. She explains how some masters have done it. If you’ve not read her poetry, seek it out. You’re in for a treat. If you have the good fortune to attend a lecture or reading by her, do so. She’s energetic, wise and kind. She knows.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/247926
Originally posted in June 2014.
“Apricot Wood,” is included in my chapbook , If Your Matter Could Reform, and was featured on Autumn Sky Poetry Daily in March 2015
Apricot Wood
I built a frame of apricot
wood. This was for you. The clouds float
through it even as I sleep. You wrote
once of wild herbs gathered and brought
to a lovely girl, an offering not
of passion but of some remote
desire to hear a word from the throat
of the Lord Within Clouds. I thought
of this as I chiseled the wood.
Last night it rained. I listened to
it from my bed by the open
window, hoping that the clouds would
not leave. This morning two birds flew
by. It is raining again.
The Color of Water
Eyes the color of water. The tree I cut down
returns: fallen leaves, smoke, the missing
shade, memory come to reflect
emotion. Once the blue grosbeak
hid in its branches, calling but refusing
to appear, the voice our only consolation.
Now rain streaks the empty space.
Those things we touch often bruise,
but to leave them untouched may harm us
even more. Two days ago the sky cleared.
Changes, how often we see them for what
they are not. An essential falsity. Those eyes.
Words, ever-changing. Shadows of lovers
whose bodies merge but never touch.
This first appeared on the blog in March 2015.
The Geography of Silence
1. Laundry drooping at midday.
2. She dreams off-key, in pastels.
3. With misunderstanding comes anger.
4. Mata! Mata! Again!
5. Ashes crossing the ocean.
6. Sweat, and the taste of separation.
7. Reaching for past moons, she cries.
8. Death’s shade.
9. Rice.
10. Self-sacrifice, the centered gift.
11. Inward, always. Inward.
“The Geography of Silence” first appeared here in March 2016.
One
I am Brahma
the straight line, the upright being,
fire that flares,
seed without end, manifold
self beyond all
polarity, radiating sun:
the all.
Philosophers considered one a non-number,
generatrix of all that follows.
Other.
The singularity. The lone.
From the Indo-European oi-qos we achieve solitude,
while the collective meaning of one derives from the Sanskrit sam.
United in itself, it changes nothing,
becoming everything.
On its side it represents the horizon.
Alone is all-one.
The Latin non is one negated, as is the German nein.
Symbol of intellect, the Hindu moon glows wide.
Atomic number of hydrogen, magician’s numeral,
monad and eccentric, I bear the empty product.
“One” first appeared here in February 2016.
Water Witching, We Hear
The rattle of stalks
along dirt roads,
whispery days
sifting through
parched
light,
you say
patience, my
friend, and again,
patience.
I love these poems and poets for various reasons – technique, beauty of language, intellect, rigor – but mostly, their words burrow into my brain and won’t quit whispering to me…
Jane Hirshfield, “Not Moving Even One Step”
Carolyn Forche, “The Colonel”
Arthur Sze: “Kintsugi”
Antonella Anedda: “A Winter Night in the City”
James Wright: “To the Saguaro Cactus Tree in the Desert Rain”
Camille Dungy, “Association Copy”
Who are your favorites? Link in the comments.
O at the Edges 