(I decided that this will help everyone (hum, everyone) reading this poem. There was no point burying it among the replies.)\ Tom I’m going to try to tell you how I wrote this poem (I, the Day, See below) It took me about a half hour to write the poem entire—with a couple of wordContinue reading “To Tom Davis”
for Ruth Bader Ginsberg I, the day, consist of treesAnd rivers that escape throughThe talons of alphabetizing owlsHunched for themselves—And poised like poetsOf senescence, and intemperance ,And death defying stealth:The holiness of lifeEncoded in a wing span.
Damn those remorseless worms. They build a nest in the bottom of the bottle and pretend to be egregious agave. They drink it down as if they could live in the stuff. ‘They dangle from the rock,’ she said. ‘They think of everything.’ ‘All they think of is dirt,’ he said. What you leave isContinue reading “The Lake Drunk”
Mr. Molassess was a steeple chaser; he couldn’t help it; he had been that way all his life. Put a steeple in front of him, and puff he was off in a cloud of dust—which, granted this was Mr. Molassess, was none too cloudy, nor too dusty. He looked up just in time to seeContinue reading “The Diamonds of his Art”
The glass garden reflectsOur life beyond dreams.It hides nothing that it selects,And it finds all that is hidden. It is perfected in the sunrise,So perfect that the monks’Soft chanting can materializeItself into becoming silence. Yet it is so intransigent…It changes ‘you’ to become ‘me’,And brings a more gentleMoisture from the sea.
This was beginning to seem like a bad idea. To drag your mother out of a warm bed on a cold winter’s morning—and on a false pretext—was childish and silly. Sweetness grimaced. She had told her mother that she wanted to get some background for her film from someone who had been to Coney IslandContinue reading “Abattoir”
As Porphyry writes poetry, it as ifthe words were cut deep in to stone. HeWrites so that you will listen and rememberthat he is an old man, saved by trees, saved bythe land as if it were an island suspiciously placed — it is a home to him, an igloo in the snow,an oasis in theContinue reading “That is Enough”
A hollow head Left like a little fellow And left standing At attention and alone— A simple iteration That lights use to keep What some call belief And others call solace Alive in the snow, As winter’s peacocks, ferns, And teeth take turns to feed the ducks until nothing is left, Except for aContinue reading “The World from Space”