One hardly knew what to think. The grassHad fooled them with a breath of night air.When the zephyr arrived, it found certainMessages that not even a good godCould contradict. It was fateful, unfair,And convincing. It was an eve thatNo Adam could hope to increase or cease to love. Poetry depends on what all poets warnContinue reading “Beautiful Indigoes”
Tag Archives: poetry
Froggy Talks
As always ‘The Blaze in the Haze’ arrives with badCommensurability, like comparing blood orangesAnd magic mushrooms; they kind of makeYou think your legs and arms have gone spastic.If you eat them—but whoa, wait, we don’tEat them. What do you think this is Lewis Carroll?We’re not hallucinogenic. Tall toad tales,Maybe, but that’s as far as IContinue reading “Froggy Talks”
So He Lives
The day Rilke knew where Picasso had secretedThe painting he had finished in 1905Called ‘The Family of Saltimbiques’, —and since he had come to feel its urgency—He made plans to go to the castle whereIr was domiciled. He wrote, With all its eyes The animal world beholds the Open.But how could this be true?The OpenContinue reading “So He Lives”
Hallelujah
Falcon Falls
Fall you will, but rise you must. —James Joyce The falcons form as a circle, as a gift Equal to what the gray, gay glasses beckoned to: The empty stretches of the empty lots, clue To the damage done by poetry left to drift, As it scatted in resplendent high spec gloss, His desk,Continue reading “Falcon Falls”
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Where We are Made
Most excellent day, please introduce me to your spouse. I have for so long been a fan Of the way she smiles, the way she folds her lips against your teeth, so like a tiger, so like The cages and nests those beasts seem to need for your coarse and often boring litany. She holdsContinue reading “Where We are Made”
Every Eve
Every Eve was beautiful. She formed A reflection of a reflection that lots Of people would think of as a home. Every Eve knew that love can tie knots In laughter. She knew that love was like a poem That must live among the living—and outfox The dead. She came to settle, she came toContinue reading “Every Eve”
An Echo, eh?
All echolalias can be real– a cheese, say, a nice smelly Brie— the smell repeated endlessly as to a hungry moon hunger that must be repeatable and repeated, sieved and saved, until the moon makes it true, not only echoed once, but again by two.
One for the Road
The mystery of rain: it falls alike on dirt and grass, on concrete and macadam; it falls until it stops, for the love of Mike, and it leaves the soil besotted, Madam.
