Up in the mountains a man wrote a novel. It was set by the sea, about a woman who wrote plays, mostly about poets. The novel focused on one play in particular, about a fine young poet who, as a side-gig of sorts, cooked dreams down by the harbor and sold them for two bits, or a smile, whichever came first. It was a catastrophe!! The novel, the play, the dream cooking, the works!! It was as if the whole…
I dove like Gilgamesh Into the deep For the youth plant The one that got away The snake shed its skin Thousands of years ago Thousands of miles From great-walled Uruk Would this happen to me? Would I forget the gift Lay it on the ground To be snatched in a flash Like youth itself? There is no suspense To the journey We know how it ends But we act as if This time Because it’s me And not that…
The Monkey Climbs a Tree I. With words come the square, the block Of sound, time and space With words, you fill the square And we bounce you hither and yon The block of time and space, ex nihilo Becomes something you see, touch, hear Smell if you’re advanced Taste if you leap beyond the possible II. An image does more, because it is The thing in a sense A copy of the thing at least But words can never…
The Realist Struggles With Vacation Brochures The painter who wanted to sing And write and travel And be the incognito ruler of the world Left his apartment that should have been a house Or a mansion In the country not the city Instead of bleakness He wanted lush greens and grounds And stone pools Shining in the sun Years were to be filled With talks and walks And healing of souls Through his words or images The notes coming…
And he thought about building Crafting Making things Merging the useful with the useless To some For there are beings in this world Who care nothing for beauty There are beings in this world Who care nothing for art So he would build the functional And make it sing for the tone deaf For the colorless he’d make Things bloom in usefulness But then he thought Why work so hard For them? For the beings who pass it all by…
The clearing She thought she heard The last clearing It was Heidegger’s not hers And after his keyre His turn So many turned on him But not for that For other things like his falling out of Being With the world With the world as it ought to be So she passed through that last clearing On her way to something nonfictional Non-mythical . . . beyond epic legend and folk-tale Existence comes before essence she thought Or we have…
I The splinter of sunrise in the mind Before the wind shifts And the beacon fades All of life is a furtive glance By death By death in life Unless we laugh and make that splinter Shine Make it manifest as full beam As entire sun Entire world II The girl feared no one would care She feared no one would come after her But Van Gogh watched And Van Gogh cared As she walked into the horizon alone…
Looking at an old poem from decades ago. Trying to see if it still holds up. Some poets, like Yeats, revised even published works, changing new editions of their collections over time. This isn’t really like that. But it is a return to some dark cove, some ancient lough, for reassessment and advice: Clever Autumns With Parochial Zephers Blindness and cacophonyLike time underwater The yews tremble for their Lovers on the mountain tops Four beats to every heartAnd…
