on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read,
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.
We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes."
Some Like Poetry
For the Dead
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you weresick and would not answer
The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself
I have always wondered about the left-over
energy the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped
or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight
Barefoot
by Anne SextonLoving me with my shows off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.
There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark
Lassie's Lassitude
Truth: Making myself believe that I'm a Humanitarian
Vacillation
5 months and counting...* ( A Stolen Shot )
(Panoramic View)
Letters.
Figures.
Holes.
Motions.
(Mid Shot)
Loving Weekends,
Throwing Scratch Papers,
Disowning,
Remembering,
(Camera Zooms In)
while the birds were busy grubbing,
i was alone, unearthing.
it was during the holy hour of 3:00:
A piece of paper on the table was left unattended,
i was holding a pen that time and had nothing to do,
i thought of writing few fragments
of solitary madness
1.
a pen narrower than my fingers'
was held upright with its point
pressed onto the paper
2.
as the pen was gliding
scribbling few strokes,
i let my thoughts couple
3.
they were free flowing,
like any sung mantras
penetrating and liberating
4.
i held the pen til i reached the bottom
of the page, it was pure
and chaste
5.
there was a chaos inside my head
a cleft between the spaces,
a pen gliding across the gap
6.
i pressed the pen harder,
letting it cut through the paper,
until the scribbled letters
7.
let loose.
*"All extremes of feeling are allied with madness." ~ Virginia Woolf
Feeling Futuristic*
When a scientist is ahead of his times, it is often through misunderstanding of current, rather than intuition of future truth. In science there is never any error so gross that it won't one day, from some perspective, appear prophetic.
Isolation
Mind Game*
To the Belle of the Ball
Snow-Covered Hills
for JRD
How does it feel to reach a snow covered hills?
Would it be best to climb in the morning
or at night?
Would it be best to climb alone or
with someone?
What are the tools to bring?
What was your reaction seeing
everything below the snow covered hills?
How far was the snow covered hills?
How lovely was the snow covered hills?
Did you meet some girls
while on your way to the snow covered hills?
Was it cold in the snow covered hills?
Do you have any regrets upon reaching the snow covered hills?
Did you enjoy your trip going to the snow covered hills?
Did you write your experience in the diary that I gave you?
Did you think of me when you reached the snow covered hills?
Did you regret leaving the snow covered hills?
Who were your companions?
Do you plan to go back to the snow covered hills?
How does it feel
to be alone now?