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Poems

Of course my poems aren't me, or even how I'm feeling necessarily. I thought it would be happier. It certainly did take a turn, but I felt like that was where it wanted to go, so I let it. Thank you for reading, and for your well wishes as always.
 
It has taken twenty years to learn that
the lover I yearned for was really just
me wanting a distraction from becoming me,
I thought I would do that when he got here,
that he would take care of all those things or
better, that I would take care of him,
that finally I,
who didn’t want to live for myself,
could live for him
and put all of this away, but this life
is my baby and my husband and how do men hear this?
they don’t want to hear this,
my poetry, is the living with the eyes wide open.
Oh, lady who keeps my eyes wide open,
don’t let me drift back to the troubled sleep again,
the place of nightmares
let me be here on the edge, no matter what.
I can’t ever ask for anything better than that.
 
Thanks for reading. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I did pull it up from something old, so I don't even remember what is behind it.
 

this is the song

This is the song that is worthy of you
Let’s not bother with the song of them,
of all the broken men who fell by the wayside
of their own making,
cracked lip and broken tongued.
This is the song worthy of you.
Its words are hardly here,
It’s made of incense and air.
The ink is of the richest a.m. darkness
where we pull the covers back up over our head
No one has read these words,
but everyone has felt them.
We knew them every night when we closed
our eyes as infants.
 
at allantide

i.

I can’t keep doing this I say
Getting up to write this poem and over half hour later,
after it stopped and started and wouldn’t come on and had to be
reloaded and now I’m finally typing these first words.
It is the first of November, the day of saints after the true night
of spirits, and in the mind of a one time catholic this is the hollow space,
the glass bubble between All Hallows Eve and the Day for dead ones,
and I look at this faithless fool and shake my head and say,
I can’t keep doing this, no I can’ keep doing this,
and when I sip the coffee I know you’re not the only thing that
needs to be put away.

The beginning off things never holds an answer,
and then old men stood on temples and old women sat in front
of smoke, shooting prophecies,
these are only upside down memories,
there is no answer in the beginning, in this half startled waking,
and sunlight on the first real day.

We needed this day to recover ourselves.
We needed today so that tomorrow we can begin to be ourselves.
Right now we are still settled down from being someone else,
it is too cold to go to the island, too cold to know if it has
disappeared.

This morning is the time of cigarettes and coffee and sunlight
and the royalty of the bathroom,
This is he morning of the new language, and not the old nostalgia,
and not writing of all the things we’ve written a thousand times before.
There was a time when you had to say everything.
Now you only have to say enough.

And now all saints day is upon us, an unorgasmic o, a virgin bubble between
all hallows eve and all souls, reserved for people pure in their sterility,
saints in their hostility who could not love life, give me the red of the leaf
rather than the gold of heaven, make all these days the fine time of souls.
 
at allantide

ii.

I haven’t written to him I haven written to him. Why should I write to him?
No one will write to him why don’t you write to him
To do a thing for a man who does nothing
for you is to be a fool, to do something once for someone lost in the grief
is grace.
After he hollow O is the third morning of Allantide.
When we had forgotten your sacred name and were passing out too
much candy for their little bodies to hold, it was cold and sleet and
dark grey.
Yesterday was a sunlight interruption, an eruption of all the silent
saints and now today we huddle in
the your dark womb making altars to those who were before
put up heaps of peaches and pairs turnips up and down the stairs,
carved with faces and teeth. And I am the lantern of he dead.
And you are the sacred head, and I am not looking for the way
back home,
for the way is here.
You went to England looking for the old country and climbed down Cornwall
looking for the world’s end, picked down shingles to Tintagel to see where
Arthur was born only to remember that your home is further
west than west, and the mound you worship on in Indiana was ancient
when Stonehenge was formed.
You thought ancient was only ancient to white men.
Here on the twisting Shagwa, the serpents in the rivers and the mothers
of the serpents of the water will teach you

I haven’t written to him I haven written to him. Why should I write to him?
No one will write to him why don’t you write to him?
He is still on the island prison, surrounded by grey waves.
Occasionally he can almost see the shore and long to build
A seahut
But, no more…
To do a thing for a man who does nothing
for you is to be a fool, to do something once for someone lost in the grief
is grace.

An act of mercy takes a minute, it travels with the speed of sound, it take
longer to conceive than do, longer to dismiss than to take and change
a corner of the world.
Shake out all the corners, the clean beasts come running while the other
are hidden in space
unclean was the lapwing,
I was the hound that hid all sacred things.
 
Thank you. I felt like this was where it started and part one was interesting, but part two was better.
 
at allantide

iii.

Something in this cold day reminds me of sunlight in michigan city indiana,
reminds me of marching up and down one half hour to the beach to be
confronted by the silent scream of blue water and nothing to do but
be in its nothing, no distraction from the action of all of those mermaids,
all of their tails flapping, arms waving saying, this bitch is a liar, this bitch is a liar,
don’t trust her round fat ass or her check mark eyebrows,
this bitch is a liar and it was we who would see
that she never come here.

The river is fat and muscled, waves rolling into waves, satin and oil, copper
yellow and brown on allantide.
It flexes its liquid flesh, fuller than its been since springtime, thick and high
the shagwa opens its breast, takes in the sky and sends it back in muted shades,
oak leaves like little starry hands flap to fall on streets making yellow carpets
everywhere they meet,
carpets to milk and cookie the earth and water mud for the older year
turning the new year on the day of old souls as we slip candles into windows
and yellow flames in terra cotta pots lick the black night telling lost souls
to come in.

Old souls come in, kept souls come in, souls forgotten come in,
souls that are dim, all of them who help me here,
dragonish souls come in, grandmother come in,
i’ve got your cigarettes on the altar,
Linda come in, the boy who fell in the river come in.
Sit here and listen to the psalms, now, on the longest night,
remember all the songs.
bible verses from the book of Daniel.
Everything that passed passes through again,
by this spark of burning light I swear,
everything lost is found again.

You were eighteen and just a baby when you fell into
the winter water and like moses or elijah no one knows how
it happened, we thought we’d never find your body.
Just a baby, washed up, a boy under a bridge,
destined for so much, but reckoned for dead.
In this small space I hold the moment of your passing.
It isn’t mine to let go,
my letting goes are yet to come.
 
at allantide

iv.

at allantide we arrive at the Eight Gated Castle, and it is the one
that can’t be seen. This is the mountainous mother, twirling and turning,
never seen on peaks or islands, but reached through them,
reached through the rivers and running under earth.
by hidden gates we leave the common world.
this is the Not World, the Un Season.
this is the birth of all of our births.

we want a world without seasons. That’s just a fact. John for Jesus
and roses for snow.
But we know Christ was born in winter, and came to the frozen world
from the depths of a cave on the very back of a stag

from the house that overlooks the copper colored river she sees a gate
to Annwn, and in it all her forty years twisting out before her.
they untwist in the taste of whiskey on her lips, the smoke of the sacrifice
rising from the tip of her cigarette.

Her breasts are still full.
heavy on her chest they are her pleasure.

All her body is a pleasure and she thinks

It has taken twenty years to learn that
the lover I yearned for was really just
me wanting a distraction from becoming me,
I thought I would do that when he got here,
that he would take care of all those things or
better, that I would take care of him,
that finally I,
who didn’t want to live for myself,
could live for him
and put all of this away, but this life
is my baby and my husband and how do men hear this?
they don’t want to hear this,
my poetry, is the living with the eyes wide open.
Oh, lady who keeps my eyes wide open,
don’t let me drift back to the troubled sleep again,
the place of nightmares
 
at allantide
v.

This is the day of dead warriors. It’s changed its name so many times.
Before this war and the war before it was the feast of saint martin.
The end of allantide before the rest.
The holy final season of the year that winds out until the first old advent candle.
Sometimes it’s easier to talk to the living that the dead
Pass with me through this field of poppies,
here are those who finally earned the secret of silence

And it does not matter what comes tomorrow if we can stand in today.
I got up in darkness at six in the morning to keep two minutes silence,
and in those moments, shuffling from foot to foot to maintain half waking
balance, I remembered men who never left the war, whose minds were the war
houses, drugs and whores could not make them forget
remembered a man whose wife and his daughter were lost of his war
and the madness of the slaughter and how they aren’t here anymore.

In two minutes remember the forgotten
who did it for you,
who did it for you,
who did it for you.

On these days we are like Mary Magdalene,
gaunt and thin, turning over limbs
of branches, searching through headstones saying,
is this the body of my beloved?
where is my beloved?

I haven’t written to him I haven’t written to him because I gave
myself to him
I haven’t written to him, written to him, because writing cost
money,
and honey I can’t spend myself on those who wouldn’t spend
themselves on me
I lay under you in the dark room
I have myself to you in the sea hut
And now all you have for me is nothing.

The dog is in the kennel
The witch is in the well
I sit upon the sofa
And you sit in your cell

This is not the time to sit here sighing clinging to what wasn’t or
what never was
Eleven days ago we entered through the door of the half living,
with desperate lanterns and hopeful songs, across from us,
in a gate to the west, the dead came one by one,
and we thought we gave to them, and they knew they gave to us,
and now the giving is done, and hand and hand, we walk out of
the North Gate together
Every one has lived
And everyone has gone
And everyone will come again.

finis
 
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