To be apart, I’m told.

To be asunder.

To be a privative, negative, reversing force.

To be reached only by oaths and curses.

To have black sheep sacrificed in my name

because I’m a god, yes,

as we are all gods on occasion.

To be bodied as I am bodied.

To be rich of earth,

which is to be chronically chthonic.

To be where the gems are—

underground.

To be Dīs. To be Dīs. To be Dīs.

To reject any pickaxe disguised as love.

Farewell, sweetheart, and again farewell;

To day we part, and who can tell

     If we shall e’er again

Meet, and with clasped hands

Renew our vows of love, and forget

     The sad, dull pain.

Dear heart, ’tis bitter thus to lose thee

And think mayhap, you will forget me;

     And yet, I thrill

As I remember long and happy days

Fraught with sweet love and pleasant memories

     That linger still

You go to loved ones who will smile

And clasp you in their arms, and all the while

     I stay and moan

For you, my love, my heart and strive

To gather up life’s dull, gray thread

     And walk alone.

Aye, with you love the red and gold

Goes from my life, and leaves it cold

     And dull and bare,

Why should I strive to live and learn

And smile and jest, and daily try

     You from my heart to tare?

Nay, sweetheart, rather would I lie

Me down, and sleep for aye; or fly

      To regions far

Where cruel Fate is not and lovers live

Nor feel the grim, cold hand of Destiny

      Their way to bar.

I murmur not, dear love, I only say

Again farewell. God bless the day

      On which we met,

And bless you too, my love, and be with you

In sorrow or in happiness, nor let you

      E’er me forget.

 

Only today did I notice the abyss

in abysmal and only because my mind

was generating rhymes for dismal,

and it made of the two a pair,

to which much later it joined

baptismal, as—I think—a joke.

I decided to do nothing with

the rhymes, treating them as one does

the unfortunately frequent appearance

of the “crafts” adults require children

to fashion from pipe cleaners

and plastic beads. One is not permitted

to simply throw them away,

but can designate a drawer

that serves as a kind of trash can

never emptied. I suppose one day

it will be full, and then I will know

it is time to set my child free.

The difficulty is my mind leaks

and so it will never fill, despite

the clumps of language I drop in,

and this means my mind can never

be abandoned in the woods

with a kiss and a wave

and a little red kerchief

tied under its chin.

I know it must be winter (though I sleep)—

I know it must be winter, for I dream

I dip my bare feet in the running stream,

And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.

I know I must be old (how age deceives!)

I know I must be old, for, all unseen,

My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green

When late rains patter on the falling sheaves.

I know I must be tired (and tired souls err)—

I know I must be tired, for all my soul

To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint roll,

As storms the riven pine to music stir.

I know I must be dying (Death draws near)—

I know I must be dying, for I crave

Life—life, strong life, and think not of the grave,

And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year.

The silence is broken: into the nature 

  My soul sails out, 

Carrying the song of life on his brow,

   To meet the flowers and birds.

When my heart returns in the solitude, 

   She is very sad,

Looking back on the dead passions

  Lying on Love’s ruin. 

I am like a leaf

   Hanging over hope and despair, 

Which trembles and joins 

  The world’s imagination and ghost. 

Beyond the cities I have seen,

Beyond the wrack and din,

There is a wide and fair demesne

Where I have never been.

Away from desert wastes of greed,

Over the peaks of pride,

Across the seas of mortal need

Its citizens abide.

And through the distance though I see

How stern must be the fare,

My feet are ever fain to be

Upon the journey there.

In that far land the only school

The dwellers all attend

Is built upon the Golden Rule,

And man to man is friend.

No war is there nor war’s distress,

But truth and love increase—

It is a realm of pleasantness,

And all her paths are peace.

                                       after Hieronymus Bosch

There’s no there there, no here here—

a timetable shows the missing trains, the fruit bowl longs for oranges.

We went ahead to lurch behind, booked

a passage so circuitous it carves

new dimensions in the tabletops. They’ve posted

soldiers in the laundromats and everything you want

Irradiates to dust. I wanted

to become a different human, left myself here

among the daisies, tied the horse to a newell post

and let him nibble all the oranges.

Sweet tongue to the fruit, sweet agronome—carve

statues out of butter to venerate the cows—your books

with all their fractured mirrors, diminish me, bookend

this life with the twin ghosts of hollowness and want.

Among all the things we might have carved

into trees or out of marble, not a single effigy captures the here

of our simplicity, the rolling hips of fields, the slutty orange

of trees that turn on you each fall. Whereas a fence is made of posts

the country’s made of crosses and we post

death threats on the clothesline flapping with the sheets. I thought a good book

could solve it all, the proper smile. Yet tyranny wears orange

trappings, a mine fire, a deposition. I want

something to put my body in, I want to feel the here-

and-now draw its tongue along my neck, carve

a cuneiform instruction manual in my shoulder blades, make me a carved

idol for this new century of cosmic meltdown. Write this on a Post-it

note and affix it to the future: “Here

lies the history of America, one big comic book

of medical interventions.” There’s a way to want

that’s simple as our minds. There’s an orange

sun fatter than the sky, an orange

demon on a blitzkrieg mission to barbeque oblivion. Carve

me a corner I might hole up in, give way to what you want

and want for nothing. All we have are postage

stamps from foreign places, an attic full of musty yarn. Strike a matchbook

to it all, flee the scene and we were never there.

I want so many things for us, post my hopes on a telephone pole like lost puppies

but the book is here, our names carved from its narrative—all lost, all devastation.

Peel and pith the orange holds its essence in its skin. Peel and pith its bitterness, too.

There is music, deep and solemn 

   Floating through the vaulted arch 

When, in many an angry column, 

   Clouds take up their stormy march: 

O’er the ocean billows, heaping 

    Mountains on the sloping sands, 

There are ever wildly sweeping 

    Shapeless and invisible hands. 

Echoes full of truth and feeling 

   From the olden bards sublime, 

Are, like spirits, brightly stealing

   Through the broken walls of time. 

The universe, that glorious palace, 

    Thrills and trembles as they float, 

Like the little blossom’s chalice

     With the humming of the mote. 

On the air, as birds in meadows—

   Sweet embodiments of song—

Leave their bright fantastic shadows 

    Trailing goldenly along. 

Till, aside our armor laying, 

    We like prisoners depart, 

In the soul is music playing 

    To the beating of the heart.

so whenever I hear a voice calling,

            I turn my head.

Unmake the bed

            open the window

When I returned from Paris

            burning behind me

        

I selected a single letter

            to tattoo upon my chest.

In the wind, my name sounds like a vowel.

            Everyone keeps asking what the baby will call me.

I find myself worrying about my nipples,

            how their textures will change.

It does not take long to recite the list of names

            of those who stay in touch.

I’m losing language in my sleep.

            I open my mouth, and words are plucked

from my tongue. Before I was broken,

            I planned to inherit the garden.

A guitar, dice, the scent of pipe smoke.

            We folded our legs beneath our dresses

and perched on the grass delicately.

            Back in the days when we knew our own names.

Just a rainy day or two

In a windy tower,

That was all I had of you—

Saving half an hour.

Marred by greeting passing groups

In a cinder walk,

Near some naked blackberry hoops

Dim with purple chalk.

I remember three or four

Things you said in spite,

And an ugly coat you wore,

Plaided black and white.

Just a rainy day or two

And a bitter word.

Why do I remember you

As a singing bird?

I had the passion 

but not the stamina

nor the discipline, 

no one knew how

to discipline me so 

they just let me be,

Let me play along,

let me think I was

somebody, I could

be somebody, even

without the no-how.

Never cared one bit 

when my bow didn’t

match the rest of the 

orchestra, I could get 

their notes right but 

always a little beyond,

sawing my bow across

the strings, cuttin it up

even if I wasn’t valuable

even if I lacked respect

for rules of European

thought and composure.

A crescendo of trying

to be somebody,

a decrescendo of trying 

to belong, I played along

o yes, I play along. 

The Dawn’s awake! 

   A flash of smoldering flame and fire

Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, 

   O’er all the sky so gray, forlorn, 

The torch of gold is borne. 

The Dawn’s awake! 

  The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. 

And music singing in the hills 

   A pæen of eternal spring 

Voices the new awakening. 

The Dawn’s awake! 

     Whispers of pent-up harmonies, 

With the mingled fragrance of the trees; 

     Faint snaches of half-forgotten song—

Fathers! Torn and numb,—

   The boon of light we craved, awaited long, 

Has come, has come! 

                     1.

We are marching, truly marching 

   Can’t you hear the sound of feet? 

We are fearing no impediment 

   We have never known defeat. 

                     2. 

Like Job of old we have had patience, 

  Like Joshua, dangerous roads we’ve trod 

Like Solomon we have built out temples. 

   Like Abraham we’ve had faith in God. 

                     3. 

Up the streets of wealth and commerce, 

   We are marching one by one

We are marching, making history, 

  For ourselves and those to come. 

                     4. 

We have planted schools and churches,

   We have answered duty’s call. 

We have marched from slavery’s cabin 

   To the legislative hall. 

                     5. 

Brethren can’t you catch the spirit? 

  You who are out just get in line

Because we are marching, yes we are marching 

   To the music of the time. 

                     6.

We are marching, steady marching 

   Bridging chasms, crossing streams 

Marching up the hill of progress 

  Realizing our fondest dreams. 

                       7. 

We are marching, truly marching 

   Can’t you hear the sound of feet? 

We are fearing no impediment

   We shall never know defeat. 

Your voice is the color of a robin’s breast,

     And there’s a sweet sob in it like rain—still rain in the night.

Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest,

     The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight

Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat.

          I’m afraid of your eyes, they’re so bold,

          Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold.

But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the eucharis

Before the sun comes warm with his lover’s kiss,

    You are sea-foam, pure with the star’s loveliness,

Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth,

All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your birth:

      O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong,

            But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with flesh,

Forever, life-long.