the spirit of the matter-of-fact speaks, and
the stray dogs of my poem
wither off into unkempt song not dressed
for the occasion, we are
called out for being rain, flower, sunknown
seed the song is tired
it will be forever before the spirit of the
matter-of-fact decides
we are called out for being snake, wood,
snowbound need the
song is tired it will be forever before
the spirit of the matter-
of-fact abides, and it will not rain till
time dries out & slithers
1.
“Happily may fair yellow corn, fair blue corn, fair corn of all kinds, plants of all kinds, jewels of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you
With these before you, happily may they come with you
With these behind, below, above, around you, happily may they come with you
Thus you accomplish your tasks”
American Indian Poetry – an anthology of songs and chants, lines from Night Song.
With my error as guide, I
sieve through plants of all kinds, with
error as my guide, I roast
all kindling as my own – to
the ends of the earth, I toast
my happy loaves – thus I meet
my deed on my way, with error
burning on my eves, I greet my
deed behind, below, around me –
thus I accomplish my tasks
—
2.
are you nourished by the sea of
the child who plays in the dark &
is your belly full?
is your rope too taut for magic
and if it is, where is the wand
to dry each bone?
do you flip each eerie stone &
when you do, does your heart skip
along tiny wishsteps?
—
3.
the cornstalk grew corntales
some were ripe and some were
just thorns so many thorns
there was no forgiveness
so many thorns, one could only
try and grow more corn and
this time, some were tall and
some were beginning to sound
repetitious so the corntales
grew up all handsome and pretty
and did not speak for a very
long time till one spoke –
Resistance, the flowering fire of memory – Rukeyser, Muriel
As we mark the thinness of the
ten thousand things, as we go
past the halt, the hark of memory,
can we shirk off the rock of
my mountain’s mountain? as we
claim the fire of childspeak,
childstone, where will the song
of my deadwood ash its spike,
its noose? to resist is to burn
with remembrance, with the thing-
ness of the ten thousand things
“Day won’t dawn again in a thousand years,
and what can all our wisdom do about it?
… Trust yourself
to the mountainside. It will take you in.”
– T’ao Ch’ien
—
we have approximations, data
data that
caresses the hounds of certain
ties that
toss about in search of small
fires – we
have approximations that lie
in order to
sound more like real lies we
have data
“a tethered bird longs for its forest, a pond fish for its deep waters”
– T’ao Ch’ien
—
no insight, and science remains a conspiracy
of facts chuangtzu’s
monkeys scramble with feynman’s possibilities
till the broth rings
true rumi underwrites his love of love
with a misanthropic
eye do the monkeys scramble to sing a
better broth or do
they slip into hanumanhood? this broth is
my deep my voice
we stood by watched petals
fall the roads stood quiet the medallions
glimmered we stood by talk
ed the
etched ballads fell like toadstools
elms balked at
songbirds mocking the sun for rising late
songbirds mocking the elk for balking late
we stood by etching ballads
the medallions glimmering as the road meandered into walkways
threads
joined with the voice of the gull mocking the songbird we
stood by etching
moonrock from castoff dream
we stood by
humming distant song
I shamed my soul, lost heaven’s place,
when I fawned upon the oppressor’s flabby hand.
– Lance Jeffers (from his poem, “And God got down before the fool”)
so you respond
as the poet has to, as the poem
can (should?) so you despond
as the times
will have you, as this cess is
wont to so you sit, quiet
arm in bloodied
ink, eye in sullen slight fire
brewing on the potted page –
—
an eye sees what the pen holds out as premise
the field of X an algebra of
beginnings
an eye begins what the pen hollows out as seed
tyranny of X an unknown of
fsetting the known
an eye opens what the pen stamps out as possible
imaginary X an amalgam of
steel & need
