Wallace Stevens
quickened at 46.
I may yet make order
on some beach
or another.
Quick Sand
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spring flingin’
This is just to say
that I am in the back yard
there’s a red breasted robin feeding 5 feet away,
a woodpecker upside down at the same feeder and
a burning red cardinal sitting not far above.
Their songs call back and forth,
as far in the distance a hawk beats wings
towards the ocean
a black and yellow butterfly forming circles around
the base of the butterfly bush
I just chopped down low
(spring renewal can look like carnage)
the desiccated ornamental grass from last summer
lies bundled and chopped
under the long, chopped legs
of the butterfly bush
there’s a rabbit resting his head on my foot
there’s a World War II spotter plane
moaning through the sky above my head
the Merrimack hits the shores,
and I can hear the waves lapping
when the wind is right
this pilsner is lovely
and there is, for a moment, the purest clarity
Posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry, Uncategorized, Writing
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(sin voz)
Esta no es mi nativa
ni
incluso adquirida, sin embargo,
la herramienta que me está
engañando
en éxtasis
y verborrea
pero
mi cara
no se traduce, más
como el famoso salamandra de Paz
quemaduras y vueltas y emerge
cicatrizado
cada movimiento un paso
cerca
cada inmolación, una
autorización, y
un camino talla
hacia la libertad
hacia una traducción final
(zero attribute)
i keep thinking
that
there’s this room
i’m supposed to be in
and it’s all white
and glowing a little,
and my gown is matching
and my knees are up to my chest
my head is shaven
and my feet are bare.
and everything
is finished for me now
Posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry, Uncategorized
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Heart in England
I had a heart
when I was in England
Heart in England,
morning runs through cemeteries
racing with
Mary’s ghost, merging
with the mist amongst the cenotaphs,
vaporous fingers tracing ancient names
on leaning tombstones,
and
tracing sweat along my chest
as
this American boy
pumped legs
round and round,
lighter then, lithe even,
leaping stones
and roots, names
and faces.
Heart in England,
pints pulling,
Bald Faced Stag,
quiet surliness of the local crowd
losing its quiet as
the lager pours,
and that gorgeous, simmering
English anger roars…
Heart in England,
the people forged
by war and war and war,
invasion and repulsion,
the winnowing of the weak,
the island of the strong.
This fortress.
Heart in England,
the poet’s house
around the corner,
writ on water
as
my Scotch pours over an ancient grave,
the constant, multi-hued gray sky,
the cemetery grass in winter,
beneath my feet
for now.
Heart in England,
the poet in the walled city,
singing songs
love, lust, joy
sorrow. Some
human conditions.
Some rented truths.
Voice a constant
background hum,
hunters eyes just so,
in the dark and light…
English eyes.
Heart in England
still.
bunin
there is an ocean
within you.
dark waters,
dark eyes,
mischievous,
wise,
fathomless
they left me,
used
and wanted,
unwanted,
a bottle tossed to sea…
a message writ in spit, in sweat,
of groans and exultations.
now tossed like flotsam,
seeking eddies and way back
to your dark waters,
craving
a salty kiss.
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a mind, bound
you
did not kiss her
when you touched her
the last time,
your entry
lacked finesse –
was more like your marriage,
cold, hard, familiar
inevitable, regrettable
but…
you held her,
wrists above her head,
hips cracking
manic
hard
bound
and again,
and again,
and again
you touched her,
that stranger,
walking by you,
you held her,
your eyes on her skirt,
her strong legs
your mind… and her
in a vice
as you
kissed her
