To

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on To
Aug 282011
 
 
You, my several, severed,
Gentle selves, limned with wishes--
In the dawnwash of daybreak delivered
(When sleep's gone over to ashes),
I write my soul's shelving shore
On eyelids and tears.

Come, while the saying's braying
And the farmshed's full of wisdom
Lowing to be milked by however praying,
Come walk the dawn's ways, and some
Of your gentle heart's heats share
With mouth and ear.

Together in the forevering grace
Of day brought burning from its source
Let's let simplest and supremest play
Nor ask the sun to go another course
But with hands crossed as lilies lay
Dissolve into love.
 
 

To forget about the self

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on To forget about the self
Aug 282011
 
This spirit of mine is something unstudied, 
Inexorable and white, alive in solemn permanence.
---Lord Dermond
 
To forget about the self at the self's
Uttermost extent; it is the self
Made a self at last.

To survive in vigor
The confinement of the eye,
The glistering pinhole through which

The self is summoned
As by a bronze gong
Until all the air is peacock feathers

Is one way--in wild trial--
That the self, and its amiable 
Particulars may be forgotten.

Cheered onward in a doubtful dark
By numerous rumoring murmurs
And silken sibilances, as if

Drawn on by a forceful river
Tumbling a blind man downstream
To the sound of thickening confusion

Is another way for the self to go,--
On and on, on and on,
In dark discovery.

To feel our broadening sexual silks
Pulled and pulled, as through
A pinhole, through the self

And out of the self and into
Another, and that self flowing 
And pulling as if a river until

Our colors lay piled and swollen
Before our adoring, a silken sail
Full-bellied with desiring

And with desiring only--a wind
That moves through the self the self
Had left behind and abandoned

On the shore of no more.
Is that another way, a wayless way
Of want and wont?

Dead or dreaming, the self
Disappears, and in its place,
In the place of the self spilled out

Of itself, displaced and streaming,
The self that had left its eye behind
Like an abandoned portal,

The self that had had an ear
And has an ear no more, bereft, as it was,
Among night voices in a dark place,

The self that had had a sex
Torn away in a shimmering wind
Until the self has a self no more,--

Is only this, this fathomless
Wildness without a where
Without a how, without a why,

Only this this,--in the place of that,
Nearby, nearly here,
In the place of the place and in place of it.

A contemptuous wind
Crawls like sludge
Over motley rocks.

 
 

A creature of whatever trouble

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on A creature of whatever trouble
Aug 282011
 
 
A creature of whatever trouble
Is cartilage and mischief,
Trimmed in skin and the smile's lie
That all shall be kinship 'til kinship dies.

A creature of whichever wish
Is eyelashes and ifs,
Entrancing Time in evening's dish
To coddle dear dreams 'til sun's undone.

O creature picked of which and what,
All elbows and ears,
Take of this trouble its whatever worth
And wish the wisher kin until

His wish full is of death and earth.
 

Wrung from the walleyed wait of the womb

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Wrung from the walleyed wait of the womb
Aug 282011
 
 
Wrung from the walleyed wait of the womb,
Marooned to a prayer from god's grave side
And all community of the duly good,
An apple unpinned from its savior branch,
I fall as I fell, have fallen, will fall
Each rainy inch in angst against gravity.
Born moonblind to majesty and mystery
And deaf to reverenced heaven's sighs,
Alone on the lovely ground crowded with brothers
And blitzed by a gracing despair, I rot
Blood-ripe and rosy beyond my own reach.
Against this windy time will I stand again
Who fell to a world wrung dumb by pain?
I inch each word in angered prayer to a leaf.
 
 

Doublecrossed by the terror of birth

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Doublecrossed by the terror of birth
Aug 282011
 
 

Doublecrossed by the terror of birth
Into the troubled thrum of becoming,
Uneaseful in our mirth,
When summer's feather moults to winter's bone---
We wake in cold wonder
At snow's undoing.

Wrenched upright, awry by our thrown bones--
Uncramped from the comfortable hunch
Inside neutral mother
And stretched to stand in decisive day,
Thrown to thrones in the hissing wheats,
We bleed into seed.

Shambleshanks unpacked on a walk as long as thought,
Our knowing as nothing as nothing else
Unless such nothing is---
We hold seed and snow in eye and hand;
In bone and feather bred, our flight
Tells all and nothing less

Than Christ-crossed oblivion.
 
 

Dreaming of sleep

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Dreaming of sleep
Aug 282011
 
 
Dreaming of sleep in a tear-tugged thrub,
Hammocked in heartstop, my picayune pulse
Charts angina and angst incarnadined
And slows my blood woes to was.

Dumbly in dreams my aspiring vine
Climbs moon and sun---in calms, in gusts;---
I arise on passion's hid hooks to this
Wither of insistences.

Said the unopened poem in my buttoned heart:
"Too dumbly comforted you lay your limbs
Wet upon the sandy shoals of pain,
Too fell, too full, too grievy and grim."

Now hung christ-crossed on an electric cord
And stabbed by life's lethargic thorns,
I bleed my soul's mutinies to the seething sea,
A leviathan on a rock, stillborn.
 
 

Gallant as a cloud, proud

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Gallant as a cloud, proud
Aug 282011
 
 
Gallant as a cloud, proud
Before all the eyes of earth, death
No more niggly than a gnat, hat
Never humbly in hand, upstand-
Ing I was born.
 
Feathered in fiery skin, sin
A stranger to my heart-knot
I ran graced, and I crowed, crowned
By loud Love's crying spires
All my lengthening youth.
 
Outfitted with a suit of ruth, death
My wages on my way, away
I gave day to moon-soothing night, lit
By my scholar's candle, dull-
Witted with ignorance and loss.
 
O I knew nothing, nothing
In my pinnacled prime, time
My wings and my hearse; terse
Time clocked me back to one; gone
Was my youth like a cloud.


Daylong in the waist-high weeds and ivies

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Aug 282011
 
 
Daylong in the waist-high weeds and ivies
I ate the wonderfully buttery summer's bread,
And bright as tears on sleeves I played  and frisked
And forgot the wolf in the clock.
And windy summer ran out of the morning
And the stag-breasted dew each dawned day
Rode running and riotous from the cool of the moon
Unwound from the darks of mouse and fox.

Then the others, the pummellers
Came unashamed with their wronging love,
With sham-battering hands and scolding mouths
They gave away anger for their deepest, hurt truth.
With red apple hands, with bones twice broken,
They strode hero-headed over the blown-down time,
Over the greeny edge of the faraway weather,
Topping sun and cloud of the tumbledown town.

Deep in the heartwood home, and hunched and knotted,
As full of fears as a tit-mouse's shivers
I kept the woods home that kept me hid
In the bone-lonely branches of my bloodred ribs.
And dawn in its trial of summer survival
Turned red in the remembered air,
And summer's sun crept crabwise until it was moon,
And I heard the sun's hours ride down to their doom.

All about the sold home and understood wood,
Beyond the dog-drowning stones that cried aloud
In the midnight riverbed's spattering blacks,
Down in my hallowed home's owlly hollows
With my pockets full of leaves and string and talisman rocks,
Vowelling dogs howled to adder and frog,
And fired childhood crashed shamed as ashes
While my hands grew knots to stop the clocks
And all the everlasting woe of Time.

But oh the woods were golden in their burning prime.
 
 

Warm and capable hand, now cast

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Warm and capable hand, now cast
Aug 282011
 
 
Warm and capable hand, now cast
Against yourself in this crimping cramp,--
Folded under, knuckle and finger,
Fist-forced to fight all foldings;

Spider on a mirror how you pray,
All self-reference in sinew and deity;
Age salts the joints fluid youth found mighty,
Steadfastly tossing treasure to trash.

Hand beyond starlight still remote,
Flick from cyclops Time the mote
Torn from history and hope to this:
A present absence less final than If.