{"id":5290,"date":"2015-08-27T19:05:53","date_gmt":"2015-08-27T19:05:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/gregglory.com\/wordpress\/?p=5290"},"modified":"2023-07-08T10:19:42","modified_gmt":"2023-07-08T10:19:42","slug":"wild-onions","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/posts\/wild-onions\/","title":{"rendered":"Wild Onions"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"wild-onions-thumbnail\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Purchase from Amazon<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/span>\r\n\r\nPlain poems of experience, with a twist of eloquence<\/em>\r\n \r\nby \r\n \r\nGregg Glory\r\n \r\nPublished by\r\nBLAST PRESS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE FROG<\/h2>\n
\r\nWhat's wrong\r\nwith this picture?\r\nScads\r\n\r\nof lilies raised\r\nabove the muck the scum\r\nfloating\r\n\r\non golden\r\npond\r\n--sheer light--\r\n\r\non one\r\na fat frog croaks--\r\nBhudda!  Bhudda!\r\n\r\nto the\r\nweeds and sky\r\neternally\r\n\r\nhis eyes\r\nare old-fashioned\r\nkey-holes--\r\n\r\nunder sticky webs\r\nlilies crimp-edged deep\r\nceramic green\r\n\r\npie-plates--\r\nabove each waves\r\na streaked pink-white\r\n\r\nblossom\r\nheld up by nothing\r\nsave love\r\n\r\nand in that no sense\r\nof error\r\never\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
TO BED<\/h2>\n
\r\nSuch tenderness!\r\nturning the lamp\r\nred with a shell \r\nshade\r\n\r\ndown to a darkness\r\nso complete I see\r\nthe moon\r\nuntouched\r\n\r\nstars beginning where\r\nthe shadow of her hair\r\nno longer\r\nglows\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
DETAIL<\/h2>\n
\r\nTo love--to that\r\nintimate measure\r\nalone \r\n\r\nmy life, monklike\r\nis dedicated.\r\nHow long has it been?\r\n\r\nToo long.\r\nNo more long hairs stuck\r\nin the vacuum. \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE RAIN<\/h2>\n
\r\nEspecially\r\nbecause the blue ipod\r\nrandomly zeroes\r\n\r\nin on\r\nour song, a Belle and\r\nSebastian number,\r\n\r\nmy tears\r\nroll hot and rainlike down\r\nthe window\r\n\r\nas if outside\r\na Florida hurricane continues,\r\nblurring all\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE LIE<\/h2>\n
\r\nAnd so there\r\nis a lie a very\r\ndamnable\r\n\r\nlie\r\n--so what!?--it's all\r\none lie\r\n\r\nafter another\r\nand then a muddy\r\ngrave--\r\n\r\nheavy boots\r\nof the mourners\r\nthick\r\n\r\nwith grief--\r\nwhile still a week later\r\ndaisies\r\n\r\ngrow right\r\nwhere her face\r\nhad been\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
TWO SOLDIERS<\/h2>\n
\r\nLook beyond these \r\nstick trees\r\njust past their \r\n\r\nthorny bramble see \r\na jet\r\ninvestigates heaven \r\n\r\npristine\r\nblue like the dome\r\nblown apart--\r\n\r\nso blue with the one\r\nswollen\r\nchalky marr \r\n\r\nwhere human curiosity\r\nhas so\r\namply intruded\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE COMPANIONS<\/h2>\n
\r\n\t <\/span>to Dan Weeks<\/em>\r\n<\/pre>\n
\r\nTwo dogs\r\nmangy manes a-shake\r\nfollow this river\r\n\r\nfor frogs.\r\nFirst one then the other\r\nstops\r\n\r\nthe friendly lips\r\nserious a moment, long black\r\nand still\r\n\r\na line\r\nof fresh paint hastily\r\napplied below\r\n\r\nthe snowcapped teeth.\r\nAh!  rings in the water\r\ndeclare something\r\n\r\na few feet out.\r\nIs it?  No matter--leap!\r\nThe froth\r\n\r\naround them\r\necstatic!  snapping! and then\r\nslow to drink . . . .\r\n\r\nThey return poised\r\nto the riverbank as if they\r\nchased every raindrop.\r\n\r\nThe river\r\ncontinues and they continue\r\nto follow it.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE THAW<\/h2>\n
\r\nBrow of snow\r\non the small hill\r\nmelting\r\n\r\nThoughts come and go\r\nshadows on the brow\r\nseasonless\r\n\r\nAnd sooner or later\r\nmore sooner it will be\r\nsummer\r\n\r\nAnd night and moonlight\r\non the small hill\r\nwhiten\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
IN SPRING<\/h2>\n
\r\nthere are the soggy remains\r\nof winter\r\nbuckets\r\n\r\ntipped over and then\r\nlost to us this\r\nworld in the\r\n\r\nfirst deep rush of snow\r\nthat now, like an\r\nimpossible\r\n\r\nsweat has returned to the\r\nmoss & soil\r\npores\r\n\r\nso that bloated the earth begins\r\nto relax sink down\r\nand decay\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE CAMP-OUT<\/h2>\n
\r\nBurnt dirt\r\ncharred where\r\nthe cherry fire\r\nexploded\r\n\r\nIrish whiskey\r\ndancing around the bonfire\r\nshoes off shirts\r\nuntucked!\r\n\r\nBratwurst dripping\r\ngreasy brown sweat\r\ninto baked beans\r\nin an iron pot\r\n\r\nUnpacking,\r\nthe car doors up\r\nlike beetles' wings\r\nour hands by accident\r\n\r\non the same\r\nlatch\r\ntouch\r\n   !\r\n\r\n \r\n<\/pre>\n
2 WATERCOLORS OF 4 BIRDS<\/h2>\n
\r\nJade-smooth the green\r\nhead a mallards defines\r\nitself its limits\r\n\r\nagainst the frayed edge\r\nof a faded\r\npaper sky\r\n\r\nas together with her he\r\nclimbs upon her\r\nblue wing\r\n\r\nfoot to feather foot\r\nto feather to\r\nescape with their bodies\r\n\r\nfrom\r\na scattering\r\nof just exploded cattails\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
II THE PINTAILS IN SPRING<\/h2>\n
\r\nBlack and yellow\r\nthe\r\nsegmented stalks\r\n\r\nshow the winds\r\nto be\r\nagainst them as frozen\r\n\r\nthey beat on\r\nto\r\nturn the page\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
EXCAVATION<\/h2>\n
\r\nNothing expands\r\nuntil the whole sky\r\nis loneliness\r\n\r\nInto this (nothing)\r\na palmtree leaf forlornly\r\nunfurls\r\n\r\nHeraldic\r\nif you will have it\r\nbe so\r\n\r\nimportant\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
NEW WALL<\/h2>\n
\r\nConcrete the\r\nblocks carried \r\nhod by hod\r\n\r\nand form-molded until\r\nthey will bear it\r\nstiffened are stronger\r\n\r\nbut less\r\nimpressionable\r\n--To what purpose?\r\n\r\nPaint them if you must\r\ntropic pink\r\nand tawdry blue\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
VIRGINAL<\/h2>\n
\r\nSomehow again\r\nshe is here!\r\n\r\nWhite upon the white\r\nsheets, she is here!\r\n\r\nPraises are tepid\r\nwhen she coils before me\r\n\r\nspeechless\r\nbeckoning\r\n\r\nupon the white sheets\r\nwith a heat--so strong!\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE AIRMAN<\/h2>\n
\r\nbends\r\nand\r\n\r\nties his shoes\r\n\r\nloop-\r\nde-loop\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE BOX TURTLE<\/h2>\n
\r\nchristlike waits\r\nfor death\r\non the open road\r\n\r\nloving the open sun\r\nand hot asphalt\r\nby the empty sidewalk\r\n\r\nno one watches his toes\r\ncurl and uncurl\r\nin the pink heat--\r\n\r\nrepeated in the orange stamp\r\non his back\r\nand his hard tooth-yellow belly\r\n\r\nhis small ancient eyes\r\nclose in ecstasy\r\nas the sun engulfs his shell\r\n\r\n--from the furtive \r\nculvert\r\nbelow \r\n\r\na galvanized safety rail\r\nhe stepped slowly \r\nslowly\r\n\r\na million years or so each\r\nstep nothing\r\nin his mind but the sun\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
FARMER ED<\/h2>\n
\r\nEarly the fields\r\nare broken and turned--\r\nearly from Lakewood\r\nSanchez' bus\r\n\r\nBefore obscure faces\r\nbreath steams blue\r\n--and white\r\ncoffee steams\r\n\r\nSeen things\r\nneed feeding if later\r\nthey are to be \r\nsold\r\n\r\nAlready farmer Ed\r\nis cursing\r\n--the whole sit-\r\nuation is fucked\r\n\r\nDawn pales--\r\nspreading stalk\r\nby stalk \r\nthe least color\r\n\r\nNeatly the trowel\r\ngoes in again\r\nand \r\nagain neatly\r\n\r\nIce skims\r\nthe dented pail--\r\ntoo,\r\nthe brown furrows\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE BATTERED TREE<\/h2>\n
\r\nOnce evergreen\r\na firm cypress \r\nvitally upright \r\nas living flame\r\nstorm after storm\r\nhousing grackles\r\nquick woodthrush\r\nand inquisitive cats\r\nnow shows golden\r\nbrown branches some\r\nsoft as age spots\r\namid deep greens\r\nand lower a bare\r\ndead wing of sticks\r\none child yanks\r\nto attack another\r\nin the sunny yard\r\nso hard the whole\r\ntree shakes.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
MATED PHEASANTS<\/h2>\n
\r\nTheir carriages are upright\r\nin a dry green.  They stand\r\nat once passionate and familiar.\r\n\r\nHis beak is respectful, level,\r\nrather than diffident in uptilt,\r\nhis tail a downward sloping tube\r\n\r\nlike a story.  His face is bright\r\nand remembers everything, one formidable claw\r\nhangs, while flat the other holds him\r\n\r\nsteady to the earth, hangs gloved\r\nin dust immeasurably.  While she\r\nin straight grass stands\r\n\r\npopped-up from an unexpected bush.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
RURAL CAPE HATTERAS<\/h2>\n
\r\nHere, among the deep\r\nsea-sway, a continuance\r\nof the thin green pines\r\n\r\nreaches to the shore\r\nand lets\r\nits spiny promptings dip\r\n\r\nand lash into the salt.\r\nIt was the horizoning storms\r\nthat were to be watched\r\n\r\nand mostly underneath\r\nour soaking shirts\r\nto fear.\r\n\r\nThen the often creaking\r\ncells of the resilient\r\nbending boughs\r\n\r\nwould snap.  Such times\r\na man couldn't dream for the\r\nquaking of his bowels.\r\n\r\nSuch times a man can't\r\nthink of his wife\r\nfor fear of his children.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE ONSET<\/h2>\n
\r\ntrees creak\r\nin the winds' rebuff\r\nbirds\r\n\r\ngo to ground\r\nobediently as choristers\r\nin feathered robes--\r\n\r\na storm\r\nencircles the house slate\r\nsky-slats close\r\n\r\nin until\r\nthe horizon is only a\r\nwet cat\r\n\r\nshivering\r\nunder the dull porch\r\n--she looks out--\r\n\r\nher world\r\nlike a lover in love\r\nis only big\r\n\r\nas her skin\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
DAWN IS IT<\/h2>\n
\r\nFrom a\r\nbasement crack\r\nat the back\r\nof the condo\r\n\r\na suede\r\nhead emerges--\r\nan orange cat\r\nyawning\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
PICKING AFTER RAIN<\/h2>\n
\r\nIn rubbers on the wet\r\ngrass carelessly\r\nsoaked dungarees\r\n\r\nwe shove through the\r\nheavy bushes\r\nfor blackberries\r\n\r\n--how under heaven\r\ndo they grow \r\ngravid and ripe?\r\n\r\nWhat fills the cells full\r\nof some inner \r\nwolfish night\r\n\r\nwith a vintage juice?\r\nWhat grips\r\nour bones and stretches them\r\n\r\nlong with a bitterness we\r\ncan no longer\r\nhide from our wives?\r\n\r\nPerhaps\r\nit is our old\r\nfriend Sun\r\n\r\na cloud as if\r\non cue\r\ndiscloses\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE HOLLY TREE<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe holly tree\r\nas a figure\r\nnot\r\n\r\nof dance (since\r\nthat is too gross--\r\ntoo many\r\n\r\narms like tentacles\r\nhanging their appeals\r\nstraight out)\r\n\r\ninstead as each leaf\r\ngreen against the sharp frost\r\nequally\r\n\r\nan equation\r\nit is conceived perfectly\r\ndivisible\r\n\r\nby that love\r\nwhich makes the berries\r\nhard small\r\n\r\nand almost\r\nexactly round\r\ngrow red\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
4 SNOWFALLS<\/h2>\n
 <\/span>\r\n   1.\r\nThe snowfence strains\r\nwith the big blizzard\r\nstrangely large\r\n   2.\r\nRounded by snow\r\nthe church steeple\r\ngives up pointing\r\nstridently\r\n   3.\r\nOn bare stalk \r\nsideways above \r\nthick drifts \r\na chickadee chitters: \r\ngreen fields were here\r\n   4.\r\nDown out of midnight--\r\nfirst flakes\r\nthrough the black window\r\n--Starfall\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE BREEZE<\/h2>\n
\r\nnew sweat \r\nbreaks\r\n\r\nyou open\r\nso pityingly\r\n\r\nyou notice it\r\nthe breeze\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
PEOPLE<\/h2>\n
\r\nIt's interesting\r\n--\r\n\r\nsomehow\r\nso often\r\n\r\nthey show\r\nup just to\r\n\r\nunhelp\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
PISSING IN THE SNOW<\/h2>\n
\r\none finds among\r\nthe melting crystals\r\n\r\nthe impartial\r\npattern common\r\n\r\nto any\r\nwork of art\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE CRAZY LADIES OF NEW JERSEY<\/h2>\n
\r\nmake love\r\non the usual\r\nmattress\r\n\r\nwedged\r\n\r\nbetween the\r\nparkinglot and the\r\nparkway\r\n \r\n \r\n<\/pre>\n
THE SUSPENSION<\/h2>\n
\r\nbridge being\r\nby its nature\r\nincomplete\r\n\r\nat either end\r\nwithout anchors\r\nheavily laden\r\n\r\nand the wide\r\ncontext of connection\r\nof place\r\n\r\nto place\r\nlike a man webbed\r\nto his life\r\n\r\nbirth to death\r\npegged feeling\r\ntraffic\r\n\r\ntickle across him\r\nas he sways daily\r\ngoing nowhere--\r\n\r\nWatch the wind\r\nnow playfully\r\nwake it\r\n\r\nsinging!\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE HUMMINGBIRD<\/h2>\n
\r\nA clear\r\nwindless day\r\nappears\r\n\r\nthe field\r\nall large yellows\r\nsave for\r\n\r\n2 deep lilies\r\nnear\r\na black puddle\r\n\r\ndoubling\r\ntheir sourceless white\r\nin darkness\r\n\r\ndeep within\r\nclear nectar\r\npuddles\r\n\r\ncuriously fragrant\r\nthe day\r\ngolds\r\n\r\n--What wind?\r\na ruby hummingbird\r\nsucks (sips)\r\n\r\nhere is the\r\neffort\r\nof stillness\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE GIFT<\/h2>\n
\r\n <\/span>\r\n\t\t\tthank you CPH<\/em>\r\n<\/pre>\n
\r\nIn the flower box\r\nKalanchoe and Kordana rose--\r\none a cluster\r\nof honey bulbs\r\n\r\nsucculent leaves\r\nlow\r\nround and open\r\nas a cut thumb\r\n\r\nThe rose a rose\r\nin miniature\r\narmed to the teeth\r\nwith pink beauty\r\n\r\nagain and again\r\nI say it--\r\nto the teeth!\r\na bundle of pink torches--\r\n\r\nA funeral procession \r\nin a cedar box\r\nborne darkly\r\nto the sea's brink\r\n\r\nlay down that box\r\nlay down I say\r\nby the iron palings\r\nopen to air--\r\n\r\nWord by word\r\nthe gift unfurls\r\nand here we are\r\ndancing again\r\nwith Gertrude Stein--\r\n\r\nthe dirt, now sotted\r\nblack with the tears \r\nof many women\r\nand many men too\r\nwho have died\r\n\r\nto make this day happen\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE WIND<\/h2>\n
\r\n          strikes whites\r\n          whistles stiff\r\n              at corners\r\n           beats windows\r\n                   shut-\r\n           ters flapping\r\n              back black\r\n               and white\r\n       a piston's hiss--\r\n               no female\r\n                 to this\r\n           striving ever\r\n          bitter prison-\r\n                   break\r\n            toward light\r\n             toward dark\r\n       desperate finger-\r\n          ing each crack\r\n                  freez-\r\n                    ing-\r\n                     ly\r\n       until, almost, a\r\n          word is in it\r\n                avarice<\/em>\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
INDIA<\/h2>\n
\r\nAn idol\r\ntall as three big men\r\ncurving lines\r\n\r\nbridge\r\nof the great green nose\r\nto the still arches\r\n\r\ndrawn without motion\r\nabove the poignant half-sad\r\nlips with the same\r\n\r\nmemory of\r\ndecayed gardens princes\r\nlazy about the\r\n\r\ncommon grounds smiling\r\nat the women to the women the women only\r\nfaintly portrayed\r\n\r\nby the best artists\r\nlinens\r\nclose about their bodies thin\r\n\r\nunfraying silks\r\non them about them\r\nunconsciously\r\n\r\nas the air itself\r\nor breathing\r\nlightly\r\n\r\nthe final descending lines\r\nof the chin\r\nraising\r\n\r\nthe ogling eyes\r\nof visitors here gathered\r\nstrangers to the courtly\r\n\r\npast lust\r\nback upwards thereby\r\nputting\r\n\r\nthe whole\r\nface into focus assembled\r\nblock by block\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
MENDEL’S GARDEN<\/h2>\n
\r\nOrdained by necessity\r\n--the necessity\r\nof mathematics--\r\n\r\nthe blossoming sweet pea plants lie\r\nred pink white\r\nin rows\r\n\r\norderly by a neat man well\r\nplaced and spaced\r\nbut not\r\n\r\noverly so the sex\r\nfused in them\r\nin\r\n\r\nthe modest veiny petals\r\ncenter of the\r\ndisplay\r\n\r\nthere are those tall short and\r\nones round and wrinkled\r\nthe peas\r\n\r\nthemselves encased the ovum\r\ngrown fat with potential\r\nthe seeds\r\n\r\ndangling cocooned in green\r\nfrom the stalks\r\nthe stems\r\n\r\nthe sepals dried up out\r\nof the attracting\r\njuices\r\n\r\na withering\r\nrevealing\r\nthe fruit\r\n\r\nnear these over a few\r\nfeet a simple step\r\nbending\r\n\r\nready at hand to put in the seed\r\nin his quiet black\r\nsuit white\r\n\r\ncollar strapping his\r\nneck hiked up\r\nto the jaw\r\n\r\nto put the seed\r\nto bed the\r\nman\r\n\r\na cleric who named the traits\r\nhimself dominant\r\nand recessive\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE EELS<\/h2>\n
\r\nmake an art of it swollen lonely and old\r\nfinding the Sargasso Sea after many changes\r\nchasing sex at last a last gasp of lust\r\n\r\npropelling them many-bodied to the hot waters\r\neyes engorged against the sea-slime writhe\r\nwriggle rictus of bodies black ropes dropped\r\n\r\nto boil in the water-weeds no tract left\r\nfor digestion every wet ounce straining\r\nin one direction one only folding and unfolding\r\n\r\nuntil to the observer they compose a single\r\nmass a tangle urging forth from chaos\r\nan egg--they make an art of it.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE HORSESHOE CRAB<\/h2>\n
\r\nmoves so that\r\namong myriad\r\nfast foams\r\n\r\nshe creeps leaving\r\na perforated trail\r\nbehind \r\n\r\nsleepily in gravid \r\nsand back\r\nto the leaping sea\r\n\r\nHumped above \r\nthe scumline she halts\r\nsquats lays\r\n\r\nher hidden egg-clutch\r\n--Gulls\r\nbugs at a bonfire\r\n\r\ndive and feast\r\nupon them as she retreats\r\necho by echo\r\n\r\nto the sea--\r\nBelieve it or not\r\nlike an old pair \r\n\r\nof crossed shoes \r\ncasually deliberately thrown\r\naway they\r\n\r\nmate in the surf!\r\none\r\natop the other\r\n\r\nlovers\r\nfull of blue \r\nbloods\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE DARK ROOTS<\/h2>\n
\r\nHugeappletree\r\n     appetite big enough\r\n     to eat\r\n     all your own\r\n     fruit--\r\n\r\nThe sun\r\n     circular on the leaves\r\n     and echoed\r\n     in the production--\r\n     the\r\n     dangerous droplet\r\n\r\nAn apple,--\r\n     it will suffice\r\n     in one bite\r\n     to dissuade you\r\n     thinking of the sun\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
INSTRUCTION<\/h2>\n
\r\nHair slicked, ties clipped\r\nmy brothers and I stepped\r\npast the open church door\r\ninto the cool basement\r\n\r\nSunday school taught us\r\nabout camels, pasted stars\r\nand songs sung while picking\r\nour noses furtively\r\n\r\nStanding for our parents,\r\nsmall bellies out, breathing,\r\nprayers came to silence while\r\nwe waited at the white steps\r\n\r\nWe peered toward the pulpit\r\ndim among purple shadows\r\nwhere one day mother would lie\r\ndead and straight\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
PIANO MOON<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe old upright\r\nin the empty gym\r\ndistils moonlight\r\non its keys\r\n\r\nShe played\r\nslowly eyes shut\r\na lunar tune\r\nwhile I stayed\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
OLD DAYS<\/h2>\n
\r\nThis day, ravaged\r\nby blue memories lined up, blue\r\nbottles above the kitchen cabinets\r\ncollected and dusted and empty.\r\nWhat connects these transparent\r\nvessels, old days inverted and emptied\r\nof their content?  For what, patiently\r\nare they waiting?  Spring is gone\r\nthat had me drunk with optimism.\r\nNow the summer light, stagnant,\r\nhumid with stale drink, comes\r\nrolling through the screen crowded\r\nwith gnats from the yellow fields\r\nlaid out like pats of bad butter\r\nchurning with dirty life, new life,\r\npushy, crashing the glass out,\r\nupsetting the aesthetics, summer comes\r\nboldly kissing!\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
AUGUST<\/h2>\n
\r\nUnscreened weatherworn\r\nthe doorjamb melts\r\ninto what I remember\r\nwas our private yard:\r\nthe flowers on the tree\r\n(some red, some white)\r\nhave blossomed into leaves\r\nsung green.\r\n\r\nThe chickadees\r\ntwitch among trunks\r\nsearching for pebbles.\r\nThe young birds eat them up\r\nand eat whatever else they find\r\nwhich pleases them.\r\n--By some hidden wind\r\nthey ruffle to walls\r\nin the usual hollows together\r\nwith a few early leaves.\r\n\r\nYellow and sun-white predominate.\r\nThese are the colors\r\nof fullness and wait. --But\r\nsomehow my shrill eyes\r\nare missing you among\r\nall\r\n        August sways on\r\nthe stem because it is warm\r\nas flowers go.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
SEASONAL<\/h2>\n
\r\nThere sidewise from the\r\nbreasting prow between\r\nthe hushed and vertical\r\nbob and weave of \r\nwhitest icebergs there is\r\nthe winter sea beneath it all\r\nstill green.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
HO-HEY!<\/h2>\n
\r\nHo-hey!  the wind is blowing in\r\nsweetly before the rain--\r\nA tuberculosis of dust\r\nlines the shelved books heavily, heavily.\r\nToo long have I crouched among them humming,\r\nand I only come to my summer years!\r\nThe swaying trees face the wind and sway.\r\nHo-hey!  the retriever's nose is aptly lifted.\r\nMy fingertips are grey with the grey dust.\r\nWhat is this bitterness that fills my lungs?\r\nThe smutted screen rattles for attention,\r\nand the strong old trees' new greens\r\nshudder for what is coming.\r\n--The wind is blowing sweetly in:\r\nstill it is all just Ho-hey!\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE GREEN ACORN<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe cocked rock which\r\nnow is stiffened\r\nwas once, believe me,\r\nsupple mud--\r\njeweled dragonflies\r\nsipped at it ferns\r\nlifted intricate fans \r\nin the paleozoic breeze\r\njust as, all elbows once,\r\nI had played in mud \r\npuddles with my prized\r\navocado-colored ball.\r\n\r\nHow then came the rock to\r\ncrack, condense\r\nand become this\r\ncrumb of death\r\nheld slightingly aloft,\r\nthe breeze still biffing fresh,\r\n(slightingly, slightingly)\r\nin the agile boy's sling-\r\nshot--dead-aimed at\r\na grey unstirring squirrel\r\ncreasing his teeth\r\non a green acorn?\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
I INSIST<\/h2>\n
\r\nWrite a poem, Buckaroo!\r\nIt's only Levinworth, hard\r\nlabor if you don't.  Break the big\r\nrocks into smaller rocks day\r\nby day filling your lungs with stone\r\ndust until you can't sing--at first\r\nyou get stronger straining\r\nyour back like a trout arching\r\nhomeward uppa waterfall until\r\nafter awhile the rhythm beguiles\r\nyou you don't notice how numb\r\nyour hands are how the sun has made\r\nyou old in one afternoon and\r\nall the water isn't enough to slake\r\nwhat thirst arises!  \r\n                     Now who put\r\na moon in my sky and why\r\nam I standing on this high mound\r\nof small stones--tears of the moon?\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE MIRROR<\/h2>\n
\r\nWhy must I stand up and goddammit yawn\r\nTossing sheet to sheet between sleeps\r\nSmell of bad breath and hollowed pillows\r\nDrooling facebunched saltsand crusty-eyed\r\nCloud fragments of dreams real as echoes\r\nArm-in-arm the taste of your hair floating\r\nOnly birds and broken made-up music\r\nIn each ear nose snugged to an elbow\r\nSomewhere outer a foot dangles cold\r\nNo matter how much I love you darling\r\nMy honeyeyed life-partnered dearest\r\nLife was much better not looking at it\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
SNOWFALL WALKERS<\/h2>\n
\r\nAs in this post-dusk dark we talk and wander\r\nAlong a lonely path half-silver in the gloaming,\r\nI notice all the glitter that we gather\r\nConcentrates along the hard edge of the frost\r\nThe softening sky let drop, and lost,\r\nAnd which shines tonight like a fallen ladder\r\nThrough confused woods,--and on, toward a sadder\r\nMoon alone aloft who stays a stranger\r\nNo matter how deep or dark our ranging.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
ELEGY<\/h2>\n
\r\nOld man Mike grieves his cats.\r\nCat-catchers nabbed the strays\r\nfrom the condo quadrangle.\r\nHis saved one, Baby, orange behind\r\nthe sliding glass door silently\r\nmeows an air-conditioned meow.\r\nWith pious solicitude Mike politely\r\nguides me to the near ally, shows\r\nhow coarse wind draws strong\r\nbetween the calico bricks, how\r\nhis flowered sun-chair unfolds.\r\nHis white hair lifts and frets.\r\n--I'm tired now.  I want to sit.\r\n\r\nWho'll tell the moon about Mike now\r\nthe cats no longer loll and yeowl\r\nall hours in the grassgreen yard?\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
ACADIA<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe stars saw it happen, the sea\r\ndoesn't care--O-gape mouth\r\nalways roaring:  More!  More!\r\nHere in Acadia the sea is cold\r\nthat was boiling.  Black as a chou's\r\ntongue, scarves of volcanic rock\r\nflowed burning--a silent heat!\r\nPrehistoric birds circle in the updraft\r\nfor killed trilobites--a cookout--\r\nAll the land made death's;  the near sea, too,\r\ndead, her back turned away riverlike.\r\nNo white grains of beach among the granite.\r\nCool eons until lichen like stars began\r\nto dot it, winking pink, yellow, dull\r\ngrey-green in death's despite, in death's\r\ndespite gripping the naked tongue\r\nwhispering:  More!  More!\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
LAMENT<\/h2>\n
\r\nIt's very easy going\r\ntoo far--and the regrets\r\nafter, dragging a dead stick\r\nthrough silt until the stirrings\r\nmake opaque what had been.\r\nBucket after bucket I pour\r\ninto my garden gullies still all\r\njust black dirt till here and\r\nthere weird ears of new leaves\r\nstick up.  I expect to wait out\r\nthe spring after all what else\r\nam I doing, what else have done?\r\nAfter all he was worth it once\r\nwasn't he--and perennials come back\r\nyear after year the same way\r\nas if they forgot.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE GARDENER’S LOT<\/h2>\n
\r\nThis blade of land\r\nengendered by the sun\r\ndances round and around\r\nlike everything--\r\nlike you! exact\r\nand supercilious\r\nof all forms, even\r\nflowers, for christ's\r\nsake, bluebells\r\nhollyhock, clover\r\ngoldenrod, sprints\r\nof purple something\r\nand, of course, the\r\nwild carrot, even\r\nthe wild carrot, how\r\ndo you manage it?\r\nWere not all things\r\nin some measure\r\nconstructed (with\r\nwelds of cells in this\r\ncase, perhaps) you\r\ncould not overbear\r\nthem so with your\r\ntweedling eyebrows\r\n--agh! how\r\ncan you stand\r\nyourself! mirrorwise--\r\nlook at it! looking\r\nat you.  Wont you\r\nsplash, red-handed,\r\ninto it?  Won't you\r\nbreak a cracker\r\nand make it flesh?\r\nTurn the pool to wine!\r\nThe way it stares!\r\n\r\nWell, then, stand\r\nthere (ox\/ ox\/\r\npool) dirty and\r\nlocally misshaven you\r\nugly cuss!--and\r\nget stabbed by the\r\nrust-colored sun\r\nincreasing on the\r\nhill's edge.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE APPROACH<\/h2>\n
\r\nI am not\r\na cat in\r\nslipstream motion\r\nstep pause\r\nbalance as if\r\nborn untippable\r\non this tableful\r\nof bright jars--\r\nI am a ghost\r\nor less, all eye\r\nand no mind\r\nof Emerson despite\r\nmy oneness of\r\nun.  Speak nothing.\r\nAgain it is\r\nthere, the green\r\nemperor beetle\r\nexact shape of\r\nmy mouth.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE WEED<\/h2>\n
\r\nBehold me!  Spiky leaves foist off\r\nthe importunate poor with sour milk.\r\nBurly through the concrete\r\nI crack!  \r\nDowdy, dull and living alone,\r\nI have no zest for aesthetics.\r\nMy talons pinch the earth, suck deep,\r\nchoke those tenderer comers,\r\nthe pansy pink and their fellows frail.\r\nStrong, strange, my own, I am.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE EMPEROR BEETLE<\/h2>\n
\r\nLove this rotten wood as I\r\nlove it--stick your whole head\r\nin the stink, be all jaw\r\nto eat of it, forelegs anchors\r\nto keep hunger from sliding\r\nout of range.  Gorgeous!  a grub\r\nhas been worming woozily and's\r\nfallen asleep so sweetly it is\r\ndelicious, an unspoiled blossom\r\nof the rot.  Caw!--Get off,\r\ncrow!  I own this boggy log.\r\nYou are not so big yet;  yet\r\nI imagine other woodpiles leaning\r\njust short of collapse nearby nearly\r\nteeming with grubs.  \r\nCaw!  Caw!--Come on, you,\r\nbreak open your back and fly.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
CATFISH HOLLA<\/h2>\n
\r\nBe mud with me--\r\nAsleep in the hot muck\r\nexcept for our gills purring\r\nheated curls of water, in, and, out, --\r\nReeds will brush your whiskers\r\ninfinitely endless bamboo screens--\r\nHere and there in the dim stir\r\na crawfish begging for it or small\r\nsnail with shells too soft\r\nto resist!--glory it is\r\nto loaf in the mud, swim\r\nin the blood of the sun forever\r\nand ever and ever amen\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
WILD ONIONS<\/h2>\n
\r\nRounder than grass, higher, tufted tribes--\r\n\r\nGreen in a field of green, my root\r\nfattens to bitterness\r\n                                 --Bitter, ha-ha!\r\nEven without kissing, you are bitter\r\n--Love's loser, you! \r\n                                   --No hand comes\r\nto pick me\r\n                   --Cow-teeth piss on your meat!--\r\n\r\nOh, I am lonely! \r\n                             --Look at my mop, long\r\nand green, green\r\n                            --Blend and bend with us--\r\nNo time to be sorry for yourself\r\n   --in this wind\r\n--whoo-ooo!\r\n                      --Oh, poop, I never liked \r\nmy stink\r\n                --No? Me neither, yours--\r\n\r\nSmall, white, and underground, my secret\r\nheart--For me myself, these thoughts--\r\nI'm not sharing\r\n                          --Selfish prig\r\n \t\t\t\t --Shut-mouth\r\nsnob, that one--Aloof\r\n --Still, she smells\r\n--Same as the rest of us, strong garlic\r\n --Pssst!\r\nI can read her mind--(She kissed me once,\r\nhee-hee)\r\n    --Who wants to be dull grass? --\r\nDust-seeds, every face the same--Bleh--\r\n\r\nI am strong, plump, an innertube tuber!\r\n--Night carries our scent far\r\n--Lovers sneeze\r\nwho lie with me\r\n    --Cow-pats rot scentless here--\r\nEat of me and breathe fire!\r\n       --I am whiskey,\r\nwild, free and writhing!--Ha-ha!\r\n      --Bite!\r\nor be bitten!\r\n--Let's take the field toward\r\nthe house and spoil the laundry with our B.O.\r\n--Get yer sprout off'n me\r\n      --I am withered,\r\nhigh on a dry dirt-lump\r\n  --I see the wood's edge,\r\na gauzy screen of birches\r\n      --Feel that wind!\r\n--That dust!\r\n                    --Spritzy as a spring shower,\r\nahh-ooo-ooooo\u2026..\r\n--I am not like these\r\nother wild onions\r\n       --I am sweet, meaty,\r\nand friendless\r\n--I am lonely\r\n--I am quiet\r\n--I keep to myself among everyone--\r\nbut, shhhh\u2026 I don't want to\r\n--Ooooo, wind!\r\n--An earthworm tickles me\r\n--Err-sorry,\r\nI grew too boldly\r\n      --Take that, misery!--\r\nDon't shove, I'll shove!\r\n  --Love, don't shove--\r\nHar-harr\r\n    --You, you've pushed me into\r\nthe shade!\r\n       --Hah hah nah nah-nah--\r\nI'll get you\r\n       --As if they mattered\r\n        --Oh, look\r\na damn cloud found us\r\n    --Rain, rain go-away\r\n--La-la lah la la-la!\r\n         --I won't\r\n --I won't\r\n     --I won't--\r\nBe able to raise\r\n --my voice\r\n       --my voice\r\n   \t  --my voice--\r\nScattered drop drabs\r\n         --bip bip blip\r\n         --rain--\r\nNow, louder!<\/em>\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE CRY<\/h2>\n
\r\nListen if you will care to\r\n\t\thow the whippoorwill goes on\r\n\t\t\t\twhistling irresolutely\r\nyet distinctly.\r\n\t\tSo close to us\r\n\t\t\t\tthis foreigner\r\nstranger than an enemy\r\n\t\talien\r\n\t\t\t\tliving half his life\r\nin the sky!\r\n\t\tYet in his bone mouth\r\n\t\t\t\tand thorough throat\r\ntwists\r\n\t\ta shadow of our speech.\r\n\t\t\t\tWhippoorwill!\r\nWhen I was a kid, an old Indian\r\n\t\tcarving flutes\r\n\t\t\t\tat the county fair\r\nplayed the whippoorwill's song\r\n\t\tto a tee\r\n\t\t\t\tand told me as well\r\nhow the song could hold a departing soul\r\n\t\tsteadfast to the earth.\r\n\t\t\t\tListen!\r\nA ghost of sorrow\r\n\t\tis haunting our woods\r\n\t\t\t\teven now\r\nas the whippoorwill collects\r\n\t\tbugs as well as souls\r\n\t\t\t\tfor its young,\r\nmoon or no moon.\r\n\t\tEven so\r\n\t\t\t\tI am tempted\r\nto believe the old Indian\r\n\t\tto believe\r\n\t\t\t\this black eyes\r\nand braided hands so good\r\n\t\tat finding the flute's voice\r\n\t\t\t\tin the wood\r\nwith his sharp\r\n\t\tthumb's-length\r\n\t\t\t\tof blade\r\nparting the grain\r\n\t\timpartially,\r\n\t\t\t\tand his exact\r\nimitation of the whippoorwill,\r\n\t\tso alien\r\n\t\t\t\tand so close.\r\nWhippoorwill, I, too\r\n\t\twould know you\r\n\t\t\t\tjust as if\r\nyour song mattered.\r\n\t\tI, too,\r\n\t\t\t\tam listening. \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
FORGET-ME-NOT<\/h2>\n
\r\nThere is something hard \r\n\t\tin the world,\r\nunkind,\r\n\t\tstubborn,\r\n\t\t\t\tblasted black\r\nas a broken fingernail placed\r\n\t\tin danger\r\n\t\t\t\tof a too-great\r\nthwack!\r\n\t\tEvery pebble is a pain\r\n\t\t\t\tworn smooth\r\nby lovely water\r\n\t\twaiting only for its\r\n\t\t\t\tproper shoe\r\nits hidden niche\r\n\t\tto strike!\r\nPain . . . pain is greater\r\n\t\tthan the imagination.\r\n\t\t\t\tPain defeats\r\nthe flow of poetry,\r\n\t\trills its lyric surface,\r\n\t\t\t\tsquats in its depths\r\nunperturbed\r\n\t\tby beauty.\r\n\t\t\t\tSweetly the poem\r\npretends otherwise,\r\n\t\tineffectually\r\n\t\t\t\tbut sweetly\r\nsinging against the stone's grain\r\n\t\tjust as though\r\n\t\t\t\tno sob would come.\r\nBut the stone is there,\r\nhard.\r\n\t\tDeath\r\n\t\t\t\tis a measure\r\nand settles it all\r\n\t\tat last.\r\n\t\t\t\tNo hand, no voice\r\ndefeats death.\r\n\t\tAt least it is a cease\r\n\t\t\t\tfrom pain.\r\nIf imagination then could speak . . .\r\n\t\tbut then,\r\n\t\t\t\tit cannot.\r\nSo it is only\r\n\t\twith broken voice\r\n\t\t\t\twith breath inswept\r\nbetween\r\n\t\teverlasting griefs\r\n\t\t\t\tthe poem is known.\r\nRemember me,\r\n\t\twith all your troubles,\r\n\t\t\t\tremember me--\r\nthat's how most of \u2018em\r\n\t\tbegin\r\n\t\t\t\tsprinting sprained\r\nuntil the flowering baton is passed\r\n\t\thand to hand\r\n\t\t\t\tand voice to voice\r\nand you and I are left\r\n\t\tin our pain sweetly\r\n\t\t\t\twith nothing of our own\r\nto sing but\r\n\t\t\"Remember me.\"\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE CONDUCTOR<\/h2>\n
\r\nThere is no time\r\n\t\tto tell all\r\n\t\t\t\tthe tongue trembles\r\nto tell.\r\nOne feels full,--\r\n\t\ta milk-weed pod\r\n\t\t\t\tripened\r\nto bursting!\r\n\t\tThrough each throat courses\r\n\t\t\t\ta cataract.\r\nWords logjam\r\n\t\tone to the other\r\n\t\t\t\tperpendicular,\r\nlocked in puzzlement\r\n\t\tbut tumbling on\r\n\t\t\t\tanyhow . . . .\r\nThere is no time\r\n\t\tto decipher all\r\n\t\t\t\tthe mysteries\r\nwords bring us\r\n\t\tevery day.\r\n\t\t\t\tNo time, no time\r\nto find the\r\n\t\ttune inwound\r\n\t\t\t\tin every utterance.\r\nStill, it persists,\r\n\t\ta pressure\r\n\t\t\t\tseeking pleasure\r\nin the onrush of words.\r\n\t\tNo conductor's baton\r\n\t\t\t\ttapping, tapping\r\ncan resist.\r\n\t\tOn, on!\r\n\t\t\t\tWords wheeling\r\nabout like birds\r\n\t\tshotgun-scattered;\r\n\t\t\t\tlike notes displayed\r\nagainst a grey\r\n\t\trandom sky.\r\nIf only there were time\r\n\t\tto decode the order\r\n\t\t\t\tand make the heart\r\n--imperiled by the pushing--\r\n\t\tslow down and\r\n\t\t\t\tunravel\r\nthe rhythm.\r\nIf only\r\n\t\tthere were time\r\n\t\t\t\tfor rhythm:\r\nthe mind's pace \r\n\t\tslackened\r\n\t\t\t\topen\r\nfor the vowels and consonants of speech--\r\n\t\ta speech of the mind\r\n\t\t\t\tthat only\r\nin retrospect perhaps\r\n\t\tdiscerns the\r\nglottal stop.\r\n\t\tTime in the mind\r\n\t\t\t\tminding time\r\nto slow or hasten\r\n\t\teach action\r\n\t\t\t\tat will\r\nallowing rhythm to begin\r\n\t\tand begin\r\n\t\t\t\tagain and again\r\nuntil\r\n\t\tthere is only\r\n\t\t\t\ttime.\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE CLIFF-HANGER<\/h2>\n
\r\nSpreadeagled \r\n\t\ton a cliff cemented\r\n\t\t\t\tin limbo clouds\r\nabout him his waist\r\n\t\twading in air\r\n\t\t\t\ton the rock's face-\r\nto-face with what\r\n\t\tholds on in this\r\n\t\t\t\tvertical world where\r\nfierce eagles nest with ease\r\n\t\tand low weeds wave\r\n\t\t\t\twithout sweat\r\nfinger by finger inching up-\r\n\t\twards his breath backed\r\n\t\t\t\tinto his nostrils\r\ngored dank bull-like\r\n\t\tno flower of the body\r\n\t\t\t\tno vista for eyes only\r\neffort, exhausting, forward\r\n\t\thands aching red\r\n\t\t\t\tinto their grip solely\r\nhanging in the air sheet\r\n\t\tlightning riveting his back\r\n\t\t\t\tpain by pain a spine\r\nmade of pain the fetid\r\n\t\tanchor here always\r\n\t\t\t\talone always\r\nsonless and fatherless both\r\n\t\ttreading toward what\r\n\t\t\t\tplateau trapped\r\nabove by quiet acres\r\n\t\tof sky, sky\r\n\t\t\t\ttranslucent, impenetrable.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE SEA<\/h2>\n
\r\nfemale\r\n\t\tin her largesse\r\n\t\t\t\tunfinished in her striving\r\nyet sure, assured, assuring\r\n\t\twave upon wave\r\n\t\t\t\tas wave upon wave\r\nshe comes on--\r\n\t\tno mere dram of the divine\r\n\t\t\t\tbut drowning gallons\r\nof godhood, every day:\r\n\t\taction upon action\r\nmultiform-in-unity\r\nshe throws garbage\r\n\t\tall day every day\r\n\t\t\t\tat the immaculate beach!\r\nBlue pails, red shovels\r\n\t\ttarballs coughed up--\r\n\t\t\t\twanderlust wastage\r\nshoved home from the sea;\r\n\t\tshe is no respecter\r\n\t\t\t\tof persons or property.\r\nWhat shards we have for her\r\n\t\tcome back softened and frosted\r\n\t\t\t\tall their brightness now\r\nturned inward\r\n\t\tas cathedral glass can do\r\n\t\t\t\thaunting darkened pews.\r\nWhat has she shown them?\r\n\t\tThemselves\r\n\t\t\t\ta glorious wastage of light\r\ntumbled in a green breast\r\n\t\twhose furious love\r\n\t\t\t\tundoes them.\r\nSee how they fail\r\n\t\tshape after shape thrown in\r\n\t\t\t\tto change her.\r\nThe sea allows\r\n\t\tno options.\r\n\t\t\t\tLove her and submit\r\nuntil you yourself are\r\n\t\tshapeless as seaweed--\r\n\t\t\t\tsurvive if you will\r\nby kissing her hem,\r\n\t\tan appurtenance to her\r\n\t\t\t\tpermanence.\r\nThe sea! a girl\r\n\t\teternal as all girls are,\r\n\t\t\t\twall upon wall\r\nshe curls at her edges \r\n\t\tsmilelike or sneerlike, a face\r\n\t\t\t\tthat is always, to us,\r\nindifferent.\r\n\t\tLay your naked keel\r\n\t\t\t\tupon her fertile flank\r\nor sail unknown regions \r\n\t\tswelling between her breasts\r\n\t\t\t\tin trumpeting discovery!\r\nAlways, you will be\r\n\t\tflotsam to her surfaces\r\n\t\t\t\tglassy and drenching,\r\nan appurtenance to her vivid is\r\n\t\tfloating fathomless as scum unless\r\n\t\t\t\tby your death you may\r\na moment\r\n\t\tbeautify her majesty.\r\n\t\t\t\tThe ageless exuberance\r\nof the sea!\r\n\t\tBeached, I observe\r\n\t\t\t\tnothing.\r\nTrash comes to me\r\n\t\tin the skittering surf\r\n\t\t\t\tutterly transformed!\r\nI must surrender, I must love\r\n\t\tthis morning, at once, before\r\n\t\t\t\tmy nerve fails\r\nand my survival mind reminds me\r\n\t\tnot to kiss too deeply\r\n\t\t\t\ther salty mouth.\r\nInsatiably\r\n\t\tI want to kiss you,\r\n\t\t\t\tdying of thirst\r\nas I drink, drink\r\n\t\tfrom your polluted brim!\r\n\t\t\t\tBut the sea is not mine,\r\nshe is her own\r\n\t\tinsatiably.\r\n\t\t\t\tNo embrace, however loose,\r\nmay manacle her manyness,\r\n\t\tno arms, however loving,\r\n\t\t\t\tcan grasp what she is\r\nor how she is\r\n\t\tor anything\r\n\t\t\t\tin the sessions of her sighing.\r\nOnly surrender, surrender,\r\n\t\tcan have any part\r\n\t\t\t\tof the surge and lapse\r\nthat arrives\r\n\t\tdissolving at my feet.\r\n\t\t\t\tImmodest, immeasurable\r\nthe motion of the sea whose only\r\n\t\tpartner in the dance\r\n\t\t\t\tinvisibly\r\nis the stone sea of the moon\r\n\t\ttide upon tide\r\n\t\t\t\tthey pull and they press\r\nuntil whitecaps witness\r\n\t\tthe consummation and breakage\r\n\t\t\t\tof their betrothal.\r\nTo this ceremony\r\n\t\twe may only bring\r\n\t\t\t\teverything, may only\r\nthrow everything away\r\n\t\tagain and again,\r\n\t\t\t\teffectless flowers\r\ntossed into the surf!\r\n\t\tThe bouquets adding nothing\r\n\t\t\t\tto the bride's beauty.\r\nA child on a rock,\r\n\t\ta stranger to the dance\r\n\t\t\t\tas yet,\r\nlike a moron is crying\r\n\t\t\"O, o, o\"\r\n\t\t\t\tagain and again\r\nwordlessly\r\n\t\tto pass the time.\r\n\t\t\t\tAnd yet, what has he lost?\r\nThis is the ogre\r\n\t\tand the image of the ogre\r\n\t\t\t\tthat lives in all men wordlessly.\r\nMen can create, truly,\r\n\t\tnothing\r\n\t\t\t\tand we are, truly,\r\nnothing.\r\n\t\tBut in our anger, roused,\r\n\t\t\t\twe make ourselves tall,\r\nstalwart and ostrichlike\r\n\t\tin a pretense of bravery\r\n\t\t\t\tto outface the eternal\r\ngrind and grit of the sea\r\n\t\twho loves us not--\r\n\t\t\t\tour ugly heads \r\ntucked in the sand.\r\nThis is all men\r\n\t\tand many women too,\r\n\t\t\t\tthough fewer.\r\nThe ogre groans\r\n\t\tto know his true stature\r\n\t\t\t\tminiscule before the sea.\r\n\"O, o, o, o.\"\r\n\t\tAfter this wreckage of hopes\r\n\t\t\t\twhat remains?\r\nIs love possible?\r\n\t\tCan an ogre even know love?\r\n\t\t\t\tWhat, after all, remains?\r\nIf something persists\r\n\t\tif a possible love persists\r\n\t\t\t\tthen it is not\r\nthe love an ogre imagines--\r\n\t\tit is not a love that receives\r\n\t\t\t\tanything at all.\r\nIt is, if it is\r\n\t\ta love like that which prayer opens\r\n\t\t\t\tto us,\r\ngiving over all\r\n\t\tto the suck and agony\r\n\t\t\t\tof this great wetness.\r\nThrow yourself in!  you pray.\r\n\t\tSurrender to the dazzle\r\n\t\t\t\thold back nothing\r\nno particle of all you have \r\n\t\tpretended\r\n\t\t\t\tto be yourself.\r\nDrown in the dazzle, if you must.\r\n\t\tThere is only the pulse\r\n\t\t\t\tpush and wash\r\nof the sea.\r\n\t\tOnly her eternal grinding\r\n\t\t\t\tand gnashing\r\npersuades one of either\r\n\t\theaven or hell.\r\n\t\t\t\tOnly she may tell\r\nwhich,--and whichever it is\r\n\t\twe may only love.\r\n\t\t\t\tHaving given all,\r\nwe have given up nothing.\r\n\t\tOur shards\r\n\t\t\t\tin her embrace\r\nare not possessed untouched\r\n\t\tbut transformed\r\n\t\t\t\tsmoothed and redeemed\r\nreleased from our intentions\r\n\t\tto manifest what\r\n\t\t\t\twe could not have \r\nimagined.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
THE LIVING MUSCLE<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe song\r\n\tI cannot yet write\r\nbites my tongue\r\n\ttill I taste iron.\r\n\r\nMy song, my sound\r\n\twaits in my dumb tongue\r\nunsinging, unsaying\r\n\t. . . .\r\n\r\nLike the sound of the sea\r\n\tinside a seashell\r\nstill too full\r\n\tof living muscle.\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Purchase from Amazon   Plain poems of experience, with a twist of eloquence by Gregg Glory Published by BLAST PRESS THE FROG What’s wrong with this picture? Scads of lilies raised above the muck the scum floating on golden pond –sheer light– on one a fat frog croaks– Bhudda! Bhudda! to the weeds and sky […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1001002,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5290","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-wild-onions","category-7-id","post-seq-1","post-parity-odd","meta-position-corners","fix"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5290","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1001002"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5290"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5290\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7399,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5290\/revisions\/7399"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5290"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5290"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5290"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}