{"id":6771,"date":"2020-08-24T19:27:17","date_gmt":"2020-08-24T19:27:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/?p=6771"},"modified":"2023-07-08T10:19:40","modified_gmt":"2023-07-08T10:19:40","slug":"youth-youth-youth","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/posts\/youth-youth-youth\/","title":{"rendered":"Youth Youth Youth"},"content":{"rendered":"
\r\n\r\n \r\n\r\nFirst Works \r\n\r\nCopyright \u00a91994 by Gregg G. Brown \r\n\r\nPublished by \r\nBLAST PRESS \r\n\r\n <\/a>  <\/a> \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/a>Diminution<\/h2>\n
\r\n Smaller than a shut nut in its\r\n Candy can skin, \r\n The silken icecube melts, \r\n The compact cricket swells to distant hymns, \r\n And the tough grass suffers into seed. \r\n \r\n (It is a bantam birth.) \r\n \r\n Many of the big things in this world \r\n Can be described as \r\n Small. \r\n \r\n The delicate ballet of \r\n Mountains bowing low \r\n As bathtub waves between \r\n The popsickle peaks \r\n Is \r\n One example, \r\n \r\n But there are many others. \r\n Many many; ask the brilliant \r\n Corn-kernel sun, and he \r\n Will tell you. \r\n \r\n I myself will tell you and tell you \r\n Until finally, balled like a baby, \r\n I diminish into happiness.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>April Mechanical<\/h2>\n
\r\n Organized neatly between the\r\n divisive particles of air \r\n near the old scratched moss \r\n of some ending season \r\n \r\n grey beneath green as \r\n anxious among concrete park \r\n benches it spreads, the air, \r\n blue in imitation of the \r\n \r\nsloshing fountain water, the water \r\nnot an expression of thought \r\nbut rather in its deepening \r\nstance a mirror for \r\n \r\nangry clouds cherry-red \r\nwith the long brittle atoms \r\nof a slashing sun, a few \r\nrough trees deport \r\n \r\ntheir skinny limbs \r\ninto the jealous sky, naked \r\nto speak to us with their \r\ncompletely unhinging buds\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>Quote<\/h2>\n
\r\n'She who hesitates is\r\nlost," she declared.But \r\nwhat is there to \r\nlose?Only innocence \r\n \r\nin the small pale and \r\nnot completely impartial turn \r\nand plod of her delicately \r\ndancing feet.Only notice \r\n \r\nthe impartial fervor \r\nof that tilting lily-head \r\nagainst whose stone we (approximately \r\nmay measure ourselves. \r\n \r\nOur faults lie open \r\nand are described in an \r\namazing minutiae by those \r\nthin dim cracks between \r\n \r\nthe feathered petals.They \r\nonly serve to emphasize \r\nthe fact with their apparently \r\nindifferent oblivious blooming\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>Cold Moles and Dreams are Roots<\/h2>\n
\r\nCreative as the curl of candles, \r\nWhen they burn, the going deeper \r\nOf winter shrews or summer friends \r\nAsleep and burrowing out their \r\nBlankets.That calmest of thinking trees, \r\nThe dream, divides and redivides its sunken \r\n \r\nCells; placenta tentacles lie down \r\nTo the birth of buried baby \r\nShrews, hatched in dreaming imagination; \r\nAnd the dreaming sleepers scuttle, crab- \r\nLike on their hands, lid-full eyes \r\nDull as old spoons.Disordered bits \r\n \r\nOf life rise to fill their empty \r\nMinds as grey and pearl as parachutes.Star- \r\nNosed moles furrow through their drowsy sight, \r\nAnd crab-like on their hands they dig \r\nAnd dig between the different darks \r\n \r\nOf night and sleep.Rooting for \r\nThe peace of meals kept deep in dirt. \r\nOh, turn the naked number down! the failing \r\nSleepers cry --- flustered fingers still \r\nHalf-dragging through the sheets.... \r\n \r\nAnd the red sled, snaky arm without fingers \r\nFerries its bald insanities back \r\nTo the cluttered basement of old dreams.Yet, \r\nNothing sinks but clatters when it lands. \r\nAnd the long awaiting eyes, cool as a moist \r\n  Mole's nose, wake at last and eat the day.\r\n \r\n\r\n <\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
A Bar of Ivory Soap
\n Sitting Near the Faucet<\/h2>\n
Just manufactured.Its original skin has been thrown away.It is no
\nLonger needed, the pure self has emerged, Virginal and white.White
\nwhite white!Expansive plantations of snow or one dimensional
\nlilies.The souls of St. Francis of Assisi and Thomas a Beckett look
\nsomething like this, I have been told, Precise in its new rims it is
\nthe magic castle from a distant story.In the high dark window there
\nis a tiny, elegant woman waving and waving.<\/p>\n
\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>Destination<\/h2>\n
\r\nI have thought of heaven, often,\r\nAnd of hell, \r\n \r\nEveryone is hurrying to get there, \r\nTo be in the big rooms with the wide floors, \r\nAnd the carpeting up to your armpits, \r\nAnd the smooth marble corridors \r\nAs empty as thought. \r\nThere are no urns to clutter up \r\nYour mantelpiece, and to become, by dote, \r\nAs big as a baboons chest \r\nAnd as blue as his anger. \r\n \r\nEveryone is hurrying to get there and see \r\nJust how big \r\nThe windowpanes are.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>Night Lures (I Am Sleeping)<\/h2>\n
\r\nSoftly,<\/a> \r\nThe moon blues, \r\nSubstanceless as any dead day. \r\nLike the loyal marsh at Baybridge who jingled \r\nAnd who I liked \r\nIn the high August frosts and mists. \r\nIt was like a large drunken friend waiting \r\nFor me to find the misplaced knees and socketless stray arms \r\nAnd admire them.And wait. \r\nThe ground there was soft \r\nAs broken-in shoes. \r\nI used to \r\nBank off those marshmallow shores, \r\nMy father's shallow boat clipping neatly under me \r\n \r\nUnder a cool noon.I \r\nwould like to have my stomach launched into \r\nMe like that again. \r\n \r\nThe grey-green water lies all around me. \r\n \r\nTwo catfish leap \r\nBut do not dazzle. \r\nThey hover in the timorous mid-air. \r\nTheir fins half blue from shadows. \r\nA fine detail of foam follows like a sketch \r\n  Their fast bodies \r\nThe shapes of moonhills. \r\nThe white commas of their undersides pause silently \r\nBefore me.I love to watch them in their \r\nParadox.They are helpless \r\nIn their joy. \r\nFrom behind one reed thin as a needle \r\nA blue fly's head pokes. \r\nCurious with eyes \r\nIt is amazed at these otherworld avians \r\nAs wet and smooth as washed stones. \r\n \r\nI landed home empty-handed.\r\n \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>The Eagle has Landed<\/a><\/h2>\n
\r\nRalph, the man who saw with feathers spread,<\/a> \r\nLeaned his bones over (they were golden in the dawn \r\nAnd said: 'I'm not an eagle am I?' \r\n \r\n\u201cNo, you're not.\u201d \r\n \r\nVertebrae, vertebrae \r\nIn arch of back to circle rolling. \r\nThe red rolled east.It was a perfect morning \r\nFor flight.His beak was red in this bent light. \r\nHis beak was red shaped \r\nAnd ready. \r\n \r\n\u201c'Tis time for bed, my Ralph, 'tis time to sleep.\u201d \r\n \r\nRalph was gleaming golden in his forward shoes. \r\n'Am I not an eagle?' His arms were lit like down \r\nIn this light, The man put fingers spread \r\nAnd leapt.<\/a> \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>The Dark Roots<\/h2>\n
\r\nHugeappletree \r\nappetite big enough \r\nto eat \r\nall your own \r\nfruit-- \r\n \r\nThe sun \r\ncircular on the leaves \r\nand echoed \r\nin the production-- \r\nthe \r\ndangerous droplet \r\n \r\nAn apple, \r\nit will suffice \r\nin one bite \r\nto dissuade you \r\nthinking of the sun<\/a> \r\n \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>from out the tomb like a cloud<\/a><\/h2>\n
\r\nAbove this town where I lay sleeping<\/a> \r\nyoung happily birds convulse minutely \r\none tremendously blown hilarious \r\ngreen leaf of wind (in ochres of eve \r\nit is dying) come suddenly finally up \r\nfrom compactly hysterical graves.Bliss \r\nfully mindless is of these faces \r\non the pickets these sweatless heads \r\nin dole attire; these pink purple blades \r\n \r\nwho are flying who are the dentings \r\nmy footfalls have said along the edges \r\nof day and crisply space and down down \r\ndwindling once wells of when remit (for \r\nit is summer and pregnantly snowingly dusk)<\/a> \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>Display Against Society<\/a><\/h2>\n
\r\nOne day, cloudless,<\/a> \r\nRefined to a clarity, to one colour \r\n        as with a wall, \r\nThe famous international explorer, \r\nSaint Jacque, to escape the strictures of his race, \r\nLeapt (formally dressed) \r\nOff of three bridges, leaping \r\nWith triple-reenforced rubber bands Celastics") \r\nGripping his British African ankles. \r\n\u2018I go to save all men,' indignant, jumping, \r\n'After the manner of the Afriks.') \r\n \r\nHis tux-tails catching the airs wings, he went. \r\n \r\nBe pulled up just short \r\nOf the water (or the rocks) whichever \r\nWas appropriate in whichever case. \r\n       And after, when I proposed: \r\nWhy why (the background sistrums sheathing \r\nSounds with sounds) \r\nHis teeth cried out (smiling): \r\nTo feel as if alive.<\/a> \r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
\nNOTE: The ritual described here is taken from a reclusive tribe in the Congo where it is a rite of passage for young boys intended to make them independent of the shrewdness and courage of women, the story being that a woman ones, to escape from her husband into the arms of her lover tied vines to her ankles and jumped from a cliff; the husband was too scared to follow, thus making good her escape and happy her life. (Now a common sport in North America.)<\/p>\n
 <\/p>\n
 <\/p>\n
<\/a>Last Year<\/h2>\n
\r\nthe dogs were in the house and sniffing \r\nthe last decayed amours of left lasagna; \r\nclack and tap the toes, fur stuck out \r\nbetween the friendly pads the entire \r\nsummer, no other noise, \r\neveryone dead or gone, vacationing with cameras \r\nto return with a foreign inspiration; \r\n'thank you,' and my thin lips vomit at the grace. \r\nTo no other sound but the happy clacks \r\nand hanging, painted tongues \r\nI wrote; I even wrote: 'the flowers nod \r\nand peck like too many a sun.' \r\nToday: \r\n'the day grows down in dismayed capitulation.'\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 India<\/h2>\n
\r\nAn idol<\/a> \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\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>Ritually<\/h2>\n
\r\nthe amoeba<\/a> \r\nsqueeze and bulge \r\ntheir green and \r\nthinly syncopating \r\nbodies while, \r\nat their sides, \r\nthere are (beating) \r\nthe smoothly \r\nflagellant supplicants.They \r\nwill suffice.<\/a> \r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a>\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<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
12 Bowie<\/h2>\n
\r\nHere and now the kindly frost invites \r\nThe snow.Ice along the large pond \r\nBuckles for breath in he thin season \r\nOver spacious spans of silence.The pipings are \r\nHushed, the geese put to flight and quiet. \r\nGrass does not grow but waits \r\nWith a small eternal presence, the mantle \r\nWarm and lightless.It is a white lid \r\nTo a green furnace, waiting.Patience is long \r\nAlong the meadow along the pond along the frozen, \r\nDrift-thick ice.The oaks with the sharp melting current \r\nAre patient, through their trunks, the tilted hills' \r\nGreen soldiers, bent for the calling, the sea \r\nStraining its wide tides.All are patient all \r\nAre waiting.But shortly \r\nTheir patience \r\nWill snap.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
At the Theater Doors and Almost In<\/h2>\n
\r\nAgain and again.The tickettaker's hands are\r\nEmphatic.Her shirt is red \r\nAbove the useful elbows.In her small hands \r\nThe last cries of startled paper \r\n \r\n Unger. \r\n The thin red tongues that dribbled out \r\n Of the faceless window \r\n Are shredded and shredded. \r\n \r\n Her careful fingerends \r\n Are red with little screams. \r\n And at my back a blank anonymous bear \r\n Reminds me of duty. \r\n \r\n Slowly, I offer up \r\n My tiny victim.In close air.At last, \r\n At last, I stumble towards the common dark \r\n Without a tongue. \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 The Timid Stars<\/h2>\n
 \r\n It is\r\n among the stars \r\n that I stick my shaggy head. \r\n They sag and turn crimson, \r\n sag in a sky \r\n \r\n bruise blue \r\n because winter has struck \r\n straight across \r\n (negligently) the heavy \r\n blood-filled breasts in stretched cotton. \r\n \r\n Has struck \r\n as they shiver \r\n (appreciatively) has struck shining \r\n like a bronze cymbal.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 The Seasonal Dead<\/h2>\n
 \r\n Winter kills the cruelest of the deer,\r\n the ones that want to live, freezes \r\n their heart-stubble, runs them  \r\n past the dawn grey fields \r\n and trips them up on the subtlety of a stream, \r\n solid with its fear.They lie down dying \r\n in the rising floe; the stag, the fawn, \r\n and the doe, collect their shivers severally \r\n and blanket their wet fur \r\n with the whitening glass.See \r\n Their dark long legs are so softly \r\n bent that they extremely seem to be \r\n too much alive to be an accurate model of death. \r\n They fly with sinking passion to he snow.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
How We Die<\/h2>\n
\r\n Perhaps\r\n It is like walking straight upwards \r\n From a clear shore \r\n Until the wren's singing \r\n Is only water.And we float about freely, \r\n Completely under. \r\n \r\n Or, perhaps, \r\n Flying and stinging like wasps, \r\n We leave half of ourselves dragged out behind us, \r\n Beating and hurting.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 TV<\/h2>\n
\r\nMultifarious on the miniature screen \r\nthe tiny greyish teardrops trickle \r\nout of sympathy; out of luck \r\nthey land in a ponderous conflagration \r\nlike butane-drenched strange paratroopers \r\ninvading every eye. they only come \r\nto liberate the lusterless, glitterfy the gone, \r\nunwanted melodies curled uptight asleep \r\nin moldiest mind.Melodramatic \r\nthe chromatic tube revivifies its display. \r\nAll the misconceptions of real-life rant \r\nin flesh-tone undeniability.The biggest baritone \r\nsaunters to his place, steps upwards \r\nat the Met, decked in best brightest tent array, \r\n \r\nto sing until his face dissolves to truth.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
June<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe abyss in the iris\r\nDarkens. \r\nThe lilac's cones shrivel, \r\nImpotent nubs. \r\n\r\nAnd the waterfall wings \r\nOf grackles gnash, \r\nImpatient as teeth \r\nFor something to eat. \r\n\r\nBlossoms or buds hang \r\nLazy as puppets \r\nIn their nets, or masses of colored balloons \r\nTied to vulnerability. \r\n\r\nRubbing their silk heads to static and still can't think! \r\n\r\nEveryone breathes beneath \r\nWide woven hats, -- \r\nLying, breathing, \r\nLame as shot seals on the lawn furniture. \r\n\r\nAnd everything is hot. \r\nThe garden is is still and hot. \r\nAnd the conservative gardener buzzes about planning, planning \r\nFor next spring's eruption. \r\n\r\nA uniformity resides \r\nIn all this damp lessening, \r\ninexorable and \r\nIrretrievable \r\n\r\nAs ants or gold lice, tiny and metallic, \r\nTicking past the plastic petals. \r\nThe entire arrangement \r\nWalls and withers, \r\n\r\nTribally. \r\nThe folded flowers scream. \r\nWhite as live eyes, the trees \r\nScream, steaming. \r\n\r\nThe magnolia's \r\nFists sweats.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 After July<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe one cop\r\ncracks his beat, tuesdays, \r\nthursdays... the tapped cracks blurr into the blue, \r\ndays join years, rim to rim \r\na used pile of hubcaps rise \r\nto topple the sky. \r\n\r\nHe lowers his eyes. \r\nHe frets the shiny lower buttons \r\noff his coat, in the off hours, \r\nin a silver-tinged sort of \r\nmaternal sublimation. \r\nFor him \r\n\r\nthe end \r\nof labor, and the quench \r\nof thirst, lie bound-- a single note-tone-- \r\nin a fist-sized, pawable \r\ngolden glob of pocketwatch. \r\nWe wait \r\n\r\nfor the crinkled, \r\nthe time-worsted, the failing \r\ncusp of a summer's end, expiring \r\nin teacups.Your mother's \r\nhandstitched, colorful, orange and yellow, gingham quilt \r\nwilts with August. \r\n\r\nNearby, some butterflies, \r\na handful, hover over \r\nthe midtown intersection parking lot \r\nof our pin-sized Pepperell village, watching \r\nthe sky-dark cop \r\nendlessly circle himself, wishing \r\n\r\nthat they had stings.\r\n \r\n\r\nContents<\/a>\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Slate Steps Descend the Hill<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe blue stones\r\ndrop away from the self \r\nlike ash \r\n\r\ndumped from an open freight car \r\ngoing \r\na hundred miles an hour \r\n\r\neasily\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Aside to a Crying Child<\/h2>\n
\r\nDo not fear.\r\nThe globe in your room \r\nHas no place to be going. \r\n\r\nIts greens are gold, properly arranged; \r\nIts browns \r\nMountains of dried sugar.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Thinking About a Dead Man
\nI Wonder Why the Fireplace
\nLooks Emptier than it Ought to<\/h2>\n
\r\nHave you ever seen\r\nThe dark trolleys \r\nTransport the ashes \r\nOf a leaf \r\nInto a hole in the valleys of the moon? \r\n\r\nI have. \r\n\r\nIt is a small hole waiting \r\nOn the moon's \r\nReverse side.\r\n\r\n<\/a>\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<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Falling<\/h2>\n
In the tympany of the shattering glass there
\nis this: there is this photographic effect, It
\noccurs when, dimmed and fugitive, I see my own raw
\nface new as a pound of freshly ground beef in one
\nof the shaken raindrop particles faltering. (They
\nfalter because they have forgotten the balance of
\nair.They are senile as snowflakes.) It is this
\neffect that makes me measure and measure the
\nmillimeters of my pupils’ shufting. (They are black
\nas a circus seal’s fur, and wet as sweat.) It is
\na little like what I think it would be like to find
\na mirror at the bottom of the lake in which I am
\ndrowning, The window bleeds its little glitters
\ndown.They shine like pennies out of a shotgun….<\/p>\n
\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\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<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 Seasonal<\/h2>\n
\r\n There, sidewise from the\r\n breasting prow, between \r\n the hushed and vertical \r\n bob and weave of the \r\n whitest icebergs, there is \r\n the winter sea beneath it all \r\n still green.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 Foxhounds<\/h2>\n
\r\n A trumpet whistles and the slow, \r\n paced doily-work of discovery begins. \r\n Soft, snow-petalled dogs descend \r\n from higher ground to astound the dell \r\n with the multitude of their white bodies' shuffle; \r\n So many crowd into the little hollow \r\n that the hand-held sky, time's mirror, \r\n leaks a salty supplication to their lust. \r\n They ground the dying grasses down to dust. \r\n The ascending, coal-soft noses tender towards \r\n the pay; the fox works well their mouths \r\n of blackness into foam. \r\n Abundance will reward most laborious chase. \r\n Living feet stamp and paw the fertile ground.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 The Gardener’s Lot<\/h2>\n
\r\n This blade of land\r\n engendered by the sun \r\n dances round and around \r\n like everything-- \r\n like you I exact \r\n and supercilious \r\n of all forms, even \r\n flowers, for christ's \r\n sake, bluebells \r\n hollyhock, clover \r\n goldenrod, sprints \r\n of purple something \r\n \r\n and, of course, the \r\n wild carrot, even \r\n the wild carrot, how \r\n do you manage it'.? \r\n Were not all things \r\n in some measure \r\n constructed (with \r\n welds of cells in this \r\n case, perhaps) you \r\n could not overbear \r\n them so with your \r\n tweedling eyebrows \r\n -- agh! how \r\n can you stand \r\n yourself! mirrorwise-- \r\n look at it! looking \r\n at you.Wont you \r\n splash, red-handed, \r\n into it?Won't you \r\n break a cracker \r\n and make it flesh? \r\n Turn the pool to wine! \r\n The way it stares! \r\n \r\n Well, then, stand \r\n there (ox\/ ox\/ \r\n pool) dirty and \r\n locally misshaven you \r\n ugly cuss! --and \r\n get stabbed by the \r\n rust-colored sun \r\n increasing on the \r\n hill's edge.\r\n\r\nContents<\/a>\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>Staring at My Face in a Hushed Brook<\/h2>\n
\r\n On my knees I deeply kneel<\/a> \r\n to all you who are wailing and wallowing \r\n before the fallen wall \r\n and in it \r\n \r\n Oh there is someone trapped \r\n in those clouds there purely serene \r\n \r\n As (lithely) I kneel \r\n to kiss the mute stranger \r\n he explodes<\/a> \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 What the Mountain Saw<\/h2>\n
\r\n Embryo of blossom is dissected\r\n and without shame-- removed \r\n \r\n to a further Light \r\n  one where guts \r\n and stuff is not displeased by the eye \r\n not made to squirm or plead \r\n against the logic of sight, with their only \r\n velvetvoiced argument, which is that they \r\n were always here \r\nalways cupping \r\n their premature round faces-- to heaven \r\n or storm without regard \r\n   until like tissue \r\n they let their countenance fold \r\n into dimness \r\ndown to spring.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 Do Not Know<\/h2>\n
 \r\n We do not know what<\/a> \r\n to do anymore--- \r\n the high, evening voices \r\n of the crickets \r\n silver again \r\n to grass.Grass and time. \r\n \r\n A small, humped \r\n frog is croaking \r\n above the circle of his \r\n \r\n swimming.Everything-- \r\n everything is left \r\n undone, \r\nThe small, \r\n red, perfectly predicted \r\n perfectly in place, red \r\n line of thought still ties \r\n the 12 fat apples \r\n to a bending limb. \r\n \r\n 3 dogs at a hollow distance \r\n bay \r\n to shake the leaves.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>Watching Trees After Rain<\/h2>\n
\r\n<\/pre>\n
In this sunset I am alone among many trees, the day a light stonygrey.
\nThey don’t sway, but like a thousand notes of music they seem too deliberately
\narticulate their leaves in a mass, visible green chorus. Each leaf at its base
\ndiverges to return in a point, the many pinnacles loping to their purpose;
\nthey slouch down so low that a few of them almost touch the ground. The dark,
\nfirm springs of wet pines straighten their voices like efficient women.
\nAnd in a steady glowing small, face-like leaves burst softly forward in slowly
\ngrowing fountains.The roundness of some of them sings to me like fishmouths,
\nsilently and purely their praises go upward. <\/p>\n
\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>Night<\/h2>\n
\r\n Darkness is not<\/a> \r\n a going of light but a coming of light \r\n only \r\n it is too solemn for us to see \r\n \r\n<\/pre>\n
The Stone in Water<\/h2>\n
\r\n\r\nIt is the round \r\nbeauty \r\nof all things \r\n\r\nimmaculate immobile immute- \r\n\r\nable to the last \r\nsyrupy \r\ndrop \r\n\r\nof that fine \r\nliquid \r\nwhich we drink into drunkenness \r\n\r\non those lovely \r\nshaded nights \r\nof \r\n\r\nthe black curtains \r\nhanging down \r\nlike stars' beards \r\n\r\nwhiskery to infinity \r\nThe truth\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
My Blue Period<\/h2>\n
\r\n"I sti11 live inside an icon of despair,\r\nabuse the abutment for my failing hands \r\nthat once would gesture music; I grow \r\ninto my age, see icecubes marching by \r\nlike icebergs and notice theirflat shadows \r\nspinning to diminishment \r\nin the exaggerated weaflness of my \r\nmind, my lights lefting out like twin pack dogs \r\nlost to snow.There is no settlement \r\nof objects, half-arraigned and now \r\nabandoned to decay.There is \r\nno happiness here of the clean straight line. \r\nMy abstract mind falters into particulars \r\n... it's the light that turns the lampshade round."\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 In Living Rooms<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe\r\npiano glassy \r\nthe clock \r\n\r\nFrom \r\na time of \r\ngrandmothers \r\n\r\nAnd \r\nwidows grayly \r\ndone dancing \r\n\r\nAre \r\nclicking round \r\nsonorous moments. \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Lying<\/h2>\n
\r\nLying\r\nup In a hayloft \r\nmy dreams fill the owl rafters \r\nwith thin loops of gold. \r\n\r\nA few float down.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>Sequence<\/a><\/h2>\n
\r\n<\/pre>\n
 I. Somnambulance<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe mourning does are lying in leaves\r\nFor summer bleats and funeral ash. \r\nSomewhere shipwrights are planning for ghosts. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 II. Aftereffects of Silence<\/h2>\n
\r\nSinging, I thought there was a second \r\nVoice behind me. \r\nOnly one dove was bowing. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 III.Promenade<\/h2>\n
\r\nIn a forest strung with lanterns \r\nNight was slowly staring in after me. \r\nIt stirred with a flutter of gigantic wings. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 IV.Pre-Evening Autumn<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe mourning doves in thousands septembered \r\nThemselves to my yard and never departed. \r\nThe sun rained all that day. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 V. Lesson:<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe best notes are musical \r\nAnd exact; two doves \r\nOn a dogwood at sunset. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 VI. Post Christi<\/h2>\n
\r\nTwelve silent doves are sifting in the snow \r\nAnd wishing they were white-- \r\nWith their feet crossed. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 VII.Pre<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe bald and aging Socrates \r\nWas last seen sleeping among mourning doves. \r\nTheir slipperless feet were cool, \r\n<\/pre>\n
 VIII.An Eye at the Window<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe extra room provoked much controversy \r\nUntil, in the stifled minute it takes lilies \r\nTo be imagined, the dove moved in. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 IX. Intimations of Salmon<\/h2>\n
\r\nI knelt my mind behind a thin steeple \r\nAnd embroidered the sky with memories of sea. \r\nThey are even here. \r\n<\/pre>\n
 X. Image of Transparency<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe moons settled themselves in a red cradle. \r\nThe woman settled herself along with them, they \r\nIn her arms.It was snowing doves all that evening. \r\n\r\nContents<\/a>\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>On the Neighbors Having Lost
\na Daughter My Father’s Words<\/h2>\n
\r\n 'Who told them to swallow down their sorrow?<\/a> \r\n This year as much as last the rain will dig \r\n New gullies near the roadside- even without \r\n Their help.So what's the use of holding back \r\n A g ief?They don't moan, but they still shuffle. \r\n What's a man to do with relations \r\n That won't cry?Beg it out with salt? \r\n I won't pity them.Pity's too mean a thing \r\n For living creatures, and, besides, its a sham \r\n Emotion: it only makes the hawthorn wither. \r\n And they themselves wouldn't even see.--- \r\n Damn it, I myself have lost a son. \r\n You remember that year, in late declining \r\n Summer; we took down that small net \r\n Of trash trees hemming in the garden. \r\n Just their shadow would have killed off half \r\n The crop that demanded al I the sun. \r\n He left the sticky tree-stumps alone to stare, \r\n A little like some human faces, \r\n And then clomped off into a rain of maples. \r\n Who could put out the details of his last \r\n Living day?Do they think they own disaster7 \r\n Yet how anxiously they horde it!As if \r\n Their slack jaws and ground-geared eyes could feed \r\n On such distresses.It has been a year already. \r\n I wish that they would just cut out the show.'<\/a> \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>Marina<\/h2>\n
\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>1. Almost, Marina, Almost<\/h2>\n
\r\nOnce, walking in the garden by the wood-- so close\r\nUnder leaves, the ponderous weight of unlighted leaves \r\nOn trees, I overturned the mandrake root and found \r\nIt'd grown in two; remember now, remember7 One for \r\nMe, for you? \r\n\r\n0 my daughter \r\nMy daughter \r\nI have no boat to build. \r\nZodiacs must come, they go, I yield. \r\nThere are the seas-- no, no longer. \r\nOnly time to slaughter \r\n0 my daughter \r\n\r\nHold my dry hand, lean lean, as the dandelion bloom \r\nOf skeleton inflates; all is withered, each vine strangling, \r\nDangling, collapsed within.All is late; \r\nHold my dry hand \r\n\r\nIce uncovers Icicles and cold lays on to cold. \r\nSpices of the Orient in my mind take hold. \r\nI remember now \r\nI remember how; \r\nSurgeon, scalpel, suction tube, then a pill for ease... \r\n0 my daughter 0 \r\n\r\nYou have bit the mandrake root, does April stir and \r\nStart in fits?Is twice too much for prayer? \r\nLayer on by layer, each thought uncovers brain; \r\nThere is no pill for ease of pain. \r\n\r\nThe mandrake is an ancient root \r\nWearing none butwrinkled suit. \r\nAnd now and now and now \r\n\r\nI shall hold your dry hand now \r\nFor I have not held have not held it long. \r\n\r\nZero may be warmed to naught, my daughter, \r\nZero may be warmed \r\n\r\nMy daughter \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
II. The Gardens<\/h2>\n
\r\nIn the shadowed garden, dim\r\nRemembered strains \r\nPlayed among the acorn shells, and left \r\nDampened hands on the plastered grain. \r\n\r\nJonquils died in torrents \r\nThat summer, how I regret \r\nTime's contingency, and Death's. \r\n\r\nWe had letdown the curtains \r\nThat sheltered away the sun, \r\nAnd shelved it, \r\nLong ago.The house had tinkled like the rickets \r\nWith the wind, long and orange \r\nOut of the west Our shadows \r\nGrew into the trees like years, that summer. \r\nOur blue hands turning blue, until \r\nThey were the trees and the trees \r\nWere still. \r\n \r\nAll the days were beautiful, \r\nAnd all the children sang. \r\nAnd all around the widening block \r\nThe gossips snickered in; \r\nAnd all their blathering, chattering talk \r\nCould not \r\nProve the littlest sin. \r\nA box is a box is a box. \r\nNot even the littlest sin. \r\n \r\nI might go back outside, given \r\nSatisfactory incentives towards that move.I might \r\nReverse one summer's indiscretions, dear, \r\nIf the picketfence of autumn \r\nHad not come.And only come to show \r\nHow round the circuit of our fears \r\nIs expressed in every apple.I might \r\nHave dressed the dolls with leaves again \r\nAnd set upon a stage \r\nTheir small white forms in the white sun's \r\nGlare.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>The Abandoned Farm<\/h2>\n
\r\nAll's astir.The slick, sick heat\r\nof vegetating August lights the leaves \r\nwith growth.The upright quizzical, \r\nFire-white picketfence rails \r\nat its own perfection.Even \r\n\r\nthe starved copper cock \r\ntwirls and reflects he sun. \r\nEven the big red barn is actively bleeding \r\ncheap red paint in gallons \r\nto stain the soil. \r\n\r\nAll day \r\nthe cockleburrs sway and crack \r\nwith misery, there are too many \r\nin their school; their sheer, high numbers \r\nthe barnyard green. \r\n\r\nThe fur-thick, dark-eyed groundhogs graze \r\nand waddle in the fields like cows \r\nnow; free from shotgun-blaze \r\nanxiety, they lower their square heads to sup \r\non farmers bones. \r\n\r\nOnce, \r\nthe dolled-up, rickety barn was gorged \r\non spoon-fed hay.Its golden maw \r\nglittered edible riches, \r\npure as a tat, fat duchess and all decked-out. \r\n\r\nThe heavy hay \r\nwould creak and rustle in the barn, \r\nand the land was gold.The torn mouth \r\nstands and stutters emptily, its innards \r\nwhittled hollow \r\n\r\nby poverty and rot. \r\n\r\nThe penny-colored \r\nweathervane crows and crows in the whistling wind. \r\nThe saw-tooth boundary of the picketfence \r\nis lost in a sizzling \r\nsea of weeds. \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>August<\/h2>\n
\r\nUnscreened weatherworn \r\nthe doorjamb melts \r\ninto what I remember \r\nwas our private yard: \r\n\r\nThe flowers on the trees \r\n(once red, some white, all \r\ngreen) have blossomed \r\ninto leaves sung at noon \r\ndrooped by four. \r\n\r\nThe chickadees twitch \r\namong trunks for pebbles. \r\nThe young birds eat them up \r\nand eat whatever else they find \r\nwhich pleases them. \r\n\r\nBy some hidden wind \r\nthey ruffle to wails \r\nin the usual hollows together \r\nwith a few early leaves. \r\nYellow and sun-white predominate. \r\n\r\nThese are the colors \r\nof fullness and wait.But \r\nsomehow my shrill eyes \r\nare missing you among \r\nall \r\nAugust sways on \r\nthe stem because it is warm \r\nas flowers go. \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>After July<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe one cop\r\ncracks his beat, tuesdays, \r\nthursdays... the tapped cracks blurr into the blue, \r\ndays join years, rim to rim \r\na used pile of hubcaps rise \r\nto topple the sky. \r\n\r\nHe lowers his eyes. \r\nHe frets the shiny lower buttons \r\noff of his coat, in the off hours, \r\nin a silver-tinged sort of \r\nmaternal sublimation. \r\nHe sees \r\n\r\nhis patriarchal, \r\nmoon-sick mom in every \r\noverripe, mindless bag lady creeping \r\nby like a bee, down the antique, tinselly street \r\nthe shower blossomed blacker.His mom still hones \r\nthe compact, lunar silverware \r\n\r\nevery day at three.Nothing changes. \r\n\r\nOne woman runs \r\nand ages.The black and yellow bags \r\nballoon around her like a raft.His mother's older. \r\nThe traffic-light mud-dauber dabbles in adobe. \r\nThe sweet air stares and stales. \r\nNothing blossoms. \r\n\r\nHis hands \r\ntick and scuttle like stop-motion wasps \r\nlooking for the honey-drop watch.At noon \r\nthe unprofessional, octagonal sunday school \r\nlets out like a pregnant cat.  The bleating \r\nbells tell. \r\n\r\nThe tooth-smooth \r\nlegs and necks of children \r\nnod, pollen-heavy and thin \r\nas goldenrod.He cannot remember \r\nthe ridiculous number of years anymore.The vernal \r\nseason's shorter. \r\n\r\nNearby some butterflies, \r\na handful, hover over \r\nthe midtown intersection parking lot \r\nof this pin-sized Pepperill village, watching \r\nthe sky-dark cop \r\nendlessly circle himself, blinking \r\n\r\ntheir still-wet wings like wings. \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>Message Towards Morning<\/h2>\n
\r\n\u201cHey... shush!Rattle\r\nof the half-starved bird, beak-bone \r\nclatter and snap of the throatless young, \r\ncry of the crow, the grossest crow, subtle \r\nafter-echo in the back-wash; \r\nstilted king-fisher breaks glass, again \r\nshatter of the placid \r\nsilver shingle of the pond, level, flat, \r\nbeaten down with completion as \r\nup he comes!The air complex with industry, the shrill \r\nsound of the jay, oriole, blackbird, cricket-call \r\nsinged feathers in the after-light, \r\nthe pocked, pregnant moon in stately decline.'Just \r\nquiet down and get to work.\u201d\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>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
 <\/a><\/a>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
 <\/a><\/a>The Spectrum is Discerning<\/h2>\n
\r\nRoses huff out of the afternoon train.\r\nThey cry \r\nAt the dye \r\nOf the blue blue sky:\r\n\r\n'Come, \r\nAnd we shall fuse you \r\nInto our red red selves \r\nLike \r\nShot diamonds \r\nInto water. \r\n\r\nWe are dead plain \r\nAs in an empty room the strange \r\nEchoes \r\nOf \r\nPainted tin cans clapped \r\nTogether.' \r\n\r\nWinnowingly, the terrible eddies \r\nUtter \r\nThemselves, seductive, \r\nAgainst the listening skin \r\nWhite \r\nAs a rabid rose. \r\n\r\n <\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Herr Professor<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe stars revolve on darkness. \r\nA green moon thaws the black sea. \r\nAnd the beautiful regular young women \r\n       pat and pat their hair \r\nIn anticipation of the spring. \r\n\r\nBut none of this interests him. \r\nHe drops his eyes.He has \r\n'Already read about all that.'\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>Mendel\u2019s 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<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Magnolias in New Jersey<\/h2>\n
\r\nDeep between the conifers dark as deacons,\r\nAnd near the thawp and clump and utter of new-born grackles, \r\nAnd back round the minarets of foxglove like a picket fence \r\nThey slacken their buddings to stars. \r\n\r\nBut somehow it is vain, with the bloom of universe surrounding, \r\nAnd my feet cold and sunk in growth, \r\nAnd the spiritual white and pink-white leaves in bulbs fermenting, \r\nSomehow to lie and breathe into the upwards evening is vain.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Illness is a Calumny<\/h2>\n
\r\nI want you to know\r\nEvery day, twice a day, \r\nMy heart turns blue. \r\nThe shell of my skull \r\nBlackens to fragments. \r\n\r\nThere is nothing not left. \r\nThe tulip tree begins to talk, \r\nAnd I begin \r\nTo listen. \r\nThere is nothing anymore to keep \r\nThe pearly ears of crickets from hearing \r\nWhat I think of you: \r\n\r\nThe frozen shapes of tadpoles quicken \r\nIn the edges of the ice. \r\nSoon enough, ' \r\nTheir long black minds will turn \r\nGreen with growth. \r\nAnd cats will quicken to eat them. \r\n\r\nMy body lies to me, sometimes \r\nThree times a day.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Seeing It Is Evening I Watch the Mill Men
\nBeing Let Out from Work<\/h2>\n
\r\nHe breaks the wind with his shoulder.\r\nHe ducks into apples for home. \r\nOr hunger, \r\nHe threads a blackeyed bluejay \r\nThrough his skin. \r\nHe is out of luck.His heels have thinned. \r\nHis long, lonely face \r\nSags, the color of a chipmunk's rib. \r\nHis once dark hair is trying to lighten \r\nInto heaven. \r\n\r\nThe effort fails. \r\nHis strong, shy chest will blink \r\nInto the hard, open slit of the waters, \r\nOr the sky, \r\n\r\nHe tries and tries \r\nTo begin to breathe, \r\nBut, \r\nThe lake is as heavy as buffalos. \r\n\r\nThere is nothing left here. \r\nHe starts along the orange fields and \r\nmatted grasses \r\nFor apples.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Cranes in the Back-Yard<\/h2>\n
\r\nSuddenly-- in the middle of what was\r\nthe only green and subtle meadow that I knew, \r\na dozen cranes or so with jagged wings \r\nsettled their legs in beads of old snow. \r\n\r\nA dozen heads or so with accentuated necks, \r\nare staring me again, down twenty-four years like eyes, \r\nand I begin to see;-- they are stained so white \r\nthat I think their wingtips cannot be as black as they are. \r\n\r\nThen, and slowly, their wide arms begin to beat \r\nuntil legs like straws let their linkages down \r\nabove the lush wave that presses my throat \r\nso I cannot think except to gaze at their feet \r\n\r\nnot touching the earth the least.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>Piccolo: Notes of a Suicide<\/h2>\n
\r\n<\/pre>\n
I. Entant with Needlepoints<\/h2>\n
\r\nTwice I stitched and watched her \r\nSewing.The images of the horse and man \r\nand curling trees were imperfect.\r\n<\/pre>\n
II.Prelude in December<\/h2>\n
\r\nWhen the snowball diminished beyond \r\nThe circle of my eye \r\nI was diminished. \r\n<\/pre>\n
III.Adagio<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe sun was a long slow line running through \r\nRows of willows shaking their leaves in rows. \r\nA single green light transfixed the time. \r\n<\/pre>\n
IV.Minuet Under Glass<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe myriad black-headed chickadees flocked \r\nThrough whiles and whiles of a white sky. \r\nStill this was not enough. \r\n<\/pre>\n
V. Tablecloth quartet and Mints<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe dining room was a room of space \r\nHolding four minds like circles in squares. \r\nThe meal was vivid with a sauce. \r\n<\/pre>\n
VI. The Through Nine Panes Bridge<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe upright piano commonly lent notes \r\nTo the couch.At once we found \r\nThat the azaleas were blooming.Were red. \r\n<\/pre>\n
VII.Fugue In Green<\/h2>\n
\r\nPacasandra on the lawn exchange colors \r\nOf themselves between themselves, shrewdly. \r\nTheir bodies In multiples are expanding. \r\n<\/pre>\n
VIII.Wine at the Cotillion<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe woman is softly, at night in the \r\nDark in the stars, waving her veins at me. \r\nThe quilt is a quilt that is warm. \r\n<\/pre>\n
IX. Jazz Dance of August<\/h2>\n
\r\nNow the snowballs are falling \r\nAnd like moons are falling.And I am increasing \r\nBeyond my own eye like winter. \r\n<\/pre>\n
X. Explanation<\/h2>\n
\r\nI once have seen the quiet energies \r\nOf a world building with the littlest hands \r\nOne thread on a web in the comer. \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 Anna, Eighty-Six<\/h2>\n
\r\n \u201cOh, is he a persian?  They have a tendency<\/a> \r\n towards deafness.He's alright yet? That's good. \r\n He's beautiful.I suppose you've had him fixed; \r\n that makes them grow.It's like a plant \r\n that's all circusy and wide \r\n in the extent and circumstance of its foliage. \r\n Ever seen an elephant-ear?Have no roots \r\n at all.Half my first husband's breath would find \r\n such a one crunched over, in green and disarray. \r\n Al 1 headstrong and hurrying to out-race their limitations. \r\n I know them.Oh, you have water here!Is it \r\n a reservoir? And dammed up to the south?Yes, \r\n we caught sight of that on coming here.What \r\n an out-bound view!All slow anger turned to slow froth....\u201d<\/a> \r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a>><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Tete da Femme<\/h2>\n
\r\nThis lady is dead, I think,\r\nher marble eye set straight \r\ninto the eye of the viewer \r\nlike a target.Her high nose will bridge \r\nthe concept of her forehead \r\n     like an arrow! \r\nHer ear is round, and hangs \r\nas perfect as a cracker. \r\nHer mulberry lips \r\nare barely there and are not touching \r\nthe tightly limed forward cut \r\nof her face.Here the brightness, \r\nwhich is too much for the checkerboard scores \r\nof her scored face to contain, \r\nmeets with the absolute black \r\nof India ink that corners the edge of the page. \r\nDefinition.Outline of darkness.The light \r\nenclosing like oxygen \r\nthe rigidly formal cardboard grains \r\nof the symbolized female features \r\nof her face, in profile, in \r\ndetail, in the profoundly crooked rivers \r\nof her darkly commaed hair. \r\nJust who is she?Tapped by some large hand \r\ninto the tiny alleyways of the gopherwood... \r\nSquinting for a close-up, one guesses that \r\nperhaps she was a prophetess.And one sees \r\nthat, at the center of the heart-shaped \r\nbulge in her head, there is \r\na blankness, a clarity, a \r\nmoment of resolution--- \r\nI Ike on the flat back of the served cure \r\nof a Moses-pill.Or in \r\nthe carved hollowness of a period \r\nat the end of a sentence put \r\non a rock, There is also, \r\nin this portraiture you will notice, \r\na deep scar running \r\nbelow her eye \r\n       and above it.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Wild Azalea Blooming<\/h2>\n
\r\n Only the test monotone pattern<\/a> \r\n Can touch your still cry. \r\n Rival little red necks, little white lips. \r\n \r\n You are unstoppable!Yet constrained in a place \r\n From a pure prism hefted and chopped \r\n To a block of a wheel. \r\n \r\n A wheel wounding itself outwards. \r\n Blooming to death. \r\n Little red sticks stabbing the eye, proceeding \r\n \r\n Away from the eye as well.At once. \r\n Your bodies, \r\n Disposable, \r\n \r\n Are clear in memory \r\n To December. \r\n Brightly you travel \r\n \r\n Under a small grey wood. \r\n Each thin skinny \r\n Clarion is color of dolor too.\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 The Bullfight<\/h2>\n
\r\n The furry neck of the bull is<\/a> \r\n black, the sky a grey in this \r\n black and white of a color lithograph, \r\n Avant la Pique, the point of which \r\n in a blunted splinter does not \r\n advance or pretend to be \r\n the concentrated nozzle \r\n of any future or sequence of events, \r\n unpredictable and true as above \r\n the nail-shaped head of the matador \r\n it tilts in a sequestered white- \r\n ness like the bands of his \r\n arms the v in his chest and \r\n the downturned paintbrush ends of his feet. \r\n There is besides this a knuckle \r\n in the center of the leg of a horse \r\n the picador has with careful aim \r\n chosen for the day's events \r\n and which is tall and solemn and sure \r\n of its place in the scheme \r\n overall.There is as well a cape \r\n poised black above the well-dark bull \r\n like avoid somewhat sheltering \r\n the sight of the first blow (which is tied \r\n by custom and thought, to the \r\n last) from his, In this picture grey, \r\n eye.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Melancholia<\/h2>\n
\r\n Grey, dead-grey & black\r\n are the requisite composites of this composition; \r\n sad Durer had looked too long \r\n in mirrors, seen too many vicious invocations \r\n of the holy hand upon the plainest blades \r\n of grainy growing grass.Poor Durer \r\n he has seen too many hollow olive \r\n eyes; has stared too much at the imported monotone \r\n African masks filled brimming and still ringing \r\n with authentic bellowing sighs \r\n and horror-filled innocent tears \r\n from behind the widening whites of the eyes. \r\n Pitying Durer in the savage dark \r\n of accustomed thought saw the red in black.\r\n \r\n<\/a> \r\n<\/pre>\n
Hieroglyphic<\/h2>\n
\r\nDelicately\r\nshe bends \r\nto readjust the rose \r\n\r\nits stem \r\ntoo thick the petals \r\nabout to fly \r\n\r\noff and shout \r\nbut, having initially \r\nadvanced, \r\n\r\nshe \r\nfails at everything \r\nthe frail limbs disposed \r\n\r\nas before exactly \r\neverything \r\nunchanged \r\n\r\nshe \r\nsmiles they are \r\ntoo beautiful\r\n\r\n<\/a> \r\n<\/pre>\n
sonnet<\/h2>\n
\r\nWhen (singing to the silent wide of your\r\neyes) I find that small almost innocuous birds \r\nhave dealt with the thunderous evening increments \r\nby shedding their shells (into your eyes) orange \r\nspeckled crying (for to breathe is to die) will you \r\nmy most sweetly taut unstrummable note \r\n(placid in pride of your calm) will you (I \r\nwant to know) take my new unfolding hands \r\nspread for a dismal uncommon febuary sun, \r\nsky dancing in the light of forever, breezed \r\nwith original ironicless laughter, cackling dawn, \r\nand sew them up with a seamless surgary \r\nmeticulous, as a rose locked away in its leaves \r\neternally fruitless unbudded disaster or what?\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 When Into the Mouth the Death Cry Comes<\/h2>\n
\r\nWhen into the mouth the death cry comes \r\nUnamazed and odorless, \r\nCrammed by the ticking fingers of perpetual crime \r\nDown the rattling throat to sound \r\nAn agony of conscience in the unshelled ear \r\nOf too much unlived living \r\n\r\nThen will the eyes start up blind \r\nAnd hair sprout hands for the head \r\nThen the unmuffled will of the stilling heart \r\nwill damn activity, haul up dock to decision, \r\nBless the unpaid mind with rest, tell toes to grow into feet, \r\nKnuckles reverse to blunt, loved palms, \r\nShoulderblades dwindle to wings, \r\nRed ribs uncage to drop dead lust, \r\nAnd lagging heart kick all away \r\nTo fall to a faraway sky, \r\nAnd all of these be mine.\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 These Atlantic Letters<\/h2>\n
\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a>1. From Brussels<\/a><\/h2>\n
\r\nThe clematis in my window winds the wounded birch, and hangs\r\nheavy with rain, this day of days- \r\nYour glad letter come back to me in the flat black crystal \r\nof your luxurious ten-dollar ink (bought \r\nin Brussels, shipped by clinking caseloads \r\nhome somehow through evenings, the fat \r\nAtlantic waters hissing twice as dark.Will \r\nthese waters burn?The glowing ocean oil thickens \r\nlike a welt.Who can haul your miles, \r\nvainglorious spout and womb \r\nof history?Who, who, who?) \r\nThese electric letters fly to reach me like a shock; \r\nthey try but cannot read my white eyes boiled up \r\nlike eggs, And you, in sympathy, writing: \r\n\u2018The silence today again has made me see.\u2019\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>2. In Milan<\/h2>\n
\r\n\u201cStatues rise like specters out of the blank sand\r\nand bang the nose with their black batteries \r\nof dark pollution-dirt and rot, \r\nOh, it's not like living was \r\nwhen we were young!Its not the same \r\nat all.My two beach feet flatten-out to overfill \r\nour honeymoon shoes, I look down \r\nthis alleyway, past the piazza place I stay, \r\nand reckon up the centuries.What dewy crime \r\nor ruby mind cracks this asphalt \r\nlike a face? 0 Milan, Milan, \r\nyour buildings fumble into plots \r\nlike popes shot down by time\u2014you are dying; \r\nbut you still breathe.... All the rest is gravy.\u201d\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>3. From N.J.<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe ragging rantings reach me, from your hand\r\nlike a fleshy kiss, lovers in the park \r\nso much disillusioned they clam their eyelids shut \r\nand think of Wagner's autumnal, crashing \r\nocean music sandblasting out their inner ears. \r\nIts nerves.The paper that you use, dear, is tan \r\nand perfect as a Florida dawn; it shows \r\nto disadvantage the snow-white spiders of \r\nmy hands --- webbing, webbing through your \r\nthin script; let me link it closer \r\nto the leaf-work of my veins, bleating \r\nonly to themselves it seems, of late appallingly \r\nas sheep, I flat-down the third creased valley \r\nof the New Mexico plains, and read:\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
4. The Postcard<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe congenital hoarfrost moonlight makes\r\nthis 3x5 of paradise a jail. \r\nIts edges catch, and ruddy people shine \r\nalong the sunny beach, the sunny Florentine, \r\nfragrent with smiles.... \r\nDear heart, dear life, you glare and goggle \r\nbefore my eyes with the faint flash and upward fade \r\nof fireflies: I miss you.And you \r\ndance on toes with skull-crossed death \r\nagainst eternity.... You bow & plead \r\nthat your poor dress is stained, and then stand off to stare \r\nand lounge through crowds, the dying match.The vacationists \r\nare primed and primped for ecstasy, they \r\ndrop hot hands to a warm salt sea.\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>5. In Florence<\/h2>\n
\r\nShe speaks: \u2018One dark night, unjust soul's repose\r\nsunk in a midnight past my midday's cure, \r\nI rattled blind down corridors, stuffed \r\nmy loud bright watch beneath a pillow \r\nto keep the silence out (the between ticks tick). \r\nI danced with mirrors, slept in blinks, \r\nthreaded whiskey like a life-line to my glass. \r\nI spun our wedding ring to gold globe \r\nand waited the balance out; how it rang against the stone! \r\nI cannot think; the one world whirls.... \r\nThe world's pink ears are crammed with speech; \r\nI, I, I, I, becomes a hollow sound, you \r\ninfect my eye, enlarge to a troll.... \r\nMy bruised head floats in a goldfish bowl.\u2019\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>6. Near the Hudson<\/h2>\n
\r\nThe palisades are golden in this light;\r\na washed bowl shines, bending heaven \r\nto its single-serving size.All the green leaves \r\nhave rainbowed out to sea.It is September. \r\nThe worst cold stays forecasted by the grass \r\nlooking over, bending back \r\nfrom its view of the bottom of the cliff; \r\none's attention's held, these days, \r\nby some old whittler's shavings as they pass \r\nand darken in the dew.Everywhere the clouds \r\nmeditate shrunk foreheads into snow; well, \r\nit is almost snow.... Now it is an eye, this bowl, \r\nstaring like a clock, knowing nothing not its own. \r\nLittle comfort stays here, little goes.\r\n\r\nContents<\/a>\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a>Sun Song<\/a><\/h2>\n
\r\n Where are you going?<\/a> \r\n Where are you going? \r\n Velveteen hills are rusting to silver. \r\n \r\n They grow old.Sweet dews gather and drop \r\n Numberless, \r\n Then brighten to burn, little caustic stars. \r\n \r\n The rickshaw mantis' kneel and rust. \r\n Sadly, they are singing \r\n Without voices. \r\n \r\n Their stiff attached wings, the colors of oil, \r\n Vibrate, \r\n Machete late lawns leap and shudder, \r\n \r\n Taut as an eardrum against you, \r\n You answer. \r\n You answer. \r\n \r\n Green knees bend and bury themselves, \r\n Clean in dirt, \r\n New at an acid altar.<\/a> \r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>Freezing Autumn Willowtree<\/h2>\n
\r\n Green, the pure prismatic color\r\n left its little stalling footprints \r\n in the edges of the leaves.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>The Change<\/h2>\n
\r\n Behind a square stucco\r\n church (where daily there is \r\n praying) a buttercup \r\n \r\n lifts crookedly \r\n \r\n its crown announcing \r\n by its nature \r\n \r\n the fall.Little \r\n singing sacraments droop \r\n and drop down leaf \r\n \r\n by leaf \r\n drawn to the ground \r\n by a force \r\n \r\n one opposite that \r\n which pulled the petals upward \r\n yellow to heaven\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>El Gato<\/h2>\n
 \r\n Mouth open<\/a> \r\n red \r\n as a hawk's \r\n \r\n the pout of sleep \r\n limed \r\n around the small \r\n \r\n wide eyes all \r\n almostall \r\n gone as she lifts \r\n \r\n the smooth head \r\n seen \r\n in no carving \r\n \r\n at last \r\n \r\nII.<\/strong> \r\n at my shirtbutton blue \r\n as a sky \r\n it nods \r\n \r\n my \r\n red carnation \r\n nods \r\n \r\n almost in sleep \r\n equal to her \r\n vastly silent roar\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>Polemic<\/h2>\n
\r\n Cross over, cross over\r\n Without \r\n Utility or art. \r\n \r\n Nothing is of any use anymore. \r\n \r\n I tell you. \r\n \r\n I saw three grasshoppers \r\n Sifting on a leaf \r\n Until, until \r\n Until \r\n They had eaten it up, \r\n \r\n I dreamed I was the king of the world \r\n And rode the seas for horses. \r\n I dreamed I was the king of the world \r\n And rebuilt all the churches. \r\n \r\n I saw three grasshoppers \r\n Living in a dream. \r\n They sat on a leaf, \r\n They ate it up.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
 <\/a><\/a>Visiting<\/h2>\n
\r\n The Saturday cold rattles like a candy wrapper.\r\n The thin air \r\n Weights my lungs with honey.A blue stew. \r\n \r\n The old ford mourns skyward, \r\n Heaving its wheels in circles. \r\n We halt so slowly \r\n \r\n It is almost flying.We fall out \r\n Sideways; our petals drop and blanche. \r\n I am so heavy \r\n \r\n My feet \r\n Almost touch the floor.The familiar \r\n Fears near. \r\n \r\n We are almost there. \r\n The dirty mausoleum squats on the hill \r\n Like a birthday.It's so big \r\n \r\n It's obscene.Green \r\n Laurels hunch in the corners like shadowy dwarves \r\n Awaiting the signal to push.... \r\n \r\n The starched arch, snow-simple, bent \r\n Floats above our silly heads. \r\n Counting: Two-hundred ten, eleven, twelve \r\n \r\n And my father's father arrives. \r\n We glide in ghost-clothes about the grave. \r\n This is a family day.The inherited rings \r\n \r\n Click and skim \r\n As loves the shapes of hands pass over \r\n The deep, square-edged name. \r\n \r\n They rub and rub, \r\n An eternity.Quiet. \r\n They are finally clean. \r\n \r\n When everyone else has gone blindly, \r\n Over the blunt edge of the curved world, \r\n Striding like heroes \r\n \r\n Why am I left, weightless and colorless, \r\n To stop \r\n The flat slat light the tossed urn burns?\r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Behind 12 Bowie<\/h2>\n
\r\nCanadians lap and settle here through the equinox\r\nPond rough or pond white, they ruffle \r\nSkinny shanks in lank air.Indian memories \r\nFollow the goldfinch.Old mole brown and \r\nGroundhog grey the arrowheads.Webs find \r\nThe old leaves soft below the Rowan red \r\nAnd Oak not.Coincidence labors in the clay, \r\nTurning red green and green red, at home \r\nAlong the plough's length of idle irony.Poor \r\nWhite boring of the dove, And the dogwood \r\nIts white echo.The placid confusion of evening \r\nIs on, white on the spread webs, the \r\nSoft furled soil cooling.Again.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
<\/a><\/a>Not Until the September is Past<\/h2>\n
\r\nNot until the September is past<\/a> \r\nAnd the grave dead all lie, unshakled, unburied, \r\nAlone in the frost's mouth \r\n(All dying done, all berthing begun) \r\nAnd every crooked, ear-marked child is led, \r\nBy the dimming blood of a failing hand, \r\nTo play away from the clock's haunts \r\n \r\nAnd stars are incited to shrink again \r\nThe cragging moon's corruptible sphere \r\nTo less than a pinnacle\u2019s pinched inch of sky \r\n(Not until the September is past) \r\nAnd every weed grows down to die \r\nUp where the miracle dead were tossed \r\nIn a frozen field gone over to snow \r\n \r\nAnd the cold wind in a cold throat like glue, \r\nDying of wanting; and the blossomless trees \r\nLift their skirts to let me fondle \r\nThe bark-notched knees of autumn's parts, \r\nSold old home of my father's wants, \r\nWill I catch cure in the cuckold wind \r\nFor inextricable laughter and hate.<\/a> \r\n\r\n<\/a><\/a>\r\n<\/pre>\n
 A Mosquito’s Wing Along the Rail<\/h2>\n
\r\nIt silvered where it had fallen\r\nwhere the wind played it back and forth \r\nand the top of the lake considered it bluely, \r\nand the man rustled his feet on the porch \r\n \r\nAs if they were leaves.Every moment separately \r\nconsidered the veiny object and drew \r\nthe object in comparison with itself; \r\nthe rail paint peeled and flapped \r\n \r\nIn those places where it could flap, \r\nthe wind and the lake crusted themselves \r\nwith silver, the wing replied from where \r\nneglect had lain it And the man rustled his feet \r\n \r\nin repetition.\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/pre>\n
End<\/strong><\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
First Works Copyright \u00a91994 by Gregg G. Brown Published by BLAST PRESS Diminution Smaller than a shut nut in its Candy can skin, The silken icecube melts, The compact cricket swells to distant hymns, And the tough grass suffers into seed. (It is a bantam birth.) Many of the big things in this world Can […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1001002,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1767],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6771","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-youth-youth-youth","category-1767-id","post-seq-1","post-parity-odd","meta-position-corners","fix"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6771","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=6771"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6771\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7346,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6771\/revisions\/7346"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6771"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6771"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gregglory.com\/blastpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6771"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}