http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina
An early attempt at a sestina, just to give me some focus for writing. I left off the tercet, because rules are made to be broken. This poem is about Reston Town Center, and was written about five years after it was first built.
The Level of Town
The uniform trees along Market Street
Border to the edge of an ancient wood
Where walnuts and acorns once kept sleeting
Skies posted from the quick death of fall,
Where red-backed squirrels were once pregnant shoppers
For December’s hunger and January’s vacant fill.
Under rain one thinks more of fish markets filled
With ice stands and awnings over wetted streets-
Not these specialty shops for specialty shoppers.
One sees wharf and shipping, grained wood
Chopping blocks and men marking packages with the fall
Of scales- not these smiles, this social sleet.
This February, over hotel and office, real sleet
Gripped the towers like a white taffy filling
Until rust-edged horns began to fall
And they closed frightened Market Street.
They tried to pass the smashed pots and cracked wood,
While only stone broken art sold in gallery shops.
Now, heat and foul wet pushes summer shops
To sell iced coffee in tumblers fogged to sleet,
Pregnant squirrels and frogs cut from drift-wood.
Bored marketers empty shelf and rack to fill
Windows, or send coupon girls into the burning street.
Girls to push limp tickets for sales this fall.
For weeks, quick headed jack-hammers lift and fall
Along the weight of cars and waiting shops.
Tar and brick has worn sleepy thin on this street
From years of eastern traffic and winter sleet.
Mask faced crews squat and graveled holes fill
With their cement and sinew, burnt-rock and heart-wood.
And always. Always, on the edge, the deciduous wood
Bows waiting, fire orange in fall,
In spring, city block and forest fill
With tokens, some food for their pregnant shoppers.
City and forest humble each year with drooping sleet-
The wood a wood, the street a battered two-way street.
------------------
Of course, the wood is gone now- it is condos and high rise towers. It will be woods again one day.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Saturday, July 05, 2008
For the fourth, for Steve
Ok, beer, illegal fireworks and Nelson just don't work quite like one might expect.
After a day of cleaning house and packing for the beach, we went off to Matt and Pam's for a Fourth celebration. It was a wonderfully green event in their back garden- tents and bunting and too many deserts for the number of people. We've had rain most days the last week, and the grass looked and smelled like ripe cucumbers. Their pumpkins, squash and peppers are coming in fast, like all of ours are around town.
We had a lovely cook out only interrupted by one downpour, which just led to all the men moving vast canopies over the grills and watching the rain and smoke collect dangerously under it. And, of course, a rain storm and the general wetness of the week, gave me free license to go to my care for firecrackers, shooting fountains and a pack of 40 rockets that were never my intention to buy. While passing through South Carolina, as required by man-law, I had to purchase a friend $40 worth of illegal fireworks and did so for myself, of course. With the very judicious purchase of only exploding fountains and firecrackers, the ancient man behind the counter of the freeway store informed me that I had bought enough to get a very large package of highly explosive projectiles- imagine bottle something about 5 times the size of a bottle rocket and about 10 times as erratic in it's flight path. Oh, and they don't just pop at the end. Some explode. Some shower sparks. Some shoot off parachutes. A few, I think, will take down small aircraft.
Thank goodness I had been so careful in my personal choices. Thank goodness I was dumb enough to take these to Matt's house for the fourth, where we could set them off in a crowded back yard with about 40 people milling about.
Now, a few things about Nelson (ne Robbie, aka splodie pants, Rob, Nels, hey you): 1) he very much enjoys fireworks; 2) he loves to say (no, shout) the word 'illegal'; 3) he absolutely loves to shout 'illegal fireworks everybody!!' as he watches his dad shoot rockets onto Matt's neighbors' roofs while the neighbors are there drinking beer and saying things like 'I think that's headed toward my roof'.
But please, I had not meant to buy these rockets. Honestly. They were my 'bonus' for buying my friend fireworks (thanks Steve, and I did give you some, just not the ground to air ones). But beer prevails. And there is no peer pressure for a 40 year old man quite like the peer pressure of 7 year old boys shouting "awesome!! Do it AGAIN!!" So, really, when it comes to it, I had little choice.
Into the wine glass goes this fat pen sized (like an executive pen- a real fat one) rocket. I snap a match. Fizzzz... run.. whishhhh. "Cool! AWESOME!" SMACKPOPBANG. "whoah, that one went off low." Another in... fizz ... oh, run! whishh pop! oh, weird, that went off low. "Dad! I felt something hit me!" "Quite now, want another? Are we done?" "No, Dad, that was awesome! COOL!"
Fizzzzz... oh, run! BAM! "oh, that went only ten feet. Oh well." FIZZZZ run! wissssssssssssh. "Wow! That's like 200 feet!" "Where'd it go dad?" "Beats me..."
Greigor: " I think that went toward my pool"
Dad: "well, that's better than the roof"
WHISSSSSSSH BAM!
"Oh! was that supposed to do that?"
BAM!
I only made it through half the pack, but you get the idea. We wrapped up about the time I had one go up 20 feet, pop and come right back to the crowd. Luckily the one older fella there got out in time. While Nelson yelled again about how illegal this was I went over and apologized to our local Circuit court judge and explained as to how I was probably done for the evening. He agreed it was about time to go watch the town fireworks from a safe distance.
After a day of cleaning house and packing for the beach, we went off to Matt and Pam's for a Fourth celebration. It was a wonderfully green event in their back garden- tents and bunting and too many deserts for the number of people. We've had rain most days the last week, and the grass looked and smelled like ripe cucumbers. Their pumpkins, squash and peppers are coming in fast, like all of ours are around town.
We had a lovely cook out only interrupted by one downpour, which just led to all the men moving vast canopies over the grills and watching the rain and smoke collect dangerously under it. And, of course, a rain storm and the general wetness of the week, gave me free license to go to my care for firecrackers, shooting fountains and a pack of 40 rockets that were never my intention to buy. While passing through South Carolina, as required by man-law, I had to purchase a friend $40 worth of illegal fireworks and did so for myself, of course. With the very judicious purchase of only exploding fountains and firecrackers, the ancient man behind the counter of the freeway store informed me that I had bought enough to get a very large package of highly explosive projectiles- imagine bottle something about 5 times the size of a bottle rocket and about 10 times as erratic in it's flight path. Oh, and they don't just pop at the end. Some explode. Some shower sparks. Some shoot off parachutes. A few, I think, will take down small aircraft.
Thank goodness I had been so careful in my personal choices. Thank goodness I was dumb enough to take these to Matt's house for the fourth, where we could set them off in a crowded back yard with about 40 people milling about.
Now, a few things about Nelson (ne Robbie, aka splodie pants, Rob, Nels, hey you): 1) he very much enjoys fireworks; 2) he loves to say (no, shout) the word 'illegal'; 3) he absolutely loves to shout 'illegal fireworks everybody!!' as he watches his dad shoot rockets onto Matt's neighbors' roofs while the neighbors are there drinking beer and saying things like 'I think that's headed toward my roof'.
But please, I had not meant to buy these rockets. Honestly. They were my 'bonus' for buying my friend fireworks (thanks Steve, and I did give you some, just not the ground to air ones). But beer prevails. And there is no peer pressure for a 40 year old man quite like the peer pressure of 7 year old boys shouting "awesome!! Do it AGAIN!!" So, really, when it comes to it, I had little choice.
Into the wine glass goes this fat pen sized (like an executive pen- a real fat one) rocket. I snap a match. Fizzzz... run.. whishhhh. "Cool! AWESOME!" SMACKPOPBANG. "whoah, that one went off low." Another in... fizz ... oh, run! whishh pop! oh, weird, that went off low. "Dad! I felt something hit me!" "Quite now, want another? Are we done?" "No, Dad, that was awesome! COOL!"
Fizzzzz... oh, run! BAM! "oh, that went only ten feet. Oh well." FIZZZZ run! wissssssssssssh. "Wow! That's like 200 feet!" "Where'd it go dad?" "Beats me..."
Greigor: " I think that went toward my pool"
Dad: "well, that's better than the roof"
WHISSSSSSSH BAM!
"Oh! was that supposed to do that?"
BAM!
I only made it through half the pack, but you get the idea. We wrapped up about the time I had one go up 20 feet, pop and come right back to the crowd. Luckily the one older fella there got out in time. While Nelson yelled again about how illegal this was I went over and apologized to our local Circuit court judge and explained as to how I was probably done for the evening. He agreed it was about time to go watch the town fireworks from a safe distance.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
for Helen
Goodbye tough old lady
Sunrise
- for Helen, before her death
I hear you are dying.
It’s near sunrise.
I’ll drive to work, like any day.
It’s snowing
But the sun still shows through a break
In the clouds
It’s a wild snow
Racing like small white pigeons
Across the airport’s tarmac
I wish you could see it
I wish we could take you out
To sit in a lawn chair
And watch the snow over the airport
Like we watch fireworks each year
I only have the sound of my tires now
Steady over the white road
Splitting the snow coming to me
And the sun so bright for so much snow
Now the clouds fold over the sun
Then release it in time to my tire music
The snow across the light tarmac
To the east, with the sun
Spinning the planes and hangar dizzy
Suddenly up to the light poles
Back to the road
And then a bend
And the sun is behind a hill
The snow suspends, stops
Before the green of pines
Before I turn to my office
Park and go into work
But can’t work
Before the bright light of sun
And snow
And you
Sunrise
- for Helen, before her death
I hear you are dying.
It’s near sunrise.
I’ll drive to work, like any day.
It’s snowing
But the sun still shows through a break
In the clouds
It’s a wild snow
Racing like small white pigeons
Across the airport’s tarmac
I wish you could see it
I wish we could take you out
To sit in a lawn chair
And watch the snow over the airport
Like we watch fireworks each year
I only have the sound of my tires now
Steady over the white road
Splitting the snow coming to me
And the sun so bright for so much snow
Now the clouds fold over the sun
Then release it in time to my tire music
The snow across the light tarmac
To the east, with the sun
Spinning the planes and hangar dizzy
Suddenly up to the light poles
Back to the road
And then a bend
And the sun is behind a hill
The snow suspends, stops
Before the green of pines
Before I turn to my office
Park and go into work
But can’t work
Before the bright light of sun
And snow
And you
Monday, March 05, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Idiot
Start a blog, then post nothing. Nice. What, you got a job? Poetry on a regular basis coming up.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Ritual Sight iii
The third poem was published by itself in 1992 in Poetry. It is my proudest and most successful, but was always meant to be part of the whole five part cycle. It is the most direct, and it's directness is it's power. More after the poem.
iii.
You like cloudless, cold afternoons
At four, trimmed nails, how this hour
Seems your visual end of day, but still
Not dusk. You cut your nails
Thursdays. You like birds that flap their
Wings to fly, the feel of nails on wood, the lake
Under a scratched sky. You like all
Your Thursdays- back and back, or towns
Who stand marker to a past, a notion, a scene.
The Thursdays stretch in green water- waves
Like bricks to the turn of shore. You like
The idea of town, of countless starlings
Circling a town's one apartment tower. You
Like your nails cut. You like how history
Breaks, re-emerges as water breaks
With a turtle's green carapace. You like four p.m.
On any day, nails on your face, broken roads that split
Like the past, clean or carnival. You like copper
Wire. You like the feel of cement, the taste
Of cold on days the afternoon will carry
Until morning. You like wire
Between you fingers. You like cavalry
Battles in books, the closing of past on present, always,
As drakes dive for nickel colored mud. You like
The clipped flight of starling wings, bending
Wire to animal shapes, the sleeping tower
Wild with dusk-light calls. Men ride
From the past, moving over stone- your quick
Breath, how you like your nails in palms, as the last
Hoof sounds behind your arching back.
You like afternoons the greenest water
And waves, the tower's reflection, your hands'
Shell bowls, seem shelters in mostly unbroken cliffs.
The rhythm of this poem was the most important to me, as I wrote and revised. I tend to work a bit with language and enjoy odd meter, as a composer might switch to an odd key to bring discordance but work in an identifiable framework. But for this poem, I wanted very orderly free form. I wanted the story to lay on the page in fairly orderly verses and stanzas. When I read the poem out loud, I build to the last four stanzas, quickening my pace until the last, when I slow like a runner past the tape.
The you in this section is my father, but only as I imagined him to be with some of me thrown in. He was a neat freak- always preferring orderliness. I find I'm becoming more and more like him. He was also an intense history buff.
iii.
You like cloudless, cold afternoons
At four, trimmed nails, how this hour
Seems your visual end of day, but still
Not dusk. You cut your nails
Thursdays. You like birds that flap their
Wings to fly, the feel of nails on wood, the lake
Under a scratched sky. You like all
Your Thursdays- back and back, or towns
Who stand marker to a past, a notion, a scene.
The Thursdays stretch in green water- waves
Like bricks to the turn of shore. You like
The idea of town, of countless starlings
Circling a town's one apartment tower. You
Like your nails cut. You like how history
Breaks, re-emerges as water breaks
With a turtle's green carapace. You like four p.m.
On any day, nails on your face, broken roads that split
Like the past, clean or carnival. You like copper
Wire. You like the feel of cement, the taste
Of cold on days the afternoon will carry
Until morning. You like wire
Between you fingers. You like cavalry
Battles in books, the closing of past on present, always,
As drakes dive for nickel colored mud. You like
The clipped flight of starling wings, bending
Wire to animal shapes, the sleeping tower
Wild with dusk-light calls. Men ride
From the past, moving over stone- your quick
Breath, how you like your nails in palms, as the last
Hoof sounds behind your arching back.
You like afternoons the greenest water
And waves, the tower's reflection, your hands'
Shell bowls, seem shelters in mostly unbroken cliffs.
The rhythm of this poem was the most important to me, as I wrote and revised. I tend to work a bit with language and enjoy odd meter, as a composer might switch to an odd key to bring discordance but work in an identifiable framework. But for this poem, I wanted very orderly free form. I wanted the story to lay on the page in fairly orderly verses and stanzas. When I read the poem out loud, I build to the last four stanzas, quickening my pace until the last, when I slow like a runner past the tape.
The you in this section is my father, but only as I imagined him to be with some of me thrown in. He was a neat freak- always preferring orderliness. I find I'm becoming more and more like him. He was also an intense history buff.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Ritual Sight II.
The first poem was about scene and introducing the character "you" slightly. The odd metaphore that the scene is historical is mixed with a character who is looking/wishing for something.
In this scene, the meter and orderliness of the poem starts to change and break down. That's part of the foreboding the main character- you - has for the coming of winter.
ii.
The ritual of years has fallen,
Week by week, again into autumn.
A new stand of diseased trees
Back from the water’s edge
Burn into black. Shop owners stand
In their windows, hands raised
To an officer.
Men,
Here from the city, crowd outdoor cafes.
The evening lights in oily
Water mute the spiraling
Outward of your thoughts
It will
Repeat, all events repeat, reproduce,
Never moving on.
Starlings
Round the apartment tower
With chitters to set your teeth.
Dead branches applaud.
Turtles swim home between chewed
Stalks
Of cattails. You watch a shopping-cart filled
With water work deeper in mud. On your knees
On the concrete ledge over water, you could reach out
A hand.
The lake
Fountain stirs, quiets
And settles for the season. You watch ducks
Gather mouthfuls of food two months
Before the first possibility of snow.
There is no hint, in this poem, of the historical other than to directly mention that history rounds and repeats itself.
In this scene, the meter and orderliness of the poem starts to change and break down. That's part of the foreboding the main character- you - has for the coming of winter.
ii.
The ritual of years has fallen,
Week by week, again into autumn.
A new stand of diseased trees
Back from the water’s edge
Burn into black. Shop owners stand
In their windows, hands raised
To an officer.
Men,
Here from the city, crowd outdoor cafes.
The evening lights in oily
Water mute the spiraling
Outward of your thoughts
It will
Repeat, all events repeat, reproduce,
Never moving on.
Starlings
Round the apartment tower
With chitters to set your teeth.
Dead branches applaud.
Turtles swim home between chewed
Stalks
Of cattails. You watch a shopping-cart filled
With water work deeper in mud. On your knees
On the concrete ledge over water, you could reach out
A hand.
The lake
Fountain stirs, quiets
And settles for the season. You watch ducks
Gather mouthfuls of food two months
Before the first possibility of snow.
There is no hint, in this poem, of the historical other than to directly mention that history rounds and repeats itself.
Ritual Sight
What a wonderful word- sight. I love that it is a homonym with site. That's what started me writing this long ago. Now, I posted part i earlier, then realized I had done a rewrite two years ago of the complete five part series, because the old one written twelve years before really fell apart at the end. So, now I will start the post and write up of the revised version.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Sighing, against cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here starlings return at dusk to take
The mirrored dusk-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight's shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers' sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dusk.
I see I'll have to go on and put the poem written in 1992 up against the rewrite in 2004 and explain what I did, and why I did it. Just an interesting note on this one is that I changed "bats" to "starlings" and "dark" to "dusk". They were both meant to be more honest to the scene. When I was writing a good deal, just out of college, I had an unnecessary inclination to change a scene to fit words I liked, or felt were more dramatic. Bats? Who knows. But the scene at the time was actually, as witnessed by me, starlings circling an apartment tower near where I grew up. And it was dusk, a beautiful deep blue dusk. I have no idea why I felt the need to change things like that, but my revision is to be more honest to the scene.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Sighing, against cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here starlings return at dusk to take
The mirrored dusk-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight's shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers' sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dusk.
I see I'll have to go on and put the poem written in 1992 up against the rewrite in 2004 and explain what I did, and why I did it. Just an interesting note on this one is that I changed "bats" to "starlings" and "dark" to "dusk". They were both meant to be more honest to the scene. When I was writing a good deal, just out of college, I had an unnecessary inclination to change a scene to fit words I liked, or felt were more dramatic. Bats? Who knows. But the scene at the time was actually, as witnessed by me, starlings circling an apartment tower near where I grew up. And it was dusk, a beautiful deep blue dusk. I have no idea why I felt the need to change things like that, but my revision is to be more honest to the scene.
Dear soporific fire
Tonight is the first wood stove fire. It's 45 out in Blacksburg, heading toward 35. Not really cold, but I've been looking forward to this (it's officially the second of the season, but the first was a small test fire). There's a hint of smoke now in the air, as it backs up at first, and the room is thickening with wood heat. Ah, and football on tv- even if it is only Rutgers and South Florida? I'm accompanied by a 12 year old Caol Ila whisky. I'd look up where that's from but I'm too sleepy and not moving until I absolutely have to go pee.
Floating so still
the puppy, Lucy, lies before
her first wood fire
she's snoring
her nose is much larger than mine
she's snoring
and I'll sleep on the couch
tonight.
Floating so still
the puppy, Lucy, lies before
her first wood fire
she's snoring
her nose is much larger than mine
she's snoring
and I'll sleep on the couch
tonight.
Friday, September 22, 2006
About Poetry
I will be posting descriptions and essays on my own poetry on here, but first, I have a bit to go through and just enjoy posting.
For now, Ritual Sight, a poem in 5 parts and a promised talk at the end.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Against the cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here bats return at dusk to take
The mirrored dark-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight’s shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers’ sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dark.
For now, Ritual Sight, a poem in 5 parts and a promised talk at the end.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Against the cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here bats return at dusk to take
The mirrored dark-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight’s shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers’ sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dark.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
An Affirmation
If you love this land of the free
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
Bring 'em back form overseas
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
It'll make the politicians sad I know
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
They want to tangle with their foe
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
The want to test their grand theories
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
With the blood of you and me
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
To try this weekend
The Hokies play Cincinatti. Certainly more exciting than Duke, but not by much. Still, here in Blacksburg, we still have to party when there is a game in town. Adam suggests:
We both know that an ice-cold vigorously shaken martini made with BombayA fine idea. I'll visit the local ABC Friday and pickup some Bombay and a jar of extra queen olives.
Sapphire gin goes down smoother than anything on the planet. Especially
with an extra queen olive.
Now about Riggo -
Plowing through my line
A rustic sword of a man
Rug-burned knees sting good
- Adam Madam
A rustic sword of a man
Rug-burned knees sting good
- Adam Madam
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Hazelnut Martini
Look, I'm a pretty nuanced guy. I like shades of gray. I think opinions are like assholes, everyones got one and most stink.
But there are some things that are clearly evil. Here's my list (in no goddamned order):
But there are some things that are clearly evil. Here's my list (in no goddamned order):
- Hazelnut Martini
- Chocolate Martini
- Dick Cheney
- The Dallas Cowboys (especially after this weekend)
- Any sort of fruit Martini
iPods- ELO
- The yellow jacket nest I "discovered" this summer
- Any Martini that is not vodka, vodka with peppered vodka, vodka and vodka with something harsh or spicy in it, or gin, you happy Adam?
- Dick Cheney with a shotgun
There you have it
About Dogs
for Delia
I’ve lived with a pack
two days, now. We pause in the back yard, alone.
They’ve asked my name, in their manner.
I’m inclined to tell them.
We ate grass this morning-
the blond-black bitch taking the most.
My aim is to tell them of the grizzly, of my peanut
butter sandwich- fright grass turned in my gut
to tell them of the bear in my step
as I gave a feather, peacock eye,
to Two Medicine, as I
asked the lake to accept small
wood and bone. The dogs keep dropping
the ball at my feet, keep stopping
to snort. They’ve seen hands
full of fingers and bad meat tossed from a man’s
back-yard. They have no patience
for my talk. I remind them I’ve given
a lake gifts to find in myself
the bear, so I might see
wings, blond legs, to split, finally,
wild and domestic, bring my life to town.
The dogs bark and ask my name
again. I tell them nothing, play
the morning out sniffing grass, throwing
the ball. I follow the bitch
in milk weed, in catch. I understand not stories,
names, but this will fill my day.
I’ve lived with a pack
two days, now. We pause in the back yard, alone.
They’ve asked my name, in their manner.
I’m inclined to tell them.
We ate grass this morning-
the blond-black bitch taking the most.
My aim is to tell them of the grizzly, of my peanut
butter sandwich- fright grass turned in my gut
to tell them of the bear in my step
as I gave a feather, peacock eye,
to Two Medicine, as I
asked the lake to accept small
wood and bone. The dogs keep dropping
the ball at my feet, keep stopping
to snort. They’ve seen hands
full of fingers and bad meat tossed from a man’s
back-yard. They have no patience
for my talk. I remind them I’ve given
a lake gifts to find in myself
the bear, so I might see
wings, blond legs, to split, finally,
wild and domestic, bring my life to town.
The dogs bark and ask my name
again. I tell them nothing, play
the morning out sniffing grass, throwing
the ball. I follow the bitch
in milk weed, in catch. I understand not stories,
names, but this will fill my day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)