[23 July 2013]

If you open a word
who knows what you might see
Cagliostro’s fatidic circle
a language made of bees
green shelf ice off Labrador once
every word a dream

open the door it is and dream it.

Section 312 of a work in progress

312.
A poem is guided meditation
mild propulsion of the written world
when it stops the process it launched sails on
knowing the mind
clear light between the names of things
between the things
so.ma the bright between
the new the fresh the uncontrived
your mind finds by itself
sacred absence in the core of you
all the holiness and shadows pass
maidens and heroes and sunlight on the sea.

(A recent section from a work in progress)

191.
He
will be safer as a ferly-man if men they have or are
he
will be a leper-man in ordinary land
his
voice the bell to warn away the fearful
because
language is a holy terror believe me
hide
yourself in the silence of story
there’s
always something left to believe
dust
for sparrows said the old aesthete
be
bathed clean in what defiles us
Arbeit,
heilende Welle

in what defines us
how
far inland we’ve been carried by the wave
left
where no other wave can come
lost
among friends in a house of one’s own. 



ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10

                                                            for
Betty
On a
scale of 1 to 10
the
rain falls wet
Lenin’s
mummy outlasts glasnost.
The
kingdom of cicadas rises and falls,
on a
scale of 1 to 10
our
caves are brighter now and less dank
diner
coffee keeps getting better
waitresses
get older and blonder
and
I don’t know for sure where all this goes
Nero
Wolfe would call it amphigory, 
nonsense
verse, nonsense with numbers,
on a
scale of 1 to 10
I’ve
hardly begun
the
muddy Orinoco impregnates the sea,
the
Homestead Act is far away
but
the prairies are still there
people
I knew got acres in Alaska
even
in the 1950s — ah, 
there’s
a number at last, or four of them,
all
of them but one on a scale of 1 to 10
and
that one was none
so
on a scale of 1 to 10
the
world has not even yet begun
and
all the pizza parlors and battleships
are
just illusions and I’m beginning
(speaking
of beginnings)
to
wonder about me, 
on a
scale of 1 to 10 am I here yet, 
is
there anyone behind this noise you hear,
people
buzzing about the cicadas, poor things,
they
don’t even exist on a scale of 1 to 10,
only
André Breton has got their number, 
Arcane
17
 from
long ago Gaspé, and Canada,
what
is Canada on a scale of 1 to 10,
and
shall I count the ways,
let
alone Massachusetts?
On a
scale of 1 to 10
pain
for instance is usually at zero or eleven
but
pleasure measures 
itself
meekly, how rarely joys
or
even blisses
get
past 8 or 9, 
and
from what we read in the Bible
heaven
doesn’t even get to 7,
all
those feathers, all that 
stone-age
music on tin harps.
But where
was I on a scale of 1 to 10,
was
I a pirate was I a priest,
all
nouns are 10 all verbs are maybe
depending
on who’s looking, 
on
who’s talking, 
and
who is listening?
On a
scale of 1 to 10
is
it you or is it him,
the
man in the moon, the woman in the wind
or
is it window, on a scale
of 1
to 10 is it even now yet, 
this
bright day I’m trying to believe
all
the numbers scattered round my feet,
birds
chasing beetles, shadows chasing sun,
on a
scale of 1 to 10
am I
even me?  

TRAGACANTH
                    Maybe. 
Or gum from the peach
tree
in the Hungarian back
yard —
how many years.
I had an alchemical
laboratory in the
cellar
and didn’t know
it. 
I thought it was all
logwood,
spirit lamp, daydreams,
silverfish,
window screen, dust, dark
weeds outside,
the peach tree
wrapped in burlap, sulfur,
test tube, book. 
But it was
alchemy. 
My parents told me so
by leaving me and it
alone.
                                                            3
June 2013



Sunday on Cuttyhunk, cold bright wind from the sea, big waves rolling in.  We’re happy to be here.

When
the violin climbs the stairs
and
the cello dithers down below
we
know an assignation’s forward,
a
pretty girl up there

with
her arms full of violets.  

AMONG THE BASSOON
                                                            for David Adam Nagy
Flügel, grand piano
piano with a wing
uplifted,
             shadow of the raised top
on the conservatory wall—
gnomon of the sundial
cast by the low-slung light
dramatic lighting
                              and the bassoon.
2.
Bach first.  Prelude
to everything
else,
          he
is our B.C., the primal one,
the tone
             cast on all time to come
the shadow
of the bassoon rises and falls.
This instrument
always sounds wrong,
comes from outside music
from a land of being,
of suffering and running away
and coming home,
                              wrong
by its nature, the way nature
is wrong too,
                    as if a beast had to die
in pain to breathe such sounds,
but that’s only natural,
nature’s like that,
                              sings
truest as it goes.
Goes away.
                    Shadows
dimming into the dark.
Cherry blossoms
falling in the prime.
3.
Or on our little island
there is a single solitary tree
in the graveyard,
                              a paulownia
or princess tree,
its flowers come before the leaves
and when those fragrant purple blossoms fall
they leave seed capsules behind,
pointed ovals,
                    hollow, cracking open, hard,
hollow as wood, hollow as the sound of the bassoon.
4.
He transposes what Beethoven
heard (or wanted to hear)
on the cello for the bassoon.
A rounded box with strings
becomes a man with breath
pouting into a hollow tube
though quivering reeds.
American day aj, day of the reed,
tube, rushes, human spine
up which all the messages pass
or sing, trying to reach the mother brain
so far below the music.
5.
Seize the moment
the music doesn’t last,
the pretty girl is pretty
for a minute
then the tide comes in
goes out again and the house
is empty, sea-birds
noisy on the cliffs,
if you’re lucky there’s
still a wind for you to hear.
6.
The look on our faces
is to be heard.
Listeners are performers too.
Eyes open in the light
receiving light, the ears
too are ridden by some
sorrow that comes before
anything we ever knew
to make us sad,
                                        a requiem
built into the nature of the world,
a mortal sorrow
before anyone ever died,
like that village
the Buddha sent the mother to
to find her dead child.
7.
All the bodies with their breaths and fingers
all together now understanding out loud,
make us be the animal we pretend to be,
human love human fear human history
and we are really nothing at all but
bright joyous spirit playing brief on a field of ash
                                                                      13 April 2013

Charlotte in the great Sycamore at Vassar

for
in a dream said the rebbe We
always
have a minyan
all
the girls of us are men
and
all the two of us are ten

                                                       (from Minyan)