Poemunity — your poem community

1. Two Gods: the one in the closet and the one from school days and both are not mine. I opened the door on God at dusk and closed him the rest of the day. He perched on the ledge above my father's shirts and wool suits, a mandir in every Hindu house, ours smelling of starch, surrounded by ties and old suitcases. I was the ghost at school, sat on the pew and watched as other girls held God under their tongues. My lips remember the prayer my parents taught me those evenings with their bedroom closet open—Ganesh carved in metal, Krishna blue in a frame. I don't remember the translation, never sure I really knew it. I got mixed up sometimes, said a section of the "Our Father" in the middle of the arti, ending in Amen when I meant Krishna, Krishna,

The sun sets behind the market square, and the nettle leaves reflect the small town’s imperfections. Teapots whistle in the houses, like many trains departing simultaneously. Bonfires flame on meadows and their long sighs weave above the trees like drifting kites. The last pilgrims return from the church uncertainly. TV sets awaken, and instantly know all, like the demons of Alexandria with swindlers’ swarthy faces. Knives descend on bread, on sausage, on wood, on offerings. The sky grows darker; angels used to hide there, but now it’s just the police sergeant and his dear departed motorcycle. Rain falls, the cobbled streets grow black. Little abysses open between the stones.

Salvation comes by Jesus Christ alone, The only Son of God; Redemption now to every one, That love his holy Word. Dear Jesus we would fly to Thee, And leave off every Sin, Thy Tender Mercy well agree; Salvation from our King. Salvation comes now from the Lord, Our victorious King; His holy Name be well ador’d, Salvation surely bring. Dear Jesus give they Spirit now, Thy Grace to every Nation, That han’t the Lord to whom we bow, The Author of Salvation. Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry, Give us the Preparation; Turn not away thy tender Eye; We seek thy true Salvation. Salvation comes from God we know, The true and only One; It’s well agreed and certain true, He gave his only Son. Lord hear our penetential Cry: Salvation from above; It is the Lord that doth supply, With his Redeeming Love. Dear Jesus by thy precious Blood, The World Redemption have: Salvation now comes from the Lord, He being thy captive slave. Dear Jesus let the Nations cry, And all the People say, Salvation comes from Christ on high, Haste on Tribunal Day. We cry as Sinners to the Lord, Salvation to obtain; It is firmly fixt his holy Word, Ye shall not cry in vain. Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry, And make our Lamentation: O let our Prayers ascend on high; We felt thy Salvation. Lord turn our dark benighted Souls; Give us a true Motion, And let the Hearts of all the World, Make Christ their Salvation. Ten Thousand Angels cry to Thee, Yea lourder than the Ocean. Thou art the Lord, we plainly see; Thou art the true Salvation. Now is the Day, excepted Time; The Day of Salvation; Increase your Faith, do no repine: Awake ye every Nation. Lord unto whom now shall we go, Or seek a safe Abode; Thou hast the Word Salvation too The only Son of God. Ho! every one that hunger hath, Or pineth after me, Salvation be thy leading Staff, To set the Sinner free. Dear Jesus unto Thee we fly; Depart, depart from Sin, Salvation doth at length supply, The Glory of our King. Come ye Blessed of the Lord, Salvation greatly given; O turn your Hearts, accept the Word, Your Souls are fit for Heaven. Dear Jesus we now turn to Thee, Salvation to obtain; Our Hearts and Souls do meet again, To magnify thy Name. Come holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove, The Object of our Care; Salvation doth increase our Love; Our Hearts hath felt thy fear. Now Glory be to God on High, Salvation high and low; And thus the Soul on Christ rely, To Heaven surely go. Come Blessed Jesus, Heavenly Dove, Accept Repentance here; Salvation give, with tender Love; Let us with Angels share.

BODY Farewell! I go to sleep; but when The day-star springs, I’ll wake again. SOUL Go, sleep in peace; and when thou liest Unnumber’d in thy dust, when all this frame Is but one dram, and what thou now descriest In sev’ral parts shall want a name, Then may his peace be with thee, and each dust Writ in his book, who ne’er betray’d man’s trust! BODY Amen! but hark, ere we two stray How many hours dost think ’till day? SOUL Ah go; th’art weak, and sleepy. Heav’n Is a plain watch, and without figures winds All ages up; who drew this circle, even He fills it; days and hours are blinds. Yet this take with thee. The last gasp of time Is thy first breath, and man’s eternal prime.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow: Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone—a thousand blossoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God’s blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows. The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o’ershadowing branches sweep the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep: And they who stand about the sick man’s bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go—but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

I You don’t need always to be scrubbing the tiles, Hendrickje, my eye drinks itself, drinks itself to death— but other drink is in short supply— the little Buddha there, Chinese grove god in exchange for a ladleful of Hulstkamp, please! Never painted anything in frost-white or ice-skater blue or that Irish green in which the purple shimmers through— always my own monotone, my compulsion to shadows— not pleasant to pursue that path so clearly. Greatness—where? I pick up the slate-pencil and certain things appear on paper or canvas or whatever the heck else— result: Buddha bronze hocked for booze— but I draw the line at homage under ornamental plants, banquet of the painters’ guild— something for the boardroom! ...Creaking, little sheep squeaking, chromotypes Flemish, Rubensish— for the grandchildren (same idiots!) Ah—Hulstkamp, hits the spot, midpoint of colors, my shadow brown, stubble aura around heart and eye— II

_______________________________________________________ there is no door, almost nothing, oblique figures _______________________________________________________ beneath the columns of false marble _______________________________________________________ returned, removed, moonless as an estimate, circle dancing _______________________________________________________ like a mineral _______________________________________________________ possibly a raised sanctuary _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ verse 7 informed my lingering curiosity _______________________________________________________ pallor than grass _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ was not red (J’ai ta lettre datée “En Mer”) _______________________________________________________ minor litanies _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ misshapen pearl, problem or promise _______________________________________________________ walls & windows, crawling graveyards _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ Do not write this version. _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ The manuscript has been lying for centuries _______________________________________________________ groaned or grunted. passed on _______________________________________________________ was it Sappho or Telesilla _______________________________________________________ the space between re- and in- _______________________________________________________ a long-broken line. _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ is it or is it or not either _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ of some oblate vessel _______________________________________________________ of some ageless stone _______________________________________________________ alabaster or avenue _______________________________________________________ pressed perhaps, or rather _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ This will be counting. _______________________________________________________ This will be the blank new page _______________________________________________________ (C should have been inserted above) _______________________________________________________ compressed & chromatic, semi-tones & minor ninths, broken chords _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ polysemous, radiating. If there were _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ Two mirrors stare at each other _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ terse. (“a dactyl equals a spondee” or “one citadel equals two cities”) _______________________________________________________ straight lines blocks boxes binds _______________________________________________________ models originally real deathless _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ the principal protagonist was never painted _______________________________________________________ forgotten or perhaps the opposite _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ reliquary jar in the shape of a jar _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ symphonies on a dead left hand _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ spent horses & hyphens _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ taut fibers _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ of nows millimetric measure reciprocal blues _______________________________________________________ equivocal and faint _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ with no organs _______________________________________________________ A child’s dream of a mouth—fugue fingers _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ vertical to the horizon _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ (someone was mumbling about 76 ways of looking at a black word) _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ of the no need of the moon to shine in it _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ It was not a story to pass on. _______________________________________________________ mummified intact neutral tones in turn _______________________________________________________ moving towards _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________

What am I to you now that you are no longer what you used to be to me? Who are we to each other now that there is no us, now that what we once were is divided into me and you who are not one but two separate and unrelated persons except for that ex- that goes in front of the words that used to mean me, used to mean you, words we rarely used (husband, wife) as when we once posed (so young and helpless) with our hands (yours, mine) clasped on the knife that was sinking into the tall white cake. All that sweetness, the layers of one thing and then another, and then one thing again.

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still; Go to the guards of the heavenly fold And bid them wander obeying your will, Flame under flame, till Time be no more; Have you not heard that our hearts are old, That you call in birds, in wind on the hill, In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore? O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.

it’s good not to drink it’s good not to piss in the sink & it’s good not to think the clarion ring of   a glass clinking with ice good to hear it fade into a past you can’t sing your dumb blues is over. admit it was always borrowed. you paid no dues you did no time but the time spent sodden. what you thought I think. your higher power’s drunk. god’s the biggest alky in the sky the clouds are whiskey sours passing by