Poemunity — your poem community

When I sleep I see a child hidden between the legs of a scarred man, their sunburnt backs breathe cold air, the child faces me and the pier’s roof swallows the moon cut by the clouds behind them. Sometimes, they’re on the same roof wearing handkerchiefs and uniformed men surround them. I mistake bullet casings for cormorant beaks diving till water churns the color of sunsets, stained barnacles line the pier and I can’t see who’s facedown on boats lulled by crimson ripples. Once, I heard the man — alive and still on the roof — say today for you, tomorrow for me. There’s a village where men train cormorants to fish: rope-end tied to sterns, another to necks, so their beaks won’t swallow the fish they catch. My father is one of those birds. He’s the scarred man.

In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne, I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep were; In habite as an hermite unholy of werkes Wente I wyde in this world wondres to here; Bote in a Mayes morwnynge on Malverne hulles Me bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thoughte. I was wery, forwandred, and wente me to reste Undur a brod banke bi a bourne side; And as I lay and leonede and lokede on the watres, I slumbrede in a slepynge, hit swyed so murie. Thenne gon I meeten a mervelous sweven, That I was in a wildernesse, wuste I never where; And as I beheold into the est an heigh to the sonne, I sauh a tour on a toft, tryelyche i-maket; A deop dale bineothe, a dungun ther-inne, With deop dich and derk and dredful of sighte. A feir feld full of folk fond I ther bitwene, Of alle maner of men, the mene and the riche, Worchinge and wandringe as the world asketh. Summe putten hem to the plough, pleiden ful seldene, In settynge and in sowynge swonken ful harde, And wonnen that theos wasturs with glotonye distruen. And summe putten hem to pruide, apparaylden hem ther-after, In cuntenaunce of clothinge comen disgisid. To preyeres and to penaunce putten hem monye, For love of ur Lord liveden ful streite, In hope for to have hevene-riche blisse; As ancres and hermytes that holdeth hem in heore celles, Coveyte not in cuntré to cairen aboute, For non likerous lyflode heore licam to plese. And summe chosen chaffare to cheeven the bettre, As hit semeth to ure sighte that suche men thryveth; And summe, murthhes to maken as munstrals cunne, And gete gold with here gle, giltles, I trowe. Bote japers and jangelers, Judas children, Founden hem fantasyes and fooles hem maaden, And habbeth wit at heore wille to worchen yif hem luste. That Poul precheth of hem, I dar not preoven heere; Qui loquitur turpiloquium he is Luciferes hyne. Bidders and beggers faste aboute eoden, Til heor bagges and heore balies weren bretful i-crommet; Feyneden hem for heore foode, foughten atte ale; In glotonye, God wot, gon heo to bedde, And ryseth up with ribaudye this roberdes knaves; Sleep and sleughthe suweth hem evere. Pilgrimes and palmers plihten hem togederes For to seche Seint Jame and seintes at Roome; Wenten forth in heore wey with mony wyse tales, And hedden leve to lyen al heore lyf aftir. Ermytes on an hep with hokide staves, Wenten to Walsyngham and here wenchis after; Grete lobres and longe that loth weore to swynke Clotheden hem in copes to beo knowen for bretheren; And summe schopen hem to hermytes heore ese to have. I fond there freres, all the foure ordres, Prechinge the peple for profyt of heore wombes, Glosynge the Gospel as hem good liketh, For covetyse of copes construeth hit ille; For monye of this maistres mowen clothen hem at lyking, For moneye and heore marchaundie meeten togedere; Seththe Charité hath be chapmon, and cheef to schriven lordes, Mony ferlyes han bifalle in a fewe yeres. But Holychirche and heo holde bet togedere, The moste mischeef on molde is mountyng up faste. Ther prechede a pardoner, as he a prest were, And brought forth a bulle with bisschopes seles, And seide that himself mighte asoylen hem alle Of falsnesse and fastinge and of vouwes i-broken. The lewede men levide him wel and likede his speche, And comen up knelynge to kissen his bulle; He bonchede hem with his brevet and blered heore eiyen, And raughte with his ragemon ringes and broches. Thus ye yiveth oure gold glotonis to helpen! And leveth hit to losels that lecherie haunten. Weore the bisschop i-blesset and worth bothe his eres, His sel shulde not be sent to deceyve the peple. It is not al bi the bisschop that the boye precheth, Bote the parisch prest and the pardoner parte the selver That the pore peple of the parisch schulde have yif that heo ne weore, Persones and parisch prestes playneth to heore bisschops, That heore parisch hath ben pore seththe the pestilence tyme, To have a lycence and leve at Londun to dwelle, To singe ther for simonye, for selver is swete. Ther hovide an hundret in houves of selke, Serjauns hit semide to serven atte barre; Pleden for pens and poundes the lawe, Not for love of ur Lord unloseth heore lippes ones, Thou mightest beter meten the myst on Malverne hulles Then geten a mom of heore mouth til moneye weore schewed! I saugh ther bisschops bolde and bachilers of divyne Bicoome clerkes of acounte the king for to serven. Erchedekenes and denis, that dignité haven To preche the peple and pore men to feede, Beon lopen to Londun, bi leve of heore bisschopes, To ben clerkes of the Kynges Benche the cuntré to schende Barouns and burgeis and bonde-men also I saugh in that semblé, as ye schul heren aftur, Bakers, bochers, and breusters monye, Wollene-websteris, and weveris of lynen, Taillours, tanneris, and tokkeris bothe, Masons, minours, and mony other craftes, Dykers, and delvers, that don heore dedes ille, And driveth forth the longe day with "Deu vous save, Dam Emme!" Cookes and heore knaves cryen "Hote pies, hote! "Goode gees and grys! Go we dyne, go we!" Taverners to hem tolde the same tale, With wyn of Oseye and win of Gaskoyne, Of the Ryn and of the Rochel, the rost to defye, Al this I saugh slepynge and seve sithes more.

I hunted heaven for him. No dice. Too uppity, it was. Not enough music, or dark dirt. I begged the earth empty of him. Death believes in us whether we believe or not. For a long while I watch the sound of a boy bouncing a ball down the block take its time to reach me. Father, find me when you want. I’ll wait.

I wake up, bound tightly. A warm, valerian smell cascades to my palate. I can only move my eyelids and toes. Heat sits impishly on my chest, at my throat, curtains of it brushing against me. Panic creeps out of my armpits. I can only move my eyelids and toes, and this constant fluttering lulls me to sleep. I awake late and move like a bee through the apartment, from station to station from the blue flame to the shimmering disc. From the stairs to the street, to the grocery store. To the meat aisle. To the cocktail wieners. To make pigs-in-a-blanket, to share them with friends. To sink into bed, to bind myself tightly in blankets, to flutter off into sleep, and then on past sleep, to be carried by admirers across a wooden bridge. Later I will burn this bridge.

This is what you changed me to: a greypink vegetable with slug eyes, buttock incarnate, spreading like a slow turnip, a skin you stuff so you may feed in your turn, a stinking wart of flesh, a large tuber of blood which munches and bloats. Very well then. Meanwhile I have the sky, which is only half caged, I have my weed corners, I keep myself busy, singing my song of roots and noses, my song of dung. Madame, this song offends you, these grunts which you find oppressively sexual, mistaking simple greed for lust. I am yours. If you feed me garbage, I will sing a song of garbage. This is a hymn.

In England once there lived a big And wonderfully clever pig. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn’t read, He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. He knew all this, but in the end One question drove him round the bend: He simply couldn’t puzzle out What LIFE was really all about. What was the reason for his birth? Why was he placed upon this earth? His giant brain went round and round. Alas, no answer could be found, Till suddenly one wondrous night, All in a flash, he saw the light. He jumped up like a ballet dancer And yelled, “By gum, I’ve got the answer!” “They want my bacon slice by slice “To sell at a tremendous price! “They want my tender juicy chops “To put in all the butchers’ shops! “They want my pork to make a roast “And that’s the part’ll cost the most! “They want my sausages in strings! “They even want my chitterlings! “The butcher’s shop! The carving knife! “That is the reason for my life!” Such thoughts as these are not designed To give a pig great peace of mind. Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland, A pail of pigswill in his hand, And Piggy with a mighty roar, Bashes the farmer to the floor . . . Now comes the rather grizzly bit So let’s not make too much of it, Except that you must understand That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland, He ate him up from head to toe, Chewing the pieces nice and slow. It took an hour to reach the feet, Because there was so much to eat, And when he’d finished, Pig, of course, Felt absolutely no remorse. Slowly he scratched his brainy head And with a little smile, he said, “I had a fairly powerful hunch “That he might have me for his lunch. “And so, because I feared the worst, “I thought I’d better eat him first.”

He walks through a cloud of blue moths — one for each apostle — into a round tower with a peaked chapeau of tiles, the oak door rotted, wasps fierce in the vine, limestone steps hollowed. Rows of nesting boxes dark as the eyes of city whores; pigeons sleeping; a wedge of sun chiseling mica through dusky air. Now the quiet clamor of roosting birds kept for the eggs he candles in the sacristy; for the sweet meat of their breasts and dung dug into the Abbé’s onion beds; for music of a sort: the crooning of forbidden sex, blood bubbling from a man’s cut throat. The boy reaches to their stink, peering at novices working the pump below: their creamy thighs and sleek-dipped heads, their oxter hair and sideways looks; soapy laughter, stiff nipples, wide eyes, and slender hands. Now this back- plumage black as smeared soot; iridescent necks; this underwing down dense with heat and lice and suffocating dark. Their amber eyes stare incuriously as he kills, wringing out last sobs of life, lining them up neat as martyrs cut down from a cross of air.

In the brown water, Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine, Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds, A pike dozed. Lost among the shadows of stems He lay unnoticed. Suddenly he flicked his tail, And a green-and-copper brightness Ran under the water. Out from under the reeds Came the olive-green light, And orange flashed up Through the sun-thickened water. So the fish passed across the pool, Green and copper, A darkness and a gleam, And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank Received it.

She invents wilderness out of absence, erases houses, the husband, the sewer pipe and the suburb it empties. Leaving the sparrow, the snake. Daily walks in her Virginia suburb minus the curb. Biographers struggle to account for these years in the wilderness, the housewife off hiking. Maybe her Virginia should be a West Virginia: wilder, less money, the creek a holler not this empty cul-de-sac. Some days she erased all but the air, maybe the light. Husband of the space bar, carpool a clean section break. She became a man in the wilderness and won the Pulitzer. I told the truth, she said, only I left some out. What rises in such a clearing? What stays home checking and re-checking the egg.

Who would true Valour see Let him come hither; One here will Constant be, Come Wind, come Weather. There's no Discouragement, Shall make him once Relent, His first avow'd Intent, To be a Pilgrim