Poemunity — your poem community

My drawing teacher said:Look,think,make a mark. Look, I told myself. And waited to be marked. Clouds are white but they darken with rain. Even a child blurs them back to little woolies on a hillside, little bundles without legs. Look, my teacher would surely tell me, they’re nothing like that.Like that: the lie.Like that: the poem. She said: Respond to the heaviest part of the figure first. Density is form. That I keep hearing destiny is not a mark of character. Like pilgrimage once morphed to mirage in a noisy room, someone so earnest at my ear. Then marriage slid. Mir-aage,Mir-aage, I heard the famous poet let loose awry into her microphone, triumphant. The figure to be drawn — not even half my age. She’s completely emptied her face for this job of standing still an hour. Look. Okay. But the little dream in there, inside the think that comes next. A pencil in my hand, its secret life is charcoal, the wood already burnt, a sacrifice.

"In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing."— Vincent Van Gogh A missile is shaped like a pencil— its long, slender body and pointed end creates history. A girl walking down the street a few steps ahead of her sister and friend, two medics who were trying to help injured people, the parked ambulance— all were annihilated by the same weapon. Above, drones—silent, unmanned planes. A metal, predatory bird that shoots a missile with precision, identifying the colors of a shirt, the features on a face—the shape of a nose, the color and length of a mustache. In a room far away, in another country, a man sits at a desk and looks at a screen; he strokes his thick, dark mustache as he carefully contemplates, then pushes a button. There is a charred hole in the ground where the girl once stood. There are pencils that write and erase, write and erase, so that there is nothing to be read on the page. The page blank as the desert sky, blank as the smooth shell of a drone. There is a family drinking mint tea in a living room. The man holds a cup to his lips, the glass touches his mustache. A silent bird hovers above. In a split second, everyone is dead, the house is in rubbles—arms, legs, splattered organs among broken concrete. Soon, there will be no trace.

Have you seen, have you seen magic shadows? — Fleetwood Mac, “Nightwatch” My fugues have no apparent relation to past trauma of any kind. When it came time to rehearse we decided to get glamorous. We get all done-up for rehearsal. Gradually, imperceptibly, things begin slipping back into their normal place. My body is slowly rotating into its proper north-south orientation. My playing is flawless as it turns out. The audience goes nuts but what was it all about? Had I longer to see the aspects and facets of the family, which as we know are not always tickety-boo but I have drifted away like a wide-winged bird over many things that are meaningless, yet my mind is clicking away quite properly on other levels. I was never in it for the money, but I see where it goes without ever touching it. It was like a honeymoon — nothing made sense, sounding utterly convincing to my own ears — selfness in training, needing a month of good sleep. When I woke I saw the sunlight streaming in across the ceiling and thought oh boy, we were awful yesterday, the obvious response being to phone the boss and tell him you’re sick and go to bed until it’s passed, except Boss is in bed too. Don’t let the lack of his spirit blind your life. You would expect me to tell you, wouldn’t you, if our positions were reversed, while I look for a suitable shirt, but you don’t have any more to accomplish, nothing at all. Did you ever love me? Could I grit my teeth and carry it all off without anyone being the wiser? Any words that have concrete meanings are fine and completely friendly. The whole history of the human race is somewhat sad, wouldn’t you say, if you look at it in a certain way? But then, if you squint a bit differently it isn’t sad at all. There were times we were all hurting really bad, thinking the bed will win. Maybe it was the beginnings of trademark — if we stayed telepathic we couldn’t do that — surprise, surprise, and that’s how we decided to do the dance and that’s how The Dance came about. There was a large, grassy clearing in the forest, the trees around it thick and tall and there was sunlight on the grass. We knew that people were worshipping and the way they did it was to gather around a place like this and allow themselves to become a part of it, greeting it and letting it greet them feeding their bodies to their souls, the pity of the tribe was how we imagined it, seeing behind closed eyelids a lovely scene, looking down from an open balcony into a central courtyard. We were in a place that appeared to consist of baskets of flowers. I could see only the top of his brown hair and his moving hands. There’s a lot of color. It’s more noticeable than usual — I mean there are little prisms, rainbows everywhere but whether it was guitar or piano I couldn’t tell you — this is pre-Lindsey. The back room was vicious, everyone on a different drug. If you turned your back you’d better keep on walking. We did this every night, playing country rock at the height of glitter, mixed-bag material. We needed theoretical problems! My back to him, I said, “You mean us poor, sad little cast-offs, wouldn’t it be nice if we could cheer each other up so our miser wouldn’t cast a pall on the happiness of the Prince and Princess?” Only I’m foreshadowing with picky surfaces. The morals are contemporary — argument of sounds, accomodation, implosion, but still the ineffable grace of seeming perishable — the ordinariness of making love and hearing music. I’m okay by myself, believe me. It’s a thought that gives rise to immense self-compassion. Okay, I’ll deal with this. I kind of went on the skids. It was just the four of us finally starting to crank it out, faster and faster, until it was too fast. Then one day, it was a Friday, always payday and I was in the bedroom beginning to sort out what I thought of as my shitpile, a collection of such things as dresses, belts, stockings, photographs, and old magazines all waiting to be put where they belong.

For Reverend Theodore Richardson If Mary came would Mary Forgive, as Mothers may, And sad and second Saviour Furnish us today? She would not shake her head and leave This military air, But ratify a modern hay, And put her Baby there. Mary would not punish men— If Mary came again.

I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I, "And, Little Sin, pray God to die, And I upon the floor will lie And think how bad I've been!" Alas for pious planning — It mattered not a whit! As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit! My Little Sorrow would not weep, My Little Sin would go to sleep — To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it! So up I got in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, "One thing there's no getting by — I've been a wicked girl," said I; "But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!"

for Laura The island, you mustn’t say, had only rocks and scrub pine; Was on a blue, bright day like a blemish in this landscape. And Charlotte who is frail and the youngest of us collects Sticks and branches to start our fires, cries as they burn Because they resemble most what she has lost Or has little of: long fingers, her toes, And a left arm gone past the elbow, soon clear to her shoulder. She has the mouth of sea perch. Five of our sisters wear Green hoods. You are touched by all of this,but not by us. To be touched by us, to be kissed! Sometimes We see couples rowing in the distance in yellow coats. Sometimes they fish with handlines; we offend Everyone who is offended most And by everything and everyone. The five goats love us, though, And live in our dark houses. When they are Full with milk they climb the steps and beg that They be milked. Their teats brush the steps and leave thick Yellow trails of fresh milk. We are all females here. Even the ghosts. We must wash, of course, in salt water, But it smarts or maybe even hurts us. Often with a rope Around her waist Anne is lowered entirely into the water. She splashes around and screams in pain. Her screams Sometimes carry clear to the beaches on the Cape. For us I say so often. For us we say.For us! We are Human and not individual, we hold everything in common. We are individual, you could pick us out in a crowd. You did. This island is not our prison. We are not kept In; not even by our skin. Once Anne said she would love to be a Negro or a trout. We live without you. Father, I don’t know why I have written You all this; but be proud for I am living, and yet each day I am less and less your flesh. Someday, eventually, you Should only think of me as being a lightning bug on the lawn, Or the Negro fishing at the pond, or the fat trout he wraps In leaves that he is showing to someone. I’ll be Most everything for you. And I’ll be gone.

The bright drop quivering on a thorn in the rich silence after rain, lute music in the orchard aisles, the paths ablaze with daffodils, intrigue and venery in the air à l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs, the iron hand and the velvet glove — come live with me and be my love. A pearl face, numinously bright, shining in silence of the night, a muffled crash of smouldering logs, bad dreams of courtiers and of dogs, the Spanish ships around Kinsale, the screech-owl and the nightingale, the falcon and the turtle dove — come live with me and be my love.

Today is a trumpet to set the hounds baying. The past is a fox the hunters are flaying. Nothing unspoken goes without saying. Love’s a casino where lovers risk playing. The future’s a marker our hearts are prepaying. The future’s a promise there’s no guaranteeing. Today is a fire the field mice are fleeing. Love is a marriage of feeling and being. The past is a mirror for wishful sightseeing. Nothing goes missing without absenteeing. Nothing gets cloven except by dividing. The future is chosen by atoms colliding. The past’s an elision forever eliding. Today is a fog bank in which I am hiding. Love is a burn forever debriding. Love’s an ascent forever plateauing. Nothing is granted except by bestowing. Today is an anthem the cuckoos are crowing. The future’s a convolute river onflowing. The past is a lawn the neighbor is mowing. The past is an answer not worth pursuing, Nothing gets done except by the doing. The future’s a climax forever ensuing. Love is only won by wooing. Today is a truce between reaping and rueing.

As I sit here in the quiet Summer night, Suddenly, from the distant road, there comes The grind and rush of an electric car. And, from still farther off, An engine puffs sharply, Followed by the drawn-out shunting scrape of a freight train. These are the sounds that men make In the long business of living. They will always make such sounds, Years after I am dead and cannot hear them. Sitting here in the Summer night, I think of my death. What will it be like for you then? You will see my chair With its bright chintz covering Standing in the afternoon sunshine, As now. You will see my narrow table At which I have written so many hours. My dogs will push their noses into your hand, And ask—ask— Clinging to you with puzzled eyes. The old house will still be here, The old house which has known me since the beginning. The walls which have watched me while I played: Soldiers, marbles, paper-dolls, Which have protected me and my books. The front-door will gaze down among the old trees Where, as a child, I hunted ghosts and Indians; It will look out on the wide gravel sweep Where I rolled my hoop, And at the rhododendron bushes Where I caught black-spotted butterflies. The old house will guard you, As I have done. Its walls and rooms will hold you, And I shall whisper my thoughts and fancies As always, From the pages of my books. You will sit here, some quiet Summer night, Listening to the puffing trains, But you will not be lonely, For these things are a part of me. And my love will go on speaking to you Through the chairs, and the tables, and the pictures, As it does now through my voice, And the quick, necessary touch of my hand.

The great gold apples of night Hang from the street's long bough Dripping their light On the faces that drift below, On the faces that drift and blow Down the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough. The ripeness of these apples of night Distilling over me Makes sickening the white Ghost-flux of faces that hie Them endlessly, endlessly by Without meaning or reason why They ever should be.