51 Imagination poems

Thy various works, imperial queen, we see, How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee! Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand. From Helicon's refulgent heights attend, Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song. Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies, Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind. Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through air to find the bright abode, Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above. There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul. Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may break their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round, And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd: Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose. Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leader of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought, And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought. Before thy throne the subject-passions bow, Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou; At thy command joy rushes on the heart, And through the glowing veins the spirits dart. Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high: From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies, While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies. The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold, But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse; Winter austere forbids me to aspire, And northern tempests damp the rising fire; They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea, Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

Montana, you beat your fists against museum doors your bronze dress shimmering in the starless night. The doors are locked, Montana dreaming of snow-white mice cluttering the shelves in your kitchen, snow-white mice inside the oven, snow-white mice clogging your shiny aluminum sink, their corpses curled up like piles of fluffy cotton. Mosques are desecrated and altars overturned outside the museum's cool stone walls. Border skirmishes seen and heard in the distance, delicate bursts of poppy-red flames. The wars go on and on, invading your dreams. The mirror reflects a young man's body dangling from a rope and you gasp: "O, my brother—" The doctor finally lets you in, unlocking the door. Forbidden to touch you, he stares straight ahead, avoiding your curious glance. "You're partly Egyptian, aren't you?" The doctor inquires. You stalk the dark museum halls calling out the name of your dead lover, the name of a man unspoken since the siege of Troy. "How did you guess?" You growl, "Do you have to open graves to find girls to fall in love with?" The doctor smiles, averting his gaze from your ravaged face. He longs to trace your fish scale dress with his slender fingers. Montana scarlet shameless Montana, you stalk the dark museum halls in a rage. Ripping your satin gloves to shreds you pry open coffins; reading between the lines you decipher hieroglyphics on tombs. "Any message would do, you say, tiny jeweled tears permanently etched in the corners of your eyes. The doctor sighs, his impotence ancient as the curse that immortalizes him, the terrible secret that pursues you. Montana on the night of a full moon you are a perfumed woman in a bronze dress who shatters glass with a vengeance, searching in vain for signs and clues among the rubies and emeralds that litter museum floors. THE MUSEUM WORKS FOR SCIENCE NOT FOR LOOT, the doctor tells you. You laugh at his bandaged face, the sad, smoldering eyes— the only things visible beneath the gauze. "You can't tell the blood from the paint splashed on these walls," you say with contempt, reaching out for his arm in spite of yourself. He moves away. "I dislike being touched," he whispers, "pardon me—it's an Eastern prejudice." You never see his anguish; he won't allow it. His pride is what keeps him going. Exhausted, you lie amid the rubble. The mummy guards your body and you dream of straddling your sleeping lover's back like a dolphin you ride underwater safe within the confines of deserted museum halls.

It’s not the sharks Sliding mere inches from his upturned face Through warps of water where the tunnel arcs Transparent overhead, Their lipless jaws clamped shut, extruding teeth, Their eyes that stare at nothing, like the dead, Staring at him; it’s not the eerie grace Of rays he stood beneath, Gaping at their entranced slow-motion chase That is unending; It’s not the ultra-auditory hum Of ET cuttlefish superintending The iridescent craft Of their lit selves, as messages were sent, Turning the sight of him they photographed To code: it is not this that left him dumb With schoolboy wonderment Those hours he wandered the aquarium. It is that room, That room of Murray River they had walled In glass and, deep within the shifting gloom And subtle drifts of sky That filtered down, it seemed, from the real day Of trees and bird light many fathoms high, The giant Murray cod that was installed In stillness to delay All that would pass. The boy stood there enthralled. Out in the day Again, he saw the famous streets expound Their theories about speed, the cars obey, Racing to catch the sun, The loud fast-forward crowds, and thought it odd That in the multitudes not everyone Should understand as he did the profound Profession of the cod, That held time, motionless, unknown to sound. In bed at night, Are his eyes open or is this a dream? The room is all dark water, ghosted light, And midway to the ceiling The great fish with its working fins and gills Suspended, while before it glide the reeling And see-through scenes of day, faintly agleam, Until their passage stills And merges with the deep unmoving stream.

It had been a long day at the office and a long ride back to the small apartment where I lived. When I got there I flicked on the light and saw on the table an envelope with my name on it. Where was the clock? Where was the calendar? The handwriting was my father’s, but he had been dead for forty years. As one might, I began to think that maybe, just maybe, he was alive, living a secret life somewhere nearby. How else to explain the envelope? To steady myself, I sat down, opened it, and pulled out the letter. “Dear Son,” was the way it began. “Dear Son” and then nothing.

Time collapses between the lips of strangers my days collapse into a hollow tube soon implodes against now like an iron wall my eyes are blocked with rubble a smear of perspectives blurring each horizon in the breathless precision of silence one word is made. Once the renegade flesh was gone fall air lay against my face sharp and blue as a needle but the rain fell through October and death lay    a condemnation within my blood. The smell of your neck in August a fine gold wire bejeweling war all the rest lies illusive as a farmhouse on the other side of a valley vanishing in the afternoon. Day three    day four    day ten the seventh step a veiled door leading to my golden anniversary flameproofed free-paper shredded in the teeth of a pillaging dog never to dream of spiders and when they turned the hoses upon me a burst of light.

Looking out at a man’s name on a battered wingtip in strong winds; was it planned that when the cheap wing bends, the name stays steady? What if it didn’t matter how much you trod over the body of your mother, what happened when you were younger, how you tried forgetting and forgot to forgive. Something has to hold you: numbers, columns, cards to swipe, books to shelve, pints to pour. A life filled with fixed wings, with hard grasps, with the grateful. What’s worth keeping? Not the sad boy who blamed you for all the ways he was broken. Not the man’s name on the wing, but why not the battered wing itself. Why not the woman thinking. Why not the river below, its lips wet, footprints animal. What forked tongues come when clouds crack open, when this sky’s watched you sleep all day, and now lets down its darkness. There’s all night to stay awake.

“I am like thee, O, Night, dark and naked; I walk on the flaming path which is above my day-dreams, and whenever my foot touches earth a giant oak tree comes forth.” “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still lookest backward to see how large a foot-print thou leavest on the sand.” “I am like thee, O, Night, silent and deep; and in the heart of my loneliness lies a Goddess in child-bed; and in him who is being born Heaven touches Hell.” “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou shudderest yet before pain, and the song of the abyss terrifies thee.” “I am like thee, O, Night, wild and terrible; for my ears are crowded with cries of conquered nations and sighs for forgotten lands.” “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still takest thy little-self for a comrade, and with thy monster-self thou canst not be friend.” “I am like thee, O, Night, cruel and awful; for my bosom is lit by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet with blood of slain warriors.” “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman; for the desire for a sister-spirit is yet upon thee, and thou has not become alone unto thyself.” “I am like thee, O, Night, joyous and glad; for he who dwells in my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and she who follows me is sinning mirthfully.” “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thy soul is wrapped in the veil of seven folds and thou holdest not thy heart in thine hand.” “I am like thee, O, Night, patient and passionate; for in my breast a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses.” “Yea, Madman, art thou like me?  Art thou like me?  And canst thou ride the tempest as a steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword?” “Like thee, O, Night, like thee, mighty and high, and my throne is built upon heaps of fallen Gods; and before me too pass the days to kiss the hem of my garment but never to gaze at my face.” “Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart?  And dost thou think my untamed thoughts and speak my vast language?” “Yea, we are twin brothers, O, Night; for thou revealest space and I reveal my soul.”

Night Magic (Blue Jester), 1988, by Carlos Almaraz After Federico García Lorca Blue that I love you Blue that I hate you Fat blue in the face Disgraced blue that I erase You lone blue Blue of an alien race Strong blue eternally graced Blue that I know you Blue that I choose you Crust blue Chunky blue Moon blue glows that despise You — idolize you Blue and the band disappears Blue of the single left dog Blue of the eminent red fog Blue that I glue you to me You again and again blue Blue blue of the helium Bubble of  loveloss Blue of  the whirlwind The blue being again Blue of the endless rain Blue that I paint you Blue that I knew you Blue of  the blinking lights Blue of  the landing at full tilt Blue of  the wilt Flower of  nightfall Blue of  the shadow In yellowed windows Blue of the blown And broken glass Blue of the Blue Line Underlines in blue Blue of the ascending nude Blue before the blackness Of  new blue of our winsome Bedlam Blue of the blue Bed alone: blue of the one Who looks on blue of what Remains of cement fall Blue of the vague crescent Ship sailing blue of the rainbow Of  wait blue that I whore You — blue that I adore you Blue of the bluest door Blue my painted city In blue (it blew.)

At the toll booth she stopped to ask who was in charge of the expressway, or future, the words slipping back and forth in front of her. A large-headed woman, her hair roped and lashed about her head, looked up and held out her hand:George Washington. Seven times. I have no money, she said, suddenly aware that this was indeed a fact, as was the yoke around the woman’s upright neck. Her nostrils flared, her body strained against it, Al Green in the background.Are you a poet? she asked, meaning do you feel that tug?The roar of tires is the rhythm of my day, the woman said,every fourteen cars a sonnet. Behind her the city slickened: vehicles everywhere, idling, honking, revving, stiffening themselves against her. The braided woman did not flinch.George Washington, seven times. I am lost, she said.Can you tell me where to start? The braided woman’s thumbs smoothed the air.You can try Port Authority. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. In response to the woman’s kindness, she shared her latest vision: Louis XVI is alive and living in Washington, a staggeringly blind man filling his frame with BBQ ribs and glazed ham. Under his bed he keeps a rifle, thinking a cattle rustler might show up in the night. Deeply suspicious of his dreams he hires a young woman to stand in the corner and lash herself all night as he sleeps. It doesn’t matter if I see her, he said,it’s knowing she is somewhere lashing herself.

Pixie-dust infusion shoots steady shock through incline— is that crooked or slyster meat tong, grabbing hold of night so as not to pulse so bright past outcome Pardon the excess—it’s a point to make that out of all this dirt comes glass or shiny sheen meant to gloss over rough spots—let’s moan and breathe At one time, so that anything shattered will sound pretty I need to show how I love—sound and vision if I sing and move to what I hear and feel, just for you Well, let’s see if we can match our limbs to the credible—or maybe the possible let’s play again, so that you know what you’re in for, when you save your last dance for glass How clutterdust of me— and here’s where I lose my head over a star system, a horny section ten thousand years older than me