873 Life poems

O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach. I cease to wonder, and no more attempt Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound. But, O my soul, sink not into despair, Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head. Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse, Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss. Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread, And lead celestial Chastity along; Lo! now her sacred retinue descends, Arrayed in glory from the orbs above. Attend me,Virtue, thro’ my youthful years! O leave me not to the false joys of time! But guide my steps to endless life and bliss. Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee, To give an higher appellation still, Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay, O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!

I might not wash today. I might let the weekend slide into gratifying anarchy. I am supposed to be thankful, this town is not among the true nightmare portions of the world. A roof over my head and quite sufficient shine on the silver, thanks. I might, though. Haven’t you seen it? Your city pokes a crafty fang at a flight path. It’s my city too, I suppose. You think you are in control. Idiot! To name is to own, not to know. And now we are so used to blood we miss the silly crimson pity of it. I dream of hardmen, the torturer’s tweezers; of scholars supplanting their teeth in basement gardens. It’s there, but you miss it. I don’t miss a thing. It’s always there, the aura before a seizure, inside my expendable circuitry, deeper than dog years down, always, even always. I dream of the made face coming apart in my hands like wet bread. I might not dress today. I might suck sauce from the bottle. Here’s mud in your gloria mundi, and a blue blowtorch to your extremities, dear. How do you feel about that? Or the massive enigma of love? Does anything shock you? I am supposed to be grateful, the shirt on my back and quite enough coal in the cellar, thanks. But a grand mal growls at the back of the mind, and the back of the mind is a bottle bank, love. We come and go, stooped in their palisades. The rich are always with us, their hexentanz and agonies. Here’s Kate, we all love Kate, oblivious, bombshell, and didn’t she used to be us? Not me. Your city, its nicotine fingers, windows lit, yellow and sickly. Here’s where we crouch our snouts to the wall. I might not leave the house today. Haven’t you seen what’s out there? Their vaunting faith; the awful punitive spring. I dream of muti and suitcases; grown men stabbed in their Camden hamlets, eyes without faces, world without end. It’s there, still there, but you do not see it. I see everything. I see it all. And the billy-born-drunks in the house next door are shouting again. Inadmissible figments slurred through the wall.

Uniformly over the whole countryside The warm air flows imperceptibly seaward; The autumn haze drifts in deep bands Over the pale water; White egrets stand in the blue marshes; Tamalpais, Diablo, St. Helena Float in the air. Climbing on the cliffs of Hunter’s Hill We look out over fifty miles of sinuous Interpenetration of mountains and sea. Leading up a twisted chimney, Just as my eyes rise to the level Of a small cave, two white owls Fly out, silent, close to my face. They hover, confused in the sunlight, And disappear into the recesses of the cliff. All day I have been watching a new climber, A young girl with ash blonde hair And gentle confident eyes. She climbs slowly, precisely, With unwasted grace. While I am coiling the ropes, Watching the spectacular sunset, She turns to me and says, quietly, “It must be very beautiful, the sunset, On Saturn, with the rings and all the moons.”

I climbed the roll of hay to watch the heron in the pond. He waded a few steps out, then back, thrusting his beak under water, pulling it up empty, but only once. Later I walked the roads for miles, certain he’d be there when I returned. How is it for him, day after day, his brittle legs rising from warm green scum, his graceful neck curled, damp in the bright heat? It’s a dull world. Every day, the same roads, the sky, the dust, the barn caving into itself, the tin roof twisted and scattered in the yard. Again, the bank covered with oxeye daisy that turns to spiderwort, to chicory, and at last to goldenrod. Each year, the birds— thick in the air and darting in wild numbers— grow quiet, the grasses thin, the light leaves earlier each day. The heron stood stone-still on my spot when I returned. And then, his wings burst open, lifting the steel- blue rhythm of his body into flight. I touched the warm hay. Hoping for a trace of his wild smell, I cupped my hands over my face: nothing but the heat of fields and skin. It wasn’t long before the world began to breathe the beat of ordinary hours, stretching out again beneath the sky.

Once, I was seven Spanish bullocks in a high meadow, sleepy and nameless. As-ifness strange to myself, but complete. Light on the neck-nape of time as two wings of one starling, or lovers so happy neither needs think of the other.

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world. Then we took it for granted. Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind. Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head. And once Doubt ruptured the web, All manner of demon thoughts Jumped through— We destroyed the world we had been given For inspiration, for life— Each stone of jealousy, each stone Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light. No one was without a stone in his or her hand. There we were, Right back where we had started. We were bumping into each other In the dark. And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know How to live with each other. Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another And shared a blanket. A spark of kindness made a light. The light made an opening in the darkness. Everyone worked together to make a ladder. A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world, And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children, And their children, all the way through time— To now, into this morning light to you.

Once there came a man Who said: “Range me all men of the world in rows.” And instantly There was a terrific clamor among the people Against being ranged in rows. There was a loud quarrel, world-wide. It endured for ages; And blood was shed By those who would not stand in rows, And by those who pined to stand in rows. Eventually, the man went to death, weeping. And those who stayed in the bloody scuffle Knew not the great simplicity.

A woman stepped outside, crumbled into a loose particulate, and, as the breeze blew up from the east, she scattered: her handful of heart, volcanic ash, spiraled the highway, and five of her teeth slipped between her neighbor's breasts; her neighbor unbuttoned her blouse to scratch at her suddenly red and luminous skin. Days passed. Each day the sun distractedly drifted from chair to chair; each night the stars, old scatterbrains, they commiserated. It didn't rain.Strange, the granular woman thought to herself:although I encompass so much, I accomplish so little. Her car sparkled with her hair and bones; her garden thrived. She tried to think: why did this happen? what had I eaten? why was I bothered?—those old hours, spotted and exotic lizards, darted the gravel, flicking through their colors of skin as one flicks channels on a tv. She couldn't catch a one. Then, as a flock of sparrows converging for the skull of an oak, all her twittering dust, her brain, bone, and the dangerous shreds of her fingers clawed for the sky; what an interesting cloud someone said.

Love Song for the Newly Divorced One day, you will awake from your covering and that heart of yours will be totally mended, and there will be no more burning within. The owl, calling in the setting of the sun and the deer path, all erased. And there will be no more need for love or lovers or fears of losing lovers and there will be no more burning timbers with which to light a new fire, and there will be no more husbands or people related to husbands, and there will be no more tears or reason to shed your tears. You will be as mended as the bridge the working crew has just reopened. The thick air will be vanquished with the tide and the river that was corrupted by lies will be cleansed and totally free. And the rooster will call in the setting sun and the sun will beckon homeward, hiding behind your one tree that was not felled.

One day after another— Perfect. They all fit.