536 Philosophy poems

They weighed the human soul — twenty-one grams — a tremor on the air becoming trance, becoming nimbus. No. It is a deadweight, a plummet, drawing down to its harbor beside the heart. It is Breath and Word, they said. No. It is pig-iron and salt. The dying feel its slow lift as riddance, a bar of darkness hoisting against the light. Something shifted under his skin, it puckered, as might a worm going slither-and-tuck close to the nape of his neck, then up past the cheekbone and onto the sill of his eye to gorge on the image trapped there, the last of her, the last lost thing before the sky grew dark and all the windows closed. The dead are given permission to walk among us. They smile dead smiles, they have no need for speech. The familiar goes for nothing. Each evening they hold up to our windows their silent, smiling children. Salt flats of dream of memory of dream ... limitless horizons and out on the utmost rim (can you see?) a house white-on-white abstract except for the room-within-a-room which can’t be seen but can be known, white being one thing in sunlight another under moonlight, not oblivion, not revival, and the soul’s song across that windless landscape, unheard; by night the heart-stopped silence, by day the rising glare. Graves under bramble and a wet light through the trees. A quietness something like stealth or sudden absence; it seemed to gather and disperse. Rat-run, ground for stray dogs, a place where lovers come to be swallowed whole by half-light. You could lie down here on thorn, on stone, and find your match. Wind-driven salt in the crevice of the rock is how memory works: image, invention, regret. It maddens with its ersatz colors, unknowable language, sudden reversals, shoreline, skyline, cityscape, landscape ... There are those who wake with the whole thing fixed at the forefront of their minds: a stage-set, people held in a frozen moment who will break to action soon, one fearful, one laughing, one clawing at her eyes. He was wearing a dead man’s coat: knee-length, snug, the lining rich shot silk in midnight blue. “As I thought,” she said, “a perfect fit. Of course, you look nothing like him, nor do you have that rangy, loose-limbed stride or straightness of back.” One side-pocket was sewn up, in the other, a letter. He threw it away as he left. Music at every turn, music by accident, a voice between the phrases, between the notes, calling, calling, and this not song but touchstone, blind bargain, last chance. Dust-devil, derecho, twister, cyclone, clean sweep, she is locked-off in this and the place is dark the way a pebble is dark at its center ... then her prophecy-in-song, eyes wide open in sleep, his hand across her mouth. What they did to him was unwatchable; what they did lay far beyond belief — daytime terrors, waking dreamtime, the lock-up, breeze-block walls, chain-drag, the Black & Decker kicking in: winged creatures, they sing as they work. Dust and shadow, come back to that, come back with a heavy heart. Is there nothing more: is that what you heard yourself say? Children in the garden, the headlong rush, the wolf pack between trees and snowfall under moonlight: the story you told is the story you were told: snow and a frost-moon, as clear, as pitiless. He untangled the thing that had snagged in her hair, his hand through a spectrum, spectral, blurring, a rail of fingers, to lift the thing in her hair. It would rain that day: cloud low to the hills, morning as nightfall, her window open to that. Slow sacrament of cheese and olive oil and bread, the creep of sundown-sunlight on the wall. “How safe do you feel at times like this?” Laughing, he bared his teeth. A thing flew in at the open window, bird or bat. “It’s like looking at clear water through clouded glass.” They were far off from anywhere. A salted seam, just fool’s gold, leavings of a dream wherein you give a true report of who you were, of what you could become. In rainfall you’re invisible, in sunlight the same, that’s all the dream gives up: a sense of place and sudden banishment.

my house’s stairway is seized with vertigo. Matter having forsaken its laws, we land in hell, ascending to heaven. * Shadows move along ladders under the silence of ordinary things there is another silence: it belongs neither to the leaves nor to the dead with a crown of birds circling him a child is running in an abandoned house the stairway takes the measure of its own emptiness I myself am the stairway that Time has used in its funeral course wheels lift water in the gardens of Hama and come down not waiting for the river to put out the fire Here we are left with the river Seine and Paris’s poisons. I prefer gardens where linden trees get ready for a lunar voyage The stairway that separates my room from my memory whispers in my ear . . . I am not at the mercy of men since trees live in my fantasies men and trees long for fire and call for the rain I love rains which carry desires to oceans. Between one airplane and another space is disoriented stars sneak into holes and brides go naked to wells their innocence wanes under our eyes You and I are made from a worm-eaten wood The Word has sunk we are left with no cry   gesture or gaze silence to us is forbidden. We are threatened neither by life nor by death nor forced to admire the Spring I found earth-castles on the edge of the desert’s torrents I took their marble stairs but could not find my way either up or down then I understood that I was in a state of non-reason and non-madness and that the gardens of Andalusia were standing ready to die. * Two cities               Two tears Let insanity keep between its skirts legs within its black eyes the fright of my adolescence and the nocturnal walk on the hills: which hill? I mean the kingdom that a man carries in his gut when his love’s fulfilled. Two cities which are neither Beirut nor Damascus two tears: neither of alcohol nor of rain Yes there has been a truck and a blue-eyed woman from Russia —grey olive tree— I was a butterfly caught by a fire: neither the day’s not the night’s but the incandescence that radiates from the body like a receding sickness, Let tombs stay open! * The stairway which leads to my room borrows its metals from Babylon The Prophet’s Ascension had two movements we fell into whirlpools of mud and the wind followed his horse A tempest went after the sun’s steps The Prophet swam through waves of clouds a river of gold carried his vessel and away from the sun he reached Paradise a Paradise made of light. The stairway which leads to my room leads to an observatory I own two telescopes to observe stars and black holes and take mechanized stairs which advance with no advance my hair spins with sunflowers * Illegitimate is this linden tree which shakes by my door let us get ready for Hell! * Cursed be messengers tossing about water’s tranquility and building forest fences Oh that the wind go quicker than us! that we be smothered by light! This linden tree standing by my door weights heavy on my days I will finally marry it and we shall bring children condemned to terror this tree looks at me with insistence: It will be kept waiting until Time’s end.

It is very stretchy. We know that, even if many details remain sketchy. It is complexly woven. That much too has pretty well been proven. We are loath to continue our lessons which consist of slaps as sharp and dispersed as bee stings from a smashed nest when any strand snaps— hurts working far past the locus of rupture, attacking threads far beyond anything we would have said connects.

Hand me this hand The sail is bent The trail is sold and the wind tied in knots Answer the phone The tune is left The stones uncoil in a wide-angle lens A search for clues encounters bliss A lip on the edge of the flowering dark A shell falls with hail Hidden and hides The following sky The descending kiss.

To CD Wright No body is fixed in position no one can be known Still I am read by satellites my tendency extrapolated In the mountains I have no GPS I don’t know where to go There are those trees their leaves flicker like little jewels a whole bucketful Darkness stares back are you even human anymore I close the curtains at night not because I think others will see in Turn left there but so I do not see the reflection that is pure dark I am not afraid of anything oh is that so Citizen bear do this place not belong to you Unseen I wander through the thorny place of what I no that ain’t it No fear can be knew can be none fuck how do you spell it I held a heavy jade pendant in my hand once not in this valley in another In the range of  limited human experience how many places are there really I don’t even have to look at the earth anymore I just have to listen Now that hillbilly whisper guides me which way to turn how far up the turn is Drawling like moonshine we’re really off the grid now Making wild prayers to the green dark which kind do you mean Thank god we thought of  her recording this voice both kinds

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set Whose crumbs the crows inspect And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer’s corn Men eat of it and die

Forever is the saddest word The poem's not worth it I'd like to read to you What Andy Warhol said About the traps of the rich But my tastes are changing This is a love note To a Fire Island lifeguard Tuscano shearling And mauve champagne I should never talk Even after two sips Though that's when I can I hate the George V hotel But I would take you there Then walk to the open market Some thoughts are not that great The Internet is my home Where it's easy to be beautiful And seen and new In the glow In the spell I thought I was better I guess I won't ever be God wants us to make out 'Cause I'm in this airport Where nobody's important I just wrote a letter Explaining all of this to you In my head The prism refracts But the stone is cloudy All that comes through Are the deeper obsessions Arvid Nordquist and dry shampoo Cocaine and Pellegrino This weather should have an entry In A  Lover's Discourse A fully enclosed private garden With direct access to the pool Hardwood floors Perfect light I, like, crave you Doesn't it ever just make you sad Plans you had with different people And how it all can't come true? I want the extremes Of pleasure Boredom Watching my lovers cry I really want to show something To the lifeguard from Fire Island Thoughts like nectar International cities To stand here a young prince Unique in spirit Replete with hospitality Aren't you even curious To see my hotel room After I swim? Sitting on my bed I typed Principal Dancer Into YouTube And drank To see the discourse And the honor Feels good Standing at my window What I think I will miss most When I die Is color And the light Sometimes it just comes to you Amidst occasional instances Of radiance or darkness I mean Everyone has their shit Then enough time goes by That's your life Maybe I expect too much I wouldn't know how not to In my room With these portraits In gold frames Feels like theater MGM Pictures The bronze light of Hollywood 1928 The future isn't real I should walk in golden rays Past rows of motorcycles To Coney Island Because I know grace Is more real than love It feels so real In the morning On Fifth Ave. With the lifeguard From Fire Island Weightless in badinage Whatever comes from Art and life Being can be too easy and common Like soda I let him come inside my world Because they gave me a key To Gramercy Park Maybe tonight I'll have a breakdown Sometimes I use this French product To soften the water When I soak in the bathtub It is silent there Like a tomb Sometimes I wish I was already in mine Sometimes I wish The world had a face I could touch the cheek of When I feel I could be a part of it When I cannot And I lie in the hot water Sometimes I wish The pearlescent steam Could sublimate the malaise And the lassitude That is there inside of me Maybe it does I believe it is that way When the light touches down Upon bunny lawns Of Fifth Ave. I don't care at all About the lifeguard so much Gravlax or Paris I should call this friend In Los Angeles An aesthete who hosts parties by the pool

Come October, it’s the lake not the border that has been redrawn. Thinking about the event afterwards, I realize how remarkably well-prepared the girls are. There don’t seem to be any slouches among them. Please tell them I say hello and that we’ll need 14 for the green salad and 14 for the apple tarts between with some rapid washing in clear water I remember as play and planning in childhood, preparing until the very last moment for a gripping narrative that was itself perpetually given over to improvisations and asymmetrical collaborations that could run for days. That makes another 14. It was ”the word“ or “the world” in 1981 when we undertook to talk about the phrase “once in a while” once in a while noting the vagueness then named “a while” and how “once” the phrase recurs and therefore means more than once the “while” is defined. We too are in “a while” and when “once” next occurs, if the basic design suits you, we will need a bit of modestly biographical contextualization for November. I’m going to put some thought to something implausibly contemporary which perhaps isn’t wise since between then and now no new coincidences have been noted just one large color photograph of bespangled cowgirls herding heavy bulls up the avenue that opens this week carefully wearing baby blue boots to take out the garbage but it never rained. At the end of the month, Halloween should be clear.

The best words get said frequently—they are like fertile pips. Apples fall heavily to the ground and lie in the sun, their scent abandoning them as a philosophy which cannot be further perfected. Love releases playful sensations even from serious things providing a life to think about. Take R—the only thing R could credit herself with was having lived her life and so she not only kept an account of it but did so not in the privacy of a diary but in the form of letters —abundant, profligate, indiscrete—that I want to write to you so as to note something that I read this morning: “It’s not that this or that means something to me but this!—or that!— means something to me.” Musically R bequeaths herself to posterity as a scholar might bequeath his or her library blowing twisted veils of rain past the narrow and curving windows in the last hour that will carry us along to the time when those who come after us will learn what we know—a man with a mustache waxed and dyed green, a line of tall people and a woman at the door, a committee of children without scooters but not mournful, a poet with a motive, a pilot with a flashlight, a sulking but fascinated scholar, and Goethe no doubt for whom R would have released a flock of red canaries.

That you are fair or wise is vain, Or strong, or rich, or generous; You must have also the untaught strain That sheds beauty on the rose. There is a melody born of melody, Which melts the world into a sea: Toil could never compass it; Art its height could never hit; It came never out of wit; But a music music-born Well may Jove and Juno scorn. Thy beauty, if it lack the fire Which drives me mad with sweet desire, What boots it? what the soldier's mail, Unless he conquer and prevail? What all the goods thy pride which lift, If thou pine for another's gift? Alas! that one is born in blight, Victim of perpetual slight: When thou lookest on his face, Thy heart saith, "Brother, go thy ways! None shall ask thee what thou doest, Or care a rush for what thou knowest, Or listen when thou repliest, Or remember where thou liest, Or how thy supper is sodden;" And another is born To make the sun forgotten. Surely he carries a talisman Under his tongue; Broad are his shoulders, and strong; And his eye is scornful, Threatening, and young. I hold it of little matter Whether your jewel be of pure water, A rose diamond or a white, But whether it dazzle me with light. I care not how you are dressed, In the coarsest or in the best; Nor whether your name is base or brave; Nor for the fashion of your behavior; But whether you charm me, Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me, And dress up Nature in your favor. One thing is forever good; That one thing is Success, — Dear to the Eumenides, And to all the heavenly brood. Who bides at home, nor looks abroad, Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.