246 Spiritual poems

My river is mine own, and I have made it for myself —Ezekiel And into the heavens, as on a bright day after rain, there came the shapes of four creatures, and they each had the likeness of a man, and each man had four wings outstretched and each wing had four eyes emblazoned, wide open, given to weeping at the worlds they contained: an eye-world of light, of fire and air, of water and its mirror, heart and its first fear; and in each world were four names, entangled in its forest of letters, whereupon I could read: Dow Jones, Cargill, Chevron, and DeKalb of the frozen seed, bearing but once and giving up its need; and under each name were discovered four meanings, literal, figurative, rational, dim, and under each meaning a counter-meaning, with its likeness of Freud, Marx, Hegel, and Lacan; and the four figures passed as one overhead, their wingtips linked like molten silver joined. For I, Ezekiel, had been given to eat the very substance of God, and my eyes were open and my mouth spake, as spring opens winter and winter closes fall; and the earth turned rightly, to my senses sweet. Son of man, they called me, a proverb and a sign. Say: I am a sign of the city, the cauldron where men burn down to desire. Say: I am the proverb of nothing and one, boiling over the fire, rising out of belief and falling, like a tyrant, out of derision alone. And lo, a likeness, as of the appearance of fire, the error of presence, of nothing as one, and lo, another likeness, the appearance of water, the error of absence, of something as none; for water surrounds all shapes that enter but has no shape of its own, and fire is the shape of ruin alone. For the princes of the sea shall cast their garments upon the land’s end: their scholar’s robes, sharkskin suits, and alligator shoes, their Nikes, Reeboks, and Chuvashian mittens knitted by the children of shepherds, by tinsmiths and ladies’ men, in the dark at the back of the store; for the princes of fire consume what they love, with the reckless ambition of gods. Yea, as I spake to dry bones that lay upon the earth, they danced into being, and chattered, one and one, down the hallways of my desert, the thresholds of my river. For the Lord builds ruined palaces and plants desolation, he receives what is absent; possesses all that is gone.

Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it. I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late, and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the flavor — not like food, sweet or sharp. More like a fine powder, like dust. And I wasn’t elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware. That’s how it is sometimes — God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it.

To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. And know there is more That you can’t see, can’t hear; Can’t know except in moments Steadily growing, and in languages That aren’t always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon within a True circle of motion, Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty.

A man began to eat his order of fish, and the ghost of the fish arose and spoke. Forgive me, it said, please hear me. I died in despair, which is, as you know, the worst of the deadly sins. As I slowly suffocated in the alien air, I gave up hope of salvation, and so died without the consolation of religion. In your compassion and mercy, have a Mass said for me, and pray for my soul. With that, the ghost of the fish vanished, and the man, congratulating himself on possessing the carcass of such a remorseful creature, tucked in.

Agion Oros, 2006 The air is cool and is right thick with birdsong as our bleary crew files out, of a sudden disinterred from three sepulchral hours of prayer into an amber brilliance rioting outside the cemetery chapel. With bits of   Greek and English intermixed, the monks invite us to the portico for coffee, παξιμάδια, a shot of cold ρακί. As I say, the air is cool, animate and lit, and in such light the road already beckons, so I skip the coffee, pound the shot, and pocket two hard biscuits. And yes, the way is broad at first, but narrows soon enough. παξιμάδια — pahximáthia — Greek biscotti; ρακί — rahkeé — Greek grappa

Oh why is heaven built so far, Oh why is earth set so remote? I cannot reach the nearest star That hangs afloat. I would not care to reach the moon, One round monotonous of change; Yet even she repeats her tune Beyond my range. I never watch the scatter'd fire Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train, But all my heart is one desire, And all in vain: For I am bound with fleshly bands, Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope; I strain my heart, I stretch my hands, And catch at hope.

1 Delphine is snug in the corruptible quiet, her heart all lurgy. She is vigorous with postures and slackening her jaw. The vogue memory is how when she was ten she stuck her tongue out really far and her friend said, “That makes you a lemon.” Retrospectively, what she wanted was a perm and a dad that gave money for the arcade. 2 Delphine lies down in the corner and gets up and lies down again, etc. This is so she knows she’s lain down on every bit of the floor. 3 There’s no one to see, so makeup is taken very seriously. If she French kisses the window her hair starts to curl — it is all very boudoir. Delphine expected to be bored. What she needs to say aloud is smooch. 4 Delphine’s heart is more woolen than sure. She nipped off the fur buds from the pussy willow and strung them into a necklace — a means of clustering wants. In the faraway land, her old milk glass holds other people’s toothbrushes and curdling water. 5 Precision here is superfluous as cut flowers. On the seafront the shrubs are meek in the blossoming wind. Delphine has worked on her complexion. Bestowed with peaches, she’s personal limelight. 6 At night her cruelties sneak up the ladder of her throat. Its delphinedelphinedelphine on steamed-up mirrors, always in joined-up finger-writing. 7 Singing is only permitted in the dark. Delphine is judging her own obedience.Look at me being strict! But she has to remind herself of the rules, hourly. Deceit is its own discipline. 8 Today the shrubs are insolent, waiting for adults to prepare a new game. Delphine considers ceremonial magic, but how to practice without a little magic escaping? 9 Wish yourself into a lovely place, she thinks. Loveliness would include shrubs without such expressions! 10 Wisdom may well have been squandered on seafronts and lipstick.So many years afraid of waste is its own waste

1 he picks a coin up from the ground it burns his hand like ashes it is red & marks him as it marks the others      hidden he is hidden in the forest in a world of nails his dibbik fills him 2 Each night another one would hang himself. Airless boxcars. Kaddish. "What will they do with us?" The brown & black spots on their bellies. So many clothes. The field was littered. Ten thousand corpses in one place. Arranged in layers. I am moving down the field from right to left—reversing myself at every step. The ground approaches. Money. And still his great- est fear was that he would lose his shoes. 3 earth, growing fat with the slime of corpses      green & pink that ooze like treacle, turn into a kind of tallow that are black at evening       that absorb all light

If I'm you, or you me— Interpenetrating God— enlarge our intimacy. You who are animus and blood— who make me dust from this table blown into grass, invisible— Is it you—or I— I pass and cannot see?

I am the holy being of my mother's prayer and my father's song — Norman Patrick Brown, Dineh Poet and Speaker 1. SET CONFLICT RESOLUTION GROUND RULES: Recognize whose lands these are on which we stand. Ask the deer, turtle, and the crane. Make sure the spirits of these lands are respected and treated with goodwill. The land is a being who remembers everything. You will have to answer to your children, and their children, and theirs— The red shimmer of remembering will compel you up the night to walk the perimeter of truth for understanding. As I brushed my hair over the hotel sink to get ready I heard: By listening we will understand who we are in this holy realm of words. Do not parade, pleased with yourself. You must speak in the language of justice. 2. USE EFFECTIVE COMMUNICATION SKILLS THAT DISPLAY AND ENHANCE MUTUAL TRUST AND RESPECT: If you sign this paper we will become brothers. We will no longer fight. We will give you this land and these waters "as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers run." The lands and waters they gave us did not belong to them to give. Under false pretenses we signed. After drugging by drink, we signed. With a mass of gunpower pointed at us, we signed. With a flotilla of war ships at our shores, we signed. We are still signing. We have found no peace in this act of signing. A casino was raised up over the gravesite of our ancestors. Our own distant cousins pulled up the bones of grandparents, parents, and grandchildren from their last sleeping place. They had forgotten how to be human beings. Restless winds emerged from the earth when the graves were open and the winds went looking for justice. If you raise this white flag of peace, we will honor it. At Sand Creek several hundred women, children, and men were slaughtered in an unspeakable massacre, after a white flag was raised. The American soldiers trampled the white flag in the blood of the peacemakers. There is a suicide epidemic among native children. It is triple the rate of the rest of America. "It feels like wartime," said a child welfare worker in South Dakota. If you send your children to our schools we will train them to get along in this changing world. We will educate them. We had no choice. They took our children. Some ran away and froze to death. If they were found they were dragged back to the school and punished. They cut their hair, took away their language, until they became as strangers to themselves even as they became strangers to us. If you sign this paper we will become brothers. We will no longer fight. We will give you this land and these waters in exchange "as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers run." Put your hand on this bible, this blade, this pen, this oil derrick, this gun and you will gain trust and respect with us. Now we can speak together as one. We say, put down your papers, your tools of coercion, your false promises, your posture of superiority and sit with us before the fire. We will share food, songs, and stories. We will gather beneath starlight and dance, and rise together at sunrise. The sun rose over the Potomac this morning, over the city surrounding the white house. It blazed scarlet, a fire opening truth. White House, or Chogo Hvtke, means the house of the peacekeeper, the keepers of justice. We have crossed this river to speak to the white leader for peace many times Since these settlers first arrived in our territory and made this their place of governance. These streets are our old trails, curved to fit around trees. 3. GIVE CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK: We speak together with this trade language of English. This trade language enables us to speak across many language boundaries. These languages have given us the poets: Ortiz, Silko, Momaday, Alexie, Diaz, Bird, Woody, Kane, Bitsui, Long Soldier, White, Erdrich, Tapahonso, Howe, Louis, Brings Plenty, okpik, Hill, Wood, Maracle, Cisneros, Trask, Hogan, Dunn, Welch, Gould... The 1957 Chevy is unbeatable in style. My broken-down one-eyed Ford will have to do. It holds everyone: Grandma and grandpa, aunties and uncles, the children and the babies, and all my boyfriends. That's what she said, anyway, as she drove off for the Forty-Nine with all of us in that shimmying wreck. This would be no place to be without blues, jazz—Thank you/mvto to the Africans, the Europeans sitting in, especially Adolphe Sax with his saxophones... Don't forget that at the center is the Mvskoke ceremonial circles. We know how to swing. We keep the heartbeat of the earth in our stomp dance feet. You might try dancing theory with a bustle, or a jingle dress, or with turtles strapped around your legs. You might try wearing colonization like a heavy gold chain around a pimp's neck. 4. REDUCE DEFENSIVENESS AND BREAK THE DEFENSIVENESS CHAIN: I could hear the light beings as they entered every cell. Every cell is a house of the god of light, they said. I could hear the spirits who love us stomp dancing. They were dancing as if they were here, and then another level of here, and then another, until the whole earth and sky was dancing. We are here dancing, they said. There was no there. There was no  "I"  or "you." There was us; there was "we." There we were as if we were the music. You cannot legislate music to lockstep nor can you legislate the spirit of the music to stop at political boundaries— —Or poetry, or art, or anything that is of value or matters in this world, and the next worlds. This is about getting to know each other. We will wind up back at the blues standing on the edge of the flatted fifth about to jump into a fierce understanding together. 5. ELIMINATE NEGATIVE ATTITUDES DURING CONFLICT: A panther poised in the cypress tree about to jump is a panther poised in a cypress tree about to jump. The panther is a poem of fire green eyes and a heart charged by four winds of four directions. The panther hears everything in the dark: the unspoken tears of a few hundred human years, storms that will break what has broken his world, a bluebird swaying on a branch a few miles away. He hears the death song of his approaching prey: I will always love you, sunrise. I belong to the black cat with fire green eyes. There, in the cypress tree near the morning star. 6. AND, USE WHAT YOU LEARN TO RESOLVE YOUR OWN CONFLICTS AND TO MEDIATE OTHERS' CONFLICTS: When we made it back home, back over those curved roads that wind through the city of peace, we stopped at the doorway of dusk as it opened to our homelands. We gave thanks for the story, for all parts of the story because it was by the light of those challenges we knew ourselves— We asked for forgiveness. We laid down our burdens next to each other.