Saturday, January 22, 2011

POEM: The Secret

The longevity is in long quiet winters
& tsunami springs that never look like much
But turn you upside down just the same

The secret is that there is no secret
Drop your leaves right where you are
Grip your roots firm as a tulip poplar

This life has not been given to you
With the flickering ending of a cinema in mind.
It’s not how things work.

Throw what sharp snow remains against the wall
And burnish a path through it all.

POEM: Riversong

The valley slips into bridal white
patchy lacework above is
Ironed onto the ribbon that is flat light

Black crows like plump musical notes
On a staff sit on the bare arms of trees
And make a visual music.

Poetry gets at what is unspeakable
But only a photograph tames the sun
And shackles color, holding it fast.

The Seven Sisters have never looked so sleepy
Reluctant to raise its recalcitrant head
Against thick, smoky air.

The throat of the river closes
With the sludge of nascent ice
Winter silences a great song.

POEM: Holy

It’s holy because I was born in this place
It’s holy because of the red-meat of sacrifice
It’s holy for the hollow loss
It’s holy because we sanctify it with semen and vaginal juices
It’s holy because we bleed all over it
Because you cannot separate land from sky
Or the tumultuous blue-green of ocean from
The pink of a fresh born child
Or the gray of the grave

It’s holy because we say it is
Because of voice
Because of heart
And the savage wounding we endure.

O – it is holy without priests or prayer
Without faith or sight of any kind.

It’s holy because it commands silence.