Faces on a Grecian Urn

Weep, weep, weep for the woe, and homeward depart

–Aeschylus

–

on mountain’s doorstep the clouds collapse

to pool in wintry tarns

the treetops made ice, fresh in morning

a silvered green

–

here I am

beast

or man

waiting

–

there are figures sketched by a different hand

than the one that finished the glaze

eyes turned outward

two-headed horses

in forced perspective

gallop on

–

if not winter

then spring

safer than when the fields grow pregnant

the wheat goes brown

good for burning

–

then, Atys left to hunt the boar

overgrown in the mountain’s shadow

–

a different hand grasped the handle into shape

still a subtle indentation of the fingers

–

here I am

stalking the king’s dark dreams

–

Atys

you stood on high

in Lydia

watching the phalanx tight turn

eager

forbidden

–

you had your heart led astray by siren-like Sappho

though you found her cold as a Grecian urn

speaking breathlessly, though not as rosy as Keats

–

the one with the violets in her lap

like to gods

–

if not winter

then spring

the boar awoke

–

like to gods

tusks like iron spears

hair shorn by broken blades

like to gods

–

here I am

here am I

–

man and beast locked in circular pursuit

around vessel’s edge

–

the hand that painted this urn

forgot to include the stranger

who in the final moment

let missile fly

and missed his mark

Snowbound Solitude

when the snow came

it lifted the latch

and hearing the sound, soft

I awoke to turn on a light

and find nothing

at last

–

for the cold had arrived

an hour before

uninvited as usual

to breathe reed-like exhalations

into my ear

and vibrate my ceiling

–

the snow came

but was silent

absorbed in its own designs

the cold makes things difficult

so I fell asleep alone

–

the bed makes too much noise

to be discreet anyway

Poem for a blank page

a long pale shadow of pavement

untouched by rain

an untapped possibility

as wind scatters the loose leaves of our souls

over the wall and into the river

watch the blank pages drift, sodden

waiting to be written on

–

a man, his umbrella like a cane

limping in the garden

a leg too stiff to bend and lengthen his gait

a short stroll to the fountain

to see what autumn has left

in the water so clean

–

as the bells ring in the hour

as the mountains gather the loose

strands of storms to hurl rain down

on the saturated town once more

and the light changes in stages of gray

–

a poem for a blank page

the paper that stuck together

to be discovered later

something sorrowful in that untouched

untapped possibility

a poem for that which is and should be

empty

a line to be left blank

to be filled in when no one is looking

 

–

 

I met a gypsy who tried to steal my soul

with a flute played frantically

in half breaths

while his companion juggled smiling

with dirty hands, doing a dance

in half step

–

he called me chico

but I hurried by

and held in my weak stomach

that still burned with Parisian champagne

–

I could have walked on the Bastille with you

but chose to go off alone and see where

a man was born and died

sipping thick liquor, fingers tobacco-stained

I can hear his ghost calling me

–

but I’ll wait

to see what comes down

that now empty street where they run with bulls

–

I wanted to know what patron saint

would bless my aimless poetry

would smile and lead it right

to the point

but he must have missed the train

I saw Saint Sebastian, poked full of holes

but he was busy

pulling out arrows

House of Bones

to build a house of bones

and paint it like the sky

water

in light ascending

on the roof smoke the dusk

blowing rings to drift and burn red

these towers of broken glass

the house a beach at low tide

–

sunset in stringcourses of yellow and orange

over stone towers, churches, and minarets

a modern egg of faceted glass blue

smoky red burning off into darkness

darkness on the sea, the sea a mirror

reflecting the night, the bare masts catching light

the dying day settles into empty afterglow

–

to dream of death by water

the slow suffocation

exhale

words encapsulated ascending

watch the sun sink into the starless sea

the starless sky reflecting nothing

Enter the Hero, Tragically

the hero is in your pocket

with bits of paper

obscured dates

crossed out expenses

a bit of string

–

but don’t forget

he ran with stone-faced Tarahumara

through plated copper canyons

he made men out of clay

and tore off for Jerusalem

–

don’t forget

the nine days he sat staring at the open-ended machinery

embedded in a modern Well of Mimir

and saw nothing there

–

he slept with his wife who was his mother

and offered psychological explanations

that were found a bit lacking

because they did not match his dreams

–

he tore the wings off of birds to mimic their flight

but forgot the proper stroke and instead fanned the face of Venus

which was always too hot

–

he founded Rome

–

he traced streets organic and crookedly following some lost line of thought

glistening wet from the fog of a thousand fires

fires on lampposts lighting amused faces smiling out through barred windows

live music and a bar inside to reflect their imprisonment

–

he reeled and laughter with the others

excuse this lapse back into an adolescence I never knew

and downed salt, tequila, lemon from a tray

lips licked by flame

out into the maddened quickening night

racing as if in flight from some howling, growling thing

stiff-legged running on slippery cobblestones, beside himself with laughter

–

he saw a building vomit a crowd of people, eyes popping and dancing still

to that dying beat

they walked a few steps before collapsing on the street

to be swept up by a wagon on three wheels going much to fast

in the quicklime darkness

–

and how it burned

–

he tipped the string duo and the string trio

but could not find a quartet

and settled on an accordion player

who claimed to know the Theme of Lara

but only hummed Wish Upon a Star

–

he cried and tried to write poetry to all the unnamed muses

walking in shortened dresses

eyes curling up into smiles

when their mouths had none to offer

only a blank expression of forced joy

faked surprise

at last revealing a sordid loneliness

–

his eyes dried he tried to speak, but was pushed aside

a man in rags

please, tell me, please just where to find

politely they listened to a foreign tongue and interrupted themselves

arguing the proper pronunciation of the word hierarchical

and how it came up he did not know

–

how he ended up in that miserable dive of drunk Americans with disposable incomes

he did not know

but he drank up with them, our dear hero, and stood pushed against the bar

loudly proclaiming the absolute inarguable superiority of the West

whatever the West meant and was and had been

scorning wine for whiskey

and more tequila also

though better

less burn

music

–

a guitar plain caught soundlessly in his ears and would not leave

as he collapsed in the darkness on a bare bed, two sheets

slipping out of ecstasy into a paranoid hallucinatory drunk

that would not let any thought slip away unnoticed, without comment

into the void that washed over that dreamed of bed

but every hero must slip and sweat through his sheets

recall the two Russians buying beer in a 7-11 asking his advice

and beginning a long discourse on the benefits of warm climate

Australia

he slipped off the tail of this train of thought and finally fell to sleep

–

he dreamt of elephants

and snow-capped peaks

of long lines of dust stretched over the sky

dark green of pine and dull red of autumn

suddenly walking down a deserted path through bare trees already divested of their leaves

their leaves are gone

the fog he found too heavy

he slipped, his tragic flaw was balance

he felt the world’s turn just a little too strongly

–

the hero is in your pocket

where you put him

but where will he be tomorrow?

Shadows

Gothic towers lined with black

a city sketched in charcoal

sits back against the hills

the hills are changing

monstrously alive

benign

–

these are my shadows

–

torn-up fragments

of cheap yellow paper

skeletal lines

curving arched and starved

thrown out windows

–

these are my shadows

–

crooked photographs

bent back and looking up

at all of history

too many stories

up to washed-out obscurity

–

and my shadows are blood

seeping through shoes too tight

to give light to bulging cobblestones

suckled on blood

and alcohol

consumed and soon spit out

spitefully on these streets

of ill-defined charcoal

slightly raised edges of white

running viscous down

the steady slope

to a river with two names

–

these are my shadows

Central Station

red and black glisten

wet

under dimmed lights

1 AM

the workers stroll solemnly

across the floor

dressed in orange

sweeping the station clean

–

stranded

Kobenhavn H

waiting for a train

mint and whiskey

every time I breathe

–

these burning eyes

look on

at water encased in ice

where did this all occur

before?

–

bench is hard

barstool better

better than last call

last train

–

better to sit

for an hour

in that tunnel

where pigeons sleep

head beneath wing?

–

or seek refuge in the brighter light

pacing businessmen

running away

from that bent shadow

of homelessness

that inequality

conspicuously where it shouldn’t be

scraping at the tracks?

–

and workers

dressed in orange

drag the shadow

to the light

to scrutinize and condemn

and eject this unpleasantness

this uneasiness

from my whiskey dream

sweeping the station clean

Silent Wings

This is actually quite an old poem, probably six or seven years old.  I wrote it about my grandfather, Allen, who flew gliders during WWII.  Most of the images come from stories he told me.  He told me about landing on a horse the night of D-Day and about living in Paris in the same building as a group of prostitutes, who would give him a bottle of wine for his army boots.  He also described a day when he was flying fuel to Patton with his two friends flying on either side of him when a German fighter plane flew in and shot down both of his friends, but must have been out of fuel or ammo and veered off before he shot at Allen.  I found out that Allen passed away this morning, so I decided to post this old poem as a tribute to my remarkable grandfather.  Goodbye, Allen.  I will miss you.

Silent Wings

I fell into a crystal ball

fogged with age, or memory

southern plains stretched before

my reaching hands

to race away

into eternity

the clouds float by

in a quiet stream

past my silent wings

I soar by them in a dream

they linger in a photograph

taken by a shadow

I can still recall that dark night

as I lie in the moonlight

with my wings tucked away

stars fell into the sky

to bring us down in a twisted cross

as we glided into history

I guess the photographs

the browned parchment papers

with the manuals tucked behind glass

can’t do justice to the time we spent

together

I ask you now when we meet

do you remember the wine

that bubbled up in a bitter red

through the jagged holes in the floor

that came with the growl of a jade wolf?

or the boots that brought us money

when we placed them by the creaking stairs?

These images sweep over me

as I stroll down the avenue of trees

lined with plaques, bricks, names

maybe souls fly back here

on silent wings to the bridge lined

with hedgerows in the distance

Black Book: Book II 1&2

1

crossed out

eyes open

time disjointed

and split

this feeling of dislocation

on water

these boats

we walk upon

are painted by the sea

and seasons’ change

in hours of sun

these bridges

canals

everywhere a sense

and sign

of age

age as beauty

2

strange to be

in a world of sense

and sound

voices in two languages

one comprehensible

subtle and soft

politely textured

a world of sound

but not words

no more letters

verbal, but not visual

in which the time changes

these are the winds

that shift our sails

striking chords

and carry us off tenderly

meet me in King’s Garden

a corner quiet

preferably in the sun

30

high rise

glass gold

a faceted reflection

150 years of human cultivation

this is not an ode

Denver

I heard a love song to you

but I’ve forgotten how it goes

Denver

why do the drunks march

and swagger down 16^th street

but stumble a block over

on 15^th

and vomit into the lap of the Buddha?

I heard a bus brake pop

diesel whining on

and looked for him

the Buddha

to step down

too late

waiting in old doorways

under hanging gardens

the plants dusted clean

swept out into the street

I want all my streets

paved in red sandstone

soft and aged

like the sidewalks on old Pearl

these twilight markets

make us forget winter

nights bluer than the neon sign

glowing cold

pinned up in the faded night sky

I could see it coming back

through the black outskirts

tail tucked between my legs

I saw a sail of strips of flag

run over

but it billowed

and crept out over the Platte

water logged to roll downstream

sirens in the summer air

close and holding

holding

now gone

Denver

is this your love song?

I wrote this at 10,000 feet

high

clinging to the rocks

for fear I’d be dripped into the sky

I’ve seen its bathtub ring

bleached onto the highest peaks

there is danger in that flat horizon

reflected in a thousand windows

each with a different face

no more voices in the street

only jazz

as rhythm to thoughtless drinking

downing food, dabbing fingers

only jazz

to trade off solos

and choral voices

in time I am deaf to

just jazz

spinning over the room

one woman clapping

occasionally

at odd moments

and a couple

woman’s face painfully beautiful

high cheekbones

knowing eyes

one couple leaning back

and into each other

in brushstroke curves

comfortably in the corner

only jazz in contraband cigarette smoke

drifting in the close room

the notes coming close together

what sound brushes can make on glass!

I could come here

to the bar

sit under the low hanging lights

in drops of molten white

and listen to jazz

steaming out through the cracks in the door

the main room black

and filled for the evening

sorry sir

excuse me miss

shyly flirting with the waitress

deftly eyeing the girl

face flushed

eyes behind black-rimmed glasses

ear pressed to cell phone

as we both go outside

to Denver’s late summer

no more mountains

only night falling falsely illuminated

so I can’t see shooting stars

to wish upon

candle wax, red lights

it’s all so synchronized

luckily

and planned

each flat-footed stumble

putrid smell of smoke

no more polaroids

I’ve felt fire

burning my face

warm on my hands

fire growing

a car engulfed in flames

kept on flaring

Denver

where are your train tracks

leading

I’ve heard the whistle

stepped over them

once, twice, many times

rusted metal

leads

on?

with ice

the Platte sounds

sulky

the hill allows us

to fall down

covered with grass

brown and scratchy

as hay

or horses’ hair

no more blankets

hanging in windows

to be beat down

only shawls

and less comfortable

clothing

hanging loose

the dress I saw in Civic Center Park

oh Denver!

black and short

and loose over her pale arms

paler breasts

she blew sweet and tangy smoke

from her joint

into my eyes

and said beat it

with her lack of expression

walking over the tulips

spray-painted red and yellow

none too gently

not on tiptoe

never on tiptoe

there are no more ballerinas

but I can hear crickets

in the rain

harsh water falling off trees

onto metal

thunder is the sky’s bones

groaning

rolling

over roof peaks

and lit-up freeways

rain the quiet sing song

darkness

the momentary illusion of light

deep bass of sudden boom

quick behind the icy blue flash

rain like ice

clinking in glasses

we toast the night

neck quivering

waiting for the next concussion

to silence the crickets

cool wet Denver night

finding the rain in street lights

magnified

rain on pavement bright

the streets are moving

calm, collected

eye shine

the city quiets

as if to listen

to the water falling

pitch ebbing and rising

suddenly strong

suddenly weak

suddenly unseen

I’ve kicked through these rippling reflections

recollections collecting

in yellow and blue

the cold damp to seep

and creep up my paint leg

solace in the steady sound

Denver

restless rainy Denver

still there is jazz-like percussion

and it is past midnight

tires roll

kick the rain

momentarily back into the sky

past idle boxcars

the ghosts of past brakemen

and those who rode for free

but Denver

it grows louder

solid

and suddenly a dull ache

and scream

louder

harder

growing too

too

much

a solid stream

in the light beams

and then

soft

again

I know what time

the moon will rise tonight

but not

if it will shine

a ship’s white hull

abruptly breaking free

calmly

the light shines on

beneath a canvas shade

pale

casting shadows

within itself

calmly

the gutters weep

and the sound of their tears is gentle

brushes on glass

the thunder

is the mountains moving

my tomorrow will

always happen

today

and as I cannot hold onto water

I will let it run

flowing out

in muted moonlight

I cannot hold onto water

skin cold and blushed

fingers spread

in silent regret

where has today gone?

a thought four months ago

will it

to be a love song

but the words form weary

and sink away

lacking energetic youth

they should possess

my language is young

and forms in the front

of my mouth

there was rain

now the leaves are cold

and fold withdrawn and sullen

each little death

and birth

I’ve given to the world

is forgotten

Denver

I dreamt that I would walk your streets

and laugh

I suppose I did

once

I dreamt port would be sweet

but not that sweet

not vinegar in my stomach

and coming back up

again and again

until flies flew around my bloated eyes

and gaping mouth

and wondered

what’s with this guy?

I dreamt that the lights would dim

and silence

true silence

would return

that the mountains

would list tethered and break free

to reclaim your streets

a mile high

but I didn’t know

to what purpose

rocks on windows

sound too harsh

and reprimanding

and they didn’t wake

anyone from sleep

so what if my sheets fall down

between the bed and frame

kicked off

one hot night

alone?

or that snow

or that rain

pooled on my windowsill

to run over

and mold the carpet?

this breeze put an end to me

it smelt too sweet

and I thought of skin

falling in the wet grass

to breathe

this is my last night

in Denver

for a long time

no more jazz

no more half-assed love songs

he said it took him

ten years to write

I couldn’t quite feel it

in one night

or two

or five

he read the words

and I forgot them

each completing his role

his words were sad

and caught on the lights above

hanging blue and feeble

over an open-mouthed crowd

Denver

I forget what I wanted to say

watch the mountains turn gold

I’ve forgotten

but I know

underneath the rain-heavy clouds

the night sky

is blue