Because Students Should Stay in Libraries Where They Belong

A Yankee in Oxford
   gets nothing but scoff
She sits on a wall
    they tell her, "Get off."
She calls to the birds
    they think her a fool
While she thinks the English
     are painfully dull.

***

I swear I just got scolded by Professor McGonagall.  Ten seconds on the wall, and she swooped down from nowhere like the Guardian Spirit of Conformity.  So I had to write a poem to vent.  I don't really think you're all dull, my English friends.

Also, I'm not sure I consider myself a "Yankee," per se.  That's really more of a New England thing.  The more you know.
*

A Faded Flower

A faded flower is placed upon my desk
and I for far too long have watched it die
with fragrances of beauty and unrest,
but if I could revive it, how would I
preserve its every petal, or would try,
and every fleeting moment of delight
and every half-forgotten lullaby.
I'd nightingale a thorn, if such a rite
would dawn them all restored, new-blossomed in the night.

Above on shelves of dusty-honored age
a multitude of knowledgeable works
deplore my guileless fancies and engage
my thoughts with noble tugs and stubborn jerks
towards venerable heights, and promised perks
of pleasures wrought by words that might fulfill
my every mental craving, yet there lurks
the flower far beneath them, fading still.
The textbooks are my way, the flower is my will.

And so enjoined in mutual decay
I turn the page with ever-younger mind
while stem and stalk and eyesight waste away
and loves and lullabies are left behind.
I buy them in the market when I find
a worthy batch - I buy them, just a few.
Though dusty books will be here all the time
the fragile things of life are passing through.
Replace the faded flower, it's me that I renew.
*

A Day at the Beach

A March day, the rain has washed out
the gravel that filled last summer’s potholes.
We’re driving the beach road,
the hidden one,
the one that ends in a wall of sand.
The dunes have shifted –
this one’s grown, its ridge runs farther,
reaching out like an arm,
swallowing us up to the knee.
We climb the inland side,
walk over the edge, air beneath us,
and fall in ten-foot steps to the water’s edge.
We are not alone. The wind is here
claiming the beach for itself.
It worries the loose sand,
pulls it along in currents,
skips it across the ground,
lifts it away,
an hourglass that measures nothing.
Two crows take flight.
They bicker in the air,
with claws and wings,
claws against wings,
the way only old lovers can.
Each blade of grass has bent down,
and where it touches the sand
drawn a circle around itself
as if to say,
Here I am!
Circles within circles, hundreds and thousands,
an earnest art, a triumph
uncelebrated, unseen,
by a careless footstep, undone.
Are they playfully drawn, profound?
Both, both,
the sand captures everything,
every paused step and dug-in toe,
the curious detour, the racing beetle,
cigarettes, patience, bones, life,
all marked in the sand,
where the crows walked together
and where we walk now.
Yes, we will go, but not just yet.
The sand captures everything
and the wind carries it away.

Until I heard the jackdaw

I never noticed Kafka
until I heard the jackdaw's cry
echoed in the bended halls,
saw my cheek in ghostly faces
still life-lingering;

until I saw the tombstones
through the iron Star of David,
pins of the penal machine
bleeding the message, "boots against
broken cobblestone;"

until I felt drawn to the
fifth story window, the city's
unbearable gravity,
factory hands with severed fingers,
statues without heads.

In the shadow of the bridge
in Národní's old cafe light
here is something to give pause:
does a man ride on the current
or does he make it?

Ravachol, lost son of Prague,
chills the river to a standstill,
enigmatic, wholly spent,
consumed by the narrow streets, and
waits to be noticed.

A Love Song to the Mother of Cities

Praha, dobrý den, I greet you,
golden city spires that heat the
sun; the Prašná brána glowing
in the morning shine and showing
Gothic-y disdain, as ever,
to Špillar's Nouveau endeavor.
Down the Krakovska I drift and,
děkuji Praha!, the rifted
cobble gives my feet no falter
(Reagents' unintended altar);
with each stone a thought you foster
like an endless paternoster.
Who am I to castles climb
above the Sister of the Rhine? Oh
hail the roiling rushing river
Vltava, má vlast forever!
Lifted by Smetana's grace or
by a becherovka bracer,
either way, Boheme, I raise
a glass to health, nazdravi!, praise! for
with Orloj or metronome,
the time you trace is now your own.



For Prague I could go on and on...

If anyone's wondering what the heck I'm saying:

Mother of Cities, The Golden City, Praha = Prague
dobrý den = hello
Prašná brána = the Gothic Powder Tower
Špillar = designer of the Art Nouveau mosaic on the Municipal Building
Krakovska = a street I frequented
děkuji = thank you
Reagents = fellows who were defenestrated during a Catholic/Protestant kerfuffle
paternoster = an elevator that never stops moving
castle = the Prague Castle, sitting on a hill above the city
Vltava = the longest river in the Czech Republic
Má vlast = "My Country," a symphony by Smetana
becherovka = an alcohol
Bohemia = another name for the region
nazdravi! = Health! A toast!
Orloj = the Astronomical Clock
metronome = well...it's a gigantic working metronome. It sits high on a hill that once had a huge statue of Stalin. They say it counts down the time until Prague is invaded once again.

There, now I can't be accused of being cryptic.

Mystery

The burden of knowing
falls to the eyes
alone, and growing
from infinite lies
of vision and reasoning
out of what shows,
they mark without measuring,
thus presuppose.

What, when a mystery
weighing unfairly
on visual history
hints, oh, but barely,
of oceans of knowledge
untravelled, but wide,
can sight's simple sortilege
hope to provide?

ems of a Solitary Mind

I don't profess to be a poet. I'm not even quite sure what delineates prose from hesitated speech, or poems from TV jingles, or who makes the final call when it comes to "accidental poetry," a bit of text that reads like a poem even though it wasn't written that way.

But I do know that there are certain words or phrases that flash into existence and stay, a permanent firework or frozen bolt of lightening. Caught on my tongue, I find myself rolling them over and over again like a mantra, examining them, dissecting them. They are bits of thought that don't say much, but somehow reach deep into some sensitive piece of the mind, a green sprout with deep roots, unfurling but one, tiny flower.

I don't know what to call these things. Poems? Hardly. Something much less, maybe only "ems." They are more accurately described as "sticky words," because once they lodge into place, I can't seem to forget them. Here is a long-lived one, as an example:

Benedict Pond on September 14th, 2005
So many people leaving
__________________so fast
It's getting dark . . . sort of.

I've been getting a lot of little ems lately. Here's another, while walking along the dike, watching the winter robins:

Robin on a wire
can make
the ugliest fence
a treat.

Every time I look up at the distant hills lately, I hear the phrase, "the Western hills and rivers..." and so I tried to make something more out of it.

The Western hills and rivers
are wild beyond reproach
But oceans turn to islands
where works of men encroach

The Western hills and rivers
are vast and green and grand
But islands turn to outlines
where loosed the works of man

The Western hills and rivers
are silver in the dawn
are golden in the evening
by nightfall, they are gone.

Some more expanded ems:


These winter days are too damn short.
____ I sleep before I wake.
The days flash, the sun has no shame
____ that the moon lingers past its time.

My dog smacks his lips like an old man
in his sleep.
And I, tireless, stroke him on the ear
and think of open times, running times,
Times of deer and pigeon
Boundless, winded, weaving trails
and scents brought on the wind.
I am having the dreams of my dog.

Do you realize
when you bend to pick the pebble,
that smooth pebble, all rubbed with age
and agate specks, and flashing flecks of silver
in the stones around it,
Quartz, gray dots of granite,
black from the ancient forge,
crumbling yellow sandstone
ground beneath your foot unseen
Round stones, sharp stones,
embedded in the soil,
tiled against each other,
layer on layer,
measuring days, remembering years
beyond the breadth of man.
Do you realize,
you fleeting moment,
you mortal ghost,
with young hand, fast heart,
distant eyes
so blind to the labors of the earth,
the indignities of being thrown against a lady’s window?

Yeah, I know, no Poet Laureate am I. It beats reading the back of a cereal box, anyhow.

Raccoons on the Roof

I have been sitting very quietly
Listening to the noises outside

The wind is blowing
But it's not the tap of tree branches
There are raccoons running across my roof.

I look up and follow the sound
Tracing their path on the ceiling
They run with purpose
They are charging down the shingles

The footsteps stop above the window
And I half expect them to come swinging through the glass
SWAT team style
I'm not sure what they would want
Maybe dried apples, or pickles, or chocolate?

They come every night
When the clock has three digits
The pond fish live in constant fear
Of snatching claws in the water

There are raccoons on the roof
And the dog cocks his head
He is not sure how best to defend the house

I have been sitting very quietly
But my imagination is running across the roof

When the Bridge Opened

A tall ship came
The green metal middle of the bridge swung open
And all the traffic stopped.
Some sat idling
and some turned off their engines.

But we,
We got out and picked blackberries.
Fat shiny berries tasting of summer
Leaning on tiptoe with our hands inside the thorns
We went beneath the bridge
...where the shipyards are...
And stained our fingers purple.

And when the bridge swung closed
When the metal creaked and complained
and clicked into its place
The traffic moved on.

But we,
We did not return.
We stayed below
and picked blackberries.

7-5-7's at the Dinner Table

Poor little Dungeness crab
Small sweet thing, you don’t
belong in a burrito

Surrounded by refried beans
and smothered in cheese
Oh, what an insult to you!

Rather, you should be intact
Red shell, spotted claws
Sitting next to hot butter

No Poem

I couldn't get this out of my head today, and believe me, I tried. It was there when I woke up, which is what happens, kiddies, when you only get four hours of sleep. So I wrote it out, and now it's all better, and I can leave my head free to get other things stuck in it.

No Poem

I will not write a poem
about the morning fog
of how the slanted sunlight
is pushing it away

I will not write a poem
about the early crows
of how their treetop quarrels
are bringing in the day

I will not write a poem
that's dripping metaphor
where flowers are like forests
are like cities are like seas

Nor poetry that's choking
on pearly pretty words
that only find the author's ears
when seeking ears to please

For there are poems ample
about the crows and fog,
most as harsh and hazy as
the subjects that they cheer

And that's a awful rhyme
I'll spare you from the rest
I will not write a poem,
except for this one here.

Burns Night in July

I ha' ta say it honest
But being tha' I'm Scottish
I'm duty bound ta relish
The puddin' known as Haggis

It is a bitty beastie
Wha' through and through is tasty
When on the hills ya' chase he
He'll move his hiney hasty

But if ya canna' catch it
Ya nae the speed ta match it
You're too rotund ta snatch it
An' cap ta kilt feel wretched...

Tha' Haggis Tree will mend ye
A Haggis kindly send ye
If sure ya' treat it goodly
And hum Hey Tuttie Tatie

Oh Robbie, you ken rightly
This chieftain puddin' savoury
Tho' none may kip it bravely
Tis Scotland's gift to all!

Happy Random Robert Burns Night!

This is Not a Haiku

I put my work pants on
The ones with the tinkly belt
The dog comes in
The dog is excited
He jumps, he barks
He thinks we are going outside

There is spinach to cook today
There are boxes in the attic
That need looking into
The wind is picking up outside
The house is humming
With motors and water and wind

The dog checks in on me
He wonders what is taking so long
He wonders when the door will open
To let us go outside
But I am boring, still writing
I am trapped in a Hemingway moment

There Are Not Enough Hymns in the World

I beg your pardon, I'm feeling terribly rhyme-y this evening. Some thoughts are best said in meter...

There are not enough hymns in the world
I would not suggest it's a matter
much talked of in circles, or heard
above pertinent everyday chatter.

But it presses my thoughts, so I ponder
of the music once held in esteem,
of the harmonies weaving that wander
in the depths of the simplest theme,

Of the parts for each voice, each essential,
where the loss of just one, like the leg
of a table, at once consequential
to the balance of those who have stayed.

But the songs we now sing, though melodic
and catchy, I won't disagree,
repeat to the point of methodic
a two or three chord melody.

The same note for all of the people,
the same part for each unique voice.
How strange that we stop at the simple
with language we use to rejoice.

Would songbirds embrace but one chorus
if nature this fashion preferred?
Forgive if I seem to digress...
There are not enough hymns in the world.