Saturday, January 31, 2015

Blocks


1
If I could write the radiance of birds
Or name the births of all the continents,
Would I be closer to your secret mind?
Others have touched the penetralia

Of your obscure recess, so why can’t I?
When will the azure of your voice proclaim
The feasts of patience come?  Never?
The death of a wish hardly makes a sound.

2
Walking around naked on the moon
I stop only to consider the coffee stain
In the glass of the soul
The house is defenestrated with griffin claws

And a leopard is laughing at emptiness
Some people are never
Satisfied they didn’t discover the Pacific
Not even I can wish you away

3
The moon mirrors the seasons and the years
Which disappear into its silver mouth
And then return like a second, invisible sun
Illuminating half-remembered dreams.

What are you doing here?
It’s wonderful to be in your arms.
At last the corridors lead to other rooms
And I lose you among the ghosts and guests.

4
...


Friday, January 23, 2015

Blocks

1
If I could write the radiance of birds
Or name the births of all the continents,
Would I be closer to your secret mind?
Others have touched the penetralia

Of your obscure recess, so why can't I?
When will the azure of your voice proclaim
The feasts of patience come?  Never?
The death of wishes hardly makes a sound.

2
...

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

The River of Silver


The turning seasons add, almost imperceptibly,
Another layer of grime and mold
To the houses of the aristocratic necropole
Where the patriarchs fume as they decay.

The houses of the populace, less grand,
Caked with plants, wires, the slogans of yesterday,
Streaked as with mascara by the rain,
Accumulate like cereal-box facades.

The bel apartments are layer cakes
Or ocean-liners basking in the sun.
A toothless horse pulls a wooden cart
Loaded with scrap collected by a boy.

A foreigner looks up from his guidebook.
An idled crane drifts like a huge weathervane
As the clouds take the shape of animals:
Tiger, dragon, seahorse, rhinoceros.

While the more dangerous passions are alive
In the faces of the loved and the spurned
That one encounters on the shady streets;
Like destinies, they must remain unknown.



Monday, December 29, 2014

How to Lose One's Identity


I no longer have the strength to believe.
The absence of belief is my one belief,
Like a hole in my private ozone.

These spectacular flames, these oblique rays,
There is no speculation I might have
That has not already occurred.
It has been handled by everyone and you
By the time I finally take it up.
Wisdom would have to be something
Felt by all from all eternity,
Something fallen nearly into neglect,
Shined up, and placed, exactly, here.
One loses confidence in one’s touch.

I drank the broken gate before it closed
To me forever.  Some sightless man looks back
Now from a respectful distance.
I wish I could move forward or go back.
I, the statement of fresh water



Thursday, October 2, 2014

El Desdichado


I am the Inconsolable,—the Widowed,—the Dark Sire,
The Prince of Aquitaine of the demolished Fort:
My one Star is dead,—and my constellated lyre
To the Black Sun of Melancholia pays court.

In the night of the Tomb, You who did console,
Give back Mount Pausilippe and the sea of Italy,
The flower that so pleased my desolated soul,
And the trellis with Vine and Rose in filigree.

Am I Lusignan or Biron?...  Eros or Phoebus?
My face is still red from the kiss of the Queen;
I’ve dreamed in the Grotto where the Siren swims...

And twice I’ve crossed Acheron singing hymns,
Voicing, by turns, on the strings of Orpheus,
The Fairy’s cries and the Saintly Woman’s spleen.

GĂ©rard de Nerval (1853)


Monday, September 29, 2014

Welcome to My Magazine

Another summer left us rich in bikinis
And rich in friendship. My friends
Let us toast the acres of air that separate us,
The forests of people who come between.

Indeed, we share many of the same habits:
Staring intently, listening closely,
Hiding behind curtains, even on Sunday.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

But I can! It's surprising how close
Long-range photography can bring us. I know
Your begonias are growing nicely,
And we're on opposite sides of the park!

Some day, I want to be inside the radius
Of the perfumes you apply so liberally.
Some day, we'll think of the whales,
Probably almost at the same time.

You could say we're inching closer
To intimacy. The slow creep where
Neither of us occupy the moment,
Yet the moment, like here, wants to be there.

The Boat, Drunk (in progress)

As I traveled down impassible Rivers,
I no longer felt the pull of the guides:
Loud Redskins had emptied their quivers,
And nailed to dyed posts their bare hides.

As I went down impassible Rivers,
I no more felt the pull of the guides:
Howling Braves had emptied their quivers,
And then nailed to bright posts their bare hides.