θεωρία iii.

ELOUNTU

ran wither his own heart

to which he listend led,

as one & yet a part,

apart but interbred.

& where he put his foot

was made, yet up to him,

untrammeld, absolute,

as ancient cherubim

that God Himself had made

w purpose point & skill

when also He had sd,

w joy be multiple,

& sd, let there be light—

right, wrong; black, white; day, night.

10215

Reynolds & Midway 61

Reynolds & I went walking once

over a hill & field to chance

  upon an ancient tree

so old & broad we couldn't hug,

and there we took a jolly tug

  of tasty Wild-Eye.

We didn't wipe upon a sleeve

  to dry the tacky top,

nor say a single by-your-leave

  but tippd the bottle up.

    The wind blew; our skin thro'

      was bumpd & bitter cold.

    We sippd some, & quipt some,

      like lambs slipt from the fold.

While far away the hills were green,

the trees were few & far between,

  the ground was hard & white;

and in that wide & stony field

long brown & yellow locks reveald

  two young men in plain sight.

And so he put the bottle back

  inside his padded jacket,

and we walked on. My teeth a' clack,

  each fist stufft in its pocket,

    I yelld then, "We're dead men,

      this fuckin' wind will freeze us!"

    But Reynolds laughd, his cheek chaffd,

      "Then say a prayer to Jesus!"

We made it to the winterd wood

wherein the slender birch trees stood

  whose bark was ashen, flaked;

out of the wind we stoppd again,

and, like a twain of tender men

  in whom scant conscience waked,

we opend up the Wild-Eye

  and took a second swallow,

and squinted off into the sky,

  assured a third wld follow.

    The birds yelld, for they held

      in there the honord claim.

    The sun flew; and we, too,

      returnd from whence we came.

7.29.15

Wish of a Kitchen Maid

Is that my loved one coming
    through the mart,
to start the leaden drumming
    of my heart?

Is that him on his Shire's
    back so high?
The spark of my desire's
    flame-blue eye?

Are those the corded thews
    of his arms,
and that the lady who's
    won his charms

with plumpness in the bodice
    laced up tight,
which drew his blue eye's notice
    yesternight?

Indeed, it is the bitch.
    See there, he
dismounts and salves his itch
    with very

indiscreet and copious
    long kisses,
and gestures that make obvious
    who is his

lucky and young lover.
    Now, heart, ease.
The dream we had is over,
    so stop, please.



10.10.13

Ancient Conflict

"Whence came the Great Spirit?
upon whose breast
did He His strength inherit?
At who's behest
Did He come in the sky
and claim that I am I ?"

The doubting warrior queried.
And quoth the chief,
"Whispering Snake has tarried,
without relief,
so long on the path of battle
his head begins to rattle."



meh. 9.19.13

Hymn 41

I hear the wind, my Lord,
rage up against my house,
like sea waves pounding shoreward;
while inside I afford
love to each friend or louse,
A rough beast slouches forward.

The casement windows shake;
storm rattles roof and rafter,
and my soul under them.
All things in the world break.
Absurd and ancient laughter
cackles near Bethlehem.

6.29.2012

Lamentations (A Haunting)

  When I put on my gown
to shed my grief in linen
that softest hands once smoothed
and folded, in this wide
    and desolate bed
  I fly from eiderdown

  to rows of hills that lie
under the vault of stars
among the scent of flowers
that blossomed far away,
    where few find rest,
  and few go willingly.

  She waits, my slender love.
I dare to stroke a cheek
as bloodless as old lace,
proffer a touch she fends
    and steal a kiss
  she now is chary of.

  Beneath her tattered dress
a fluttering has stopped:
a still bird with still wings;
and yet she moves and breathes,
    and static tears
  shine on her tintless face.

  Why am I taken with
the hands that smell of earth,
the absence in the breast?
When far winds in her voice
    moan, when I hear
  the winter in her breath?

Nesting

At last this chill; and yet
trees stay alive to fret
thin shadows through the blinds
and grid your fussy hands
that rifle a cabinet.

You kneel and rearrange
my things and make them strange.
The trees outside will bear
This slightly colder air,
accustomed to the change.

Para Mi Esposa

You kneel and faintly move
your cloying scent,
not cinnamon or clove,
Nor burning mint,

but earthen, like the dust,
or pungent brine;
or like the rain, or rust,
or musk of pine.

I cup my lips and quench
a parching thirst
while from your throat I wrench
a gasping burst

of Spanish expletives
that shock my wits;
and yet your grace survives
such aspirates.

Spiritual Fire

The silver-tongued seduction
has never been my trade,
nor plying suit that's braver
than what with eyes is made,

nor will I offer roses,
nor flatter overmuch,
however fine the feature,
to win a woman's touch.

Let Patience, then, sustain me,
O Muse, or move my station
a little nearer Pieria
where to intoxication

I'll tipple holy water
and drown the rat, Desire,
and let my heart burn only
with spiritual fire.