I am not done with my changes.

The Layers
~Stanley Kunitz


I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Maybe I am a King.

A Story That Could Be True
If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand in the corner shivering.
The people who go by—
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"—
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."

~William Stafford

Because it is bitter...

I was digging around in an old poetry folder to find a selection of favorite poems to present in class and I came across this little gem. I have always liked this one. It reminds me a bit of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. It is dark, but it is a comforting sort of darkness. I feel a kind of sympathy for this creature; perhaps the pity Frodo spoke of. It... eases me. I don't feel more bitter, but less, for reading this poem. It's like, I can know the bitterness in my own heart--even taste it--and it's okay. It's okay. The Gollum-creature--that Jungian-Shadow of us all--holds our heart in his hands and consumes it, so we don't have to.



In the Desert
~Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.

I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Iceland Calling

I am in love with Iceland.


I fell in love with Iceland even before my trip in 2007, before I stepped off the plane and felt the jagged rocks crunch under my boots, before I breathed the crackling, ion-scented air, before I gazed across moss-covered plains broken only by a volcanic horizon.


I fell in love with Iceland when it was merely a finger-tip dot on a map. I fell in love with it through the words of this man, William Jon Holm, poet and essayist. Sadly, I have just learned that Mr. Holm is no longer with us. But his words and his life remind me of why I'm here doing this thing I do. Because if there is the slightest chance--the slightest chance--that my life will be as rich as his, well... it will be a life worth living.


I will leave you, then, with an excerpt from one of his poems, of which, unfortunately, I have only this snippet copied out of a book I borrowed years ago. I came across the notepaper I had scribbled it down on and it reminded me that I had wanted a copy of that book for myself. Another book for my wishlist, and another destiny for my dreams.




Excerpt from "The Icelandic Language"


In an air conditioned room you cannot understand the grammar of this language,


The whirring machine drowns out the soft vowels,


But you can hear these vowels in the mountain wind


And in heavy seas breaking over the hull of a small boat.


Old ladies can wind their long hair in this language


And can hum, and knit, and make pancakes.


But you cannot have a cocktail party in this language,


It is so heavy you can't be polite and chatter in it.


For once you have begun a sentence, the whole course of your life is laid out before you,


Every foolish mistake is clear, every failure, every grief,


Moving around the inflections from case to case and gender to gender,


The vowels changing and darkening, the consonants softening the tongue


Til they are the sound of a gull's wings fluttering


As he flies out of the wake of a small boat drifting out to open water.


~William Jon Holm

A Tattoo: A Tale

Since getting my new tattoo (the picture will have to wait, since I seem to have the stupidest computer in the world) one week ago today, certain friends (Shari!) have requested I tell the tale behind it all. Some have also requested that I relay my mother's reaction (Paul!); however, I am still holding out the hope that if I play my cards right she may never find out at all.

Nevertheless, the tale deserves to be told. So, my dear Readers, gather around the campfire, build your s'mores in wee sticky fistfulls, and prepare to be entranced by not one but three tales; for the tale of my tattoo is a tale within a tale within a tale....

The Scar
First, I will take you back in time to the year 1994, the year of my first major car accident. We--that is, my former husband, my son, and I--were living in Hollister at the time. Hollister, as you may already know, is a little town way the hell away from everyplace else. This meant I spent a lot of time bundling up my 2-year-old into his car seat and racing back and forth along Highway 25 in my little Chevy Sprint. Honestly, I was up and down that road so many times I came to believe that I would meet myself coming or going along that route. Who knows? Maybe that's exactly what happened.

Here is what happened: On one of these many trips, I happened to look in my rearview mirror to check on my son, as I often did, and I discovered he had fallen asleep with a McDonald's milkshake in his hands. If that falls, that's going to make a really big mess, I thought to myself, little knowing how devastatingly ironic those words were about to turn. So I did what they tell you in driver's training courses never to do (here is the cautionary part of the tale): I reached into the back seat to obtain said milkshake. In the process, I drove off the road, then overcorrected back onto the road, and flipped my car. It flipped and flipped and flipped. I lost count. Eventually, it ended up on the driver's side, skidding down the highway.

Funny thing, car accidents. I mean, it really is like they say: time slows down or your brain speeds up or maybe both. Your mind has time to think of all sorts of things. So there I was, sliding sideways down the highway, and I was thinking about a story my dad had told me about when he was in a car accident when he was young, thrown from the driver's seat (pre-seatbelt days) and had only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the steering wheel and pulling himself back in. So, I'm thinking to myself, in the thoughts that I think, Okay. Are all my arms and legs inside the car? And it was then I noticed that my shoulder was dragging along the highway right outside my window. There wasn't any pain--shock or adrenaline was preventing that--only a kind of hyper-awareness which made me go, Hmm. That's not good. Better move that. And I did.

The rest, as they say, is history. Once I slid to a stop, some kind motorists helped me and my son out of the wreckage and waited with me until the ambulance came.

My son, safe in his car seat, didn't have a scratch.

I received twenty-two stitches in my left shoulder.

I was washing glass and strawberry milkshake out of my hair for three days.

My car was totaled beyond repair.

My scar is a physical reminder of this. It reminds me that this was a single car accident on a dangerous two-lane highway: The accident could very easily have involved one or more other vehicles. If it had, especially if it had been one of those big rigs that are often out there on 25, I may not have survived at all.

My scar also reminds me that when my husband learned of the accident, he only asked after his son. He asked nothing of me. His response, I'm told, was something to the effect of "Only my son matters." Yeah. Nice guy, my ex.

I am not a superstitious person, but I do enjoy dramatic gestures, especially if they are loaded with symbolic or poetic meaning. Since that time I have fancied the notion that, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be on that shoulder, and it would have to form some kind of circle to encircle that scar. I liked the idea of separating that space from the rest of my body, both isolating my brush with death and warding against future disasters. But for a long time, that's all it remained: an idea. Until....

The Ouroborus
For many years I've joked that I could never get a tattoo simply because I could never make up my mind what design to choose. I toyed briefly with the idea of a mermaid, because I love mermaids, but it just didn't feel right. There are other less specific designs I've seen on other people that I thought were really lovely--trailing ivy, tribal patterns, etc.--but those didn't carry the symbolic weight I was looking for either.

One day I was watching an episode of Red Dwarf (yes, I'm a fan) and the storyline centered on playing with the word "ouroborus." The word tugged at my memory. When I looked it up online, I discovered that this symbol--the serpent swallowing its tail--has been floating around in books and media I've been reading and watching for years. It's been on the X-Files and The Neverending Story and in numerous myths and legends.

One of my favorite stories involves a young man who is captured by a witch and made her servant. In the way of such tales, he is forbidden to eat the food hidden under a covered dish. One day while he is cleaning, he can't resist the urge to peek under the lid. He finds a baked serpent with its tail in its mouth. He decides to take a little pinch off of the tail. When he eats it, he discovers he can now understand the language of birds and overhears them talking of the witch's plans to kill him. He is then able to make his escape and earn his fortune with his new-found abilities.

The Ouroborus, depending on which story you read, can be a symbol for immortality, wisdom, and energy renewed, among other things. And it's a circle.

The Ormurin Langi
Now those of you who know me well are probably wondering why I didn't go for something a little more commonly recognizable, say, from The Lord of the Rings. Certainly, the ring is a circle. And the words that formed on the ring are often rendered in a circle. And certainly I am a fan of all things Tolkien. But. Think on this. Those words are a curse. Maybe I am superstitious, but I just don't fancy permanently inscribing a curse in the language of a malevolent entity into my skin. Not good karma. Or at least not good feng shui.

Plus, with the popularity of the movies, anything Tolkien has become... well... trendy, for lack of a better word. And I tend to shy away from following trends. What I wanted was something that captured the essence of Tolkien's poetry, that invoked a similar mythic power....

Copenhagen, 2007. Enter the boys from Faroe.

On my last night in Copenhagen, while finishing up an adventure in 2007, the summer I turned 40, I met these boys from the Faroe Islands. I call them boys, but, you know, they were in their early 20's. Anyway, I was coming back from a rather sedate night out with the girls, and there they were, sitting on the stoop outside the hostel. They asked where we were from, and we said America. And I asked where they were from, and they said Faroe. That stopped me in my tracks. I have always held a fascination for those little northern islands, and now here was my chance to learn about them first hand! The girls I was with didn't seem to find this nearly as exciting as I did, so they went on in. Nevermind them; I got to be entertained by half a dozen beautiful, beautiful boys as they told me all about their island home. And in the course of conversation, The Ormurin Langi came up.

The Ormurin Langi is a ballad of some 85+ verses that is sung while dancing in a circle. The ballad was written circa 1830, but it's based on an historical event that is far older. In the year 1000, Norwegian king Olaf Trygvason battled with the Swedish and Danish kings off the island of Svolder. When it became clear that he had lost the battle, he and his remaining men leapt overboard. Their ship was named the Ormurin Langi, the Long Serpent.

Copenhagen, 2:00am. Upon request, the boys from Faroe jumped up and formed a ring and danced and sang (in part) the Ormurin Langi for me. It's one of my best memories.

The Design
I can't tell you when all of this came together. I don't remember if I thought of the ouroborus first and the Ormurin Langi second, or vice versa. It just sort of came together in my head one day, the way such creative notions do.

I didn't like any of the ouroborus designs I found online, so I made up my own. I wanted something that looked like it had been lost at sea for 1000 years. I found a picture of a dragon masthead from a ship from the time of Beowulf, which is about right, give or take a couple hundred years.

The verses I have taken from The Ormurin Langi are from the chorus:

Glymur dansur í høll, dans sláði í ring
Glaðir ríða noregis menn til hildarting

Translation:
Glad sounds of song fill the hall as we dance and sing
Gladly ride the Northern men til Hildar rings (a famous bell)

Sufficiently joyous, I think. No curses here.

The Experience
I wanted to go someplace local, support local artists and all that. I checked online and El Toro Body Shop had the most impressive reviews. When I stepped inside, I felt right at home: The decor was made up of all manner of dragons and masks from around the world. The artist, Marty, did a brilliant job realizing my vision, piecing together my request from little more than my verbal description and the photo of the masthead. He was easy-going and friendly, and very accommodating when it came to scheduling my appointment. We had a great time talking about traveling: He lived in Norway and Holland for awhile and had all kinds of stories to share. I never even noticed the time passing.

I have always heard that getting a tattoo is painful, so I was expecting it to hurt. Nevertheless, I went into it with the devil-may-care attitude of, Hell, I've been through childbirth--I can handle anything! hahaha And you know, it wasn't that bad. I don't think it ever went past a medium level discomfort, if that. In fact, the experience was so pleasant overall that I might even consider doing it again....

And Now....
When I look at my shoulder now, I don't think about a car accident that nearly took my life, or an ex-husband who never truly understood or loved me. Instead, I think about a Norwegian King who would rather jump overboard than surrender. That's very me. Failure is just not an option. I must be the Captain of my ship; I will succeed because I must. And if I do not, then I'm going down with the ship.

But then I have the ouroborus to remind me that there is power in renewal, that there is a coming back from our lowest most destructive levels of existence. If I do fail, I will return and build again. This gives me hope.

And finally, I am reminded of those fair-haired, stormy-eyed boys from Faroe, who on a whim danced and sang for a stranger one Midsummer's night and stole my heart forever.

I've told my son that if he wants a tattoo, he'd better wait until he's 40 so that if he makes a mistake, he'll only have half his life to regret it. ;-)

But I do not regret it. No. Not one little bit.

The going forth is home.

Ars Poetica

Achilles, long after Troy,
ventured forth again,
and in the going out,
returned home to homelessness.

And what could he know but like Odysseus
slap of wave on bow
and the stories they tell
about the dear dance of Thanatos and Eros

and the loves,
triumphs and betrayals of ordinary men . . .

Odysseus, homeless on the wine-dark sea,
with aching heart
dreams of his Penelope
as he sails into infinity.

Heroes are the ones
move forward in the dark,
Seferis said as he groped on,
neither Thetis nor Circe enticing him,

but the slap of wave on shore,
scorching Mediterranean sun
"riveted" to a rose,
and the voices,
always all those many voices in a poet's ear,

begging him to pause
during war
to observe the certain sway
of a tall palm tree,

a sleepy Arab garden in the harsh sunlight

recalling the house that once was ours,
that was, for a moment,
a kind of Paradise.

But dreams can sour. And wars don't simply arise.
Paradis ne pas,
but is within,
waiting to be found
beyond the pain,
the suffering
to which we are not bound,
but to which we so tenaciously cling.

Paradise, Old Tom, the
Oirish revolutionary,
liked to say,
is a sometime thing.

And Elytis, that grand land-bound sailor
of dreams, reminds: Heaven and Hell
are made of the exact same things—
confirming Lao Tzu: Success and failure
each are mother of the other.

Heraclitus: The way up is the way down.

The sea retreats; the sea swells.
We need the story that only
the going-forth can tell. We need the tale
that spins the spell that gives us
eyes to see.

Thus, we grope, talking to ourselves,
unable to find
meaning in a growing darkness
wherein no meaning lies.

The heart sees far beyond the eyes.
This is no country for this old man.
I'll not find Byzantium.

My friend Ransom, no man's
idea of a pacifist, but a medic,
a humanist nonetheless,
gets it exactly right:
Peace is not idle inaction, but
a constantly negotiated
activity—
in the home or between nations.

I negotiate this poem with my Muse.
How could it be otherwise?
Some build prisons, some
write prisons,
and call them sanctuaries.

Between Eros and Thanatos,
a moment of enlightenment,
moment of bliss
amidst the redundant thunder of unholy
Ares.

Thus the oarsmen sing
against the pull of oar in water,
back bent to the rhythm
as sails unfurl the song.

In the poem of our lives,
there are many masters,
many tongues.
The seas are mysterious, deep and wide.

We listen to the rattle of the riggings
sailing on, on,
hungry and homeless,
sailing toward oblivion,

talking to ourselves
as if it mattered,
eyes fixed
on the rising smoke of precisely what
horizon?

Achilles with his bloody hands and aching heel,
Odysseus with his ears on fire,
Dante emerging from the bowels of Hell . . .
eyes peeled

skyward . . .
each with his heroic dream of Justice,
a dream of Paradise . . .

It is the dream itself, the listening,
the going-forth, singing,
that keeps us all alive.

We go down to the sea and set sail
for a world beyond war, knowing
we will never find it. We are not heroes.
We sail the Justice and the Mercy
because these boats need rowing.

And when our boats go down—
as, surely, all boats must drown—
we will not
walk upon the water
into the open arms of the Eternal Mother/Lover,

she whom we idealize in our robes of need
as the mind turns and the heart bleeds. . .

No. Not for us, salvation.
Sustained by a few essential metaphors—
the tale, the telling,
the mind’s music, the heart’s vision . . .

we venture out, each alone, to find
that the going-forth is home.


~Sam Hamill




Sam Hamill is Director of Poets Against War. "Ars Poetica" is from a collection, Measured by Stone, to be published by Curbstone Press. A volume of his literary essays and introductions, Avocations, will be published by Red Hen Press in April.

Two Poems

The Ride

The horse beneath me seemed
To know what course to steer
Through the horror of snow I dreamed,
And so I had no fear,

Nor was I chilled to death
By the wind's white shudders, thanks
To the veils of his patient breath
And the mist of sweat from his flanks.

It seemed that all night through,
Within my hand no rein
And nothing in my view
But the pillar of his mane,

I rode with magic ease
At a quick, unstumbling trot
Through shattering vacancies
On into what was not,

Till the weave of the storm grew thin,
With a threading of cedar-smoke,
And the ice-blind pane of an inn
Shimmered, and I awoke.

How shall I now get back
To the inn-yard where he stands,
Burdened with every lack,
And waken the stable-hands

To give him, before I think
That there was no horse at all,
Some hay, some water to drink,
A blanket and a stall?

~Richard Wilbur


Summer Storm

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm–
A gesture you didn't explain–
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm–
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

~Dana Gioia




7 Days til Burning Man

All the Magic I Have Known

Magic

Sandra's seen a leprechaun,
Eddie touched a troll,
Laurie danced with witches once,
Charlie found some goblins' gold.
Donald heard a mermaid sing,
Susie spied an elf,
But all the magic I have known
I've had to make myself.

~Shel Silverstein


Today I stood on my back patio and blew bubbles. (My neighbors upstairs blow smoke; I blow bubbles, which I think is infinitely better). I bought a couple of big bottles from the store yesterday. One is blueberry flavored (blueberry smelling?) and the other is pineapple. I used the blueberry one today. It smells very nice. There is something magical about bubbles. They are so beautiful, so ephemeral-- sadly, so short lived. I came to the conclusion that one simply cannot be depressed while blowing bubbles. It's magic, pure and simple.

I had my first band practice today. That was magical, too. ;-)

And All Shall Be Well

"Departure for Darkness" by Patrick Woodroffe

Excerpt from "Little Gidding" from The Four Quartets

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

~T. S. Eliot

Oh, Edna!

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends---
It gives a lovely light!

~Edna St. Vincent Millay


Grown-Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half past eight?

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

Talk to Her, J. Alfred!

I recall quite vividly that the first time I read T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" was in the library of Irvington High School. I was captivated by it. I believe that was the last time I read it, though, until just this week. All I really remembered was the image of the yellow smoke curling about the house. So reading it again, and discussing it in class, was a real treat.

My professor, Dr. Samuel Maio, is a damn fine poet and a wonderful instructor; he serves up a lot of humor with his spoonfuls of enlightenment. To participate in his class discussions is a true delight.

You see, my trouble is, I am seduced too quickly by the voice of the poet. I read this poem and think, "Poor J. Alfred! Can't get the girl! Poor guy!" But Dr. Maio backs us up a space and tells us to take another look. This guy is a dandy. He must be 30 years old, maybe more, and yet he's still talking like he's in Junior High. He's wondering, "Should I ask a woman on a date or not?" Well, DO IT, Man! Talk to her! You're not going to get a date by spending all day wondering how you should part your hair! And then he (J. Alfred) concludes that all women are sirens out to seduce men, and if he falls under their spell he'll just DIE, but it doesn't really matter because they're not singing to him anyway... Can you hear the little violins? They whine for thee and me...

I've known men like this. Maybe that's why I feel sorry for him. Or maybe I am J. Alfred, or like him, an inhabitant of the Waste Land. Or maybe I am the Waste Land. [whoa. deep.]

Nevertheless, I love this poem. Therefore, for your reading pleasure, it is reproduced below. Notice how Eliot uses imagery to suggest a thing without really naming it: the smoke rubs like a cat against the window, but he doesn't say "cat"; J. Alfred wishes to be a crab at the bottom of the sea, but he doesn't say "crab." That's using objective correlative. I'm a grad student now. That means I Know Things. ;-)

Oh, and the opening quote is from Dante's Inferno. Basically, it says, "I'm not really supposed to tell anyone my story, but since you're here anyway and since I know no one can ever escape from hell, I'll tell you my story anyway." See? Enlightenment.

Enjoy!


The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

~T.S. Eliot

Nothing Important Can Be Weighed

What the Wing Says

The wing says, "I am the space behind you,
a dent in the fender, hands you remember
for the way they touched you. You can look
back and song will still throb. I am air
moving ahead, the outermost edge of desire,
the ripple of departure and arrival. But

I will speak more plainly: you think you are
the middle of your life, your own fulcrum,
your years poised like reckonings in the balance.
This is not so: dismiss the grocer of your soul.
Nothing important can be weighed, which is why
I am the silver lake curled around your dark dreams.
I am not wax nor tricks stolen from birds.

I know you despair at noon, when the sky overflows
with the present tense, and at night as you lie
among those you have wronged; I know you have failed
in what matters most, and use your groin to forget.
Does the future move in only one direction?
Think how roots find their way, how hair spreads
on the pillow, how watercolors give birth to light.
Think how dangerous I am, because of what I offer you."

~David Swanger

Cry Havoc and Let Loose the Dogs of Poetry!

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

~Mark Strand

The Darkness of Frost

Desert Places

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

~Robert Frost