Who could imagine the pause
between song and song
could alter us so
*
Is it always raining
at the back of every poem
and just for you
with your antique pen brand new
*
may I scoop from the frozen honey of your tears
white velvet on my slightest wings
__________________________________________
Cracking The Mold They Made For You
for Judy Garland
cracking the mold they made for you
and the little box of stars-
a voice made of everything living
spends all its diamonds
in one song
and still has more:
carved from a nightingale quarry-
outdistancing by many rubies
anyone else’s rainbow;
we’re opening now, a box of sky-
cloudy and bright
reconstituting everything submerged and
packed in lies you’re
pealing out your perfect time in time
above all those
who couldn’t repair
the sheen beyond blue
of the bluebird soul
savaged by idiots…
but she’s in scarlet or in gold
and it’s all holiday astonishment again-
and building the ship around her as she sings
breath by breath till breathless in the end—
notwithstanding—
shout Hallelujah! for the
rose-bright flare of song illuminating
more than was contracted for-–
I am sure:
unique as a sunset thumbprint rainbow-ridged
perpetual as dreaming could ever be made to
be in sepia or techni-colored.
you’re all apart—
rebuilding a burnt-out nest
on every stage
till it shone
like a gold never seen
in the land of let’s pretend:
a metasong sailing into space
becoming only you -–- yourself—
where is the place for us
and all our encores
broken from the stem
like the home you made for music
all along?
the seam in the earthquake shifts
and is never the same
____________________________________
THE POETS WAR AGAINST POETRY WHILE THE AMATEURS ARE COMFORTED
to Valerie Macon, poet laureate of North Carolina for just six days who resigned on July 17, 2014 because other, former poet laureates and many others in the literary community ganged up on her because she was only a “self-published” poet (at least, it seemed that way to me and to many others)
and who said in her resignation letter to everyone. don’t forget to love poetry even if you haven’t collected accolades…
and, we won’t. As for those whose scorn for the self-published seems unbounded, if you want to drive the Muse from your own door, attacking a fellow poet, (no matter how lacking in credentials you think they are) like a pack of wild dogs – in broad daylight – should suffice.
who will He send, the angels of saffron?
this time, the ones of sheer starlight small children
see straight through?
the ones of green linen
soothing the wounds. the wounded.
once again on earth, cried the violet
shadows, poets fight poetry with their inverted shields
their plumes upside down backwards on their horses
running down the unqualified.
plaintive on a lute in a far away time someone strummed
a few notes under the moonlight. thank God no one heard.
or just a few friends. and song flowed under the doors, through
the chinks of the windows and was welcomed.
sit down at the table, here is dark bread, our last slice
and spring-cooled butter. jam of the summer strawberries we kept
just for you and you recited for no money at all
the beauty of the day gone by and how the angels tread
on clouds of rose and gold above our worst hour and children folded up their
tiny griefs and grasped with both hands the moonlight appearing at the door that never wanted to leave again.
and neither, neither did we.
___________________________________
The Childhood of Marcel Proust
your teacup brims with starry light, rich
traceries of time – translucent as
fresh raspberries bought
on a day by M. Swann
heaped on fairytale plates that chime
when the scenes shine through
somewhat berry-stained.
bright doves float through your
stained glass hands through
turned to a strange cessation
in a dream we almost see
the glint of (home):
taking the madeline
dipped in snow
and a nectared universe…
your linden angels pause, mid-air
cognizant of a pale green rustling
but no one’s there
just once to say:
Good night, dream’s child,
you’ll sleep the steeple
out of the sky’s
late roses at Combray
and wonder how
it all turned into
stalactite colors overnight
dripping down winter walls
sweet candle-wax and pure
resurgences of rain.
but the 13th guest arrives
mid-scene to no
gold place setting
set with rubies
and who can still the lime-leafed – unrestrained—
lamentation of the rain…
your hawthorn branches
in the dusk
its storied snowy paths more dear
to lead you out of houses here—
this suddenly – no longer home.
but you’re still writing when the angels come
the rose-torn chanson of the rain
scratched out, then blooming once again;
they wait for you to finish up
fanning themselves with their crystal haloes
distracted by your clouds of sheer Limoges…
mixing the pink or is it blue
tinctures of remaining skies
you turn to ask them
just to stall:
the peacock or mimosa?
but God turns down the flaring wick
color by color almost
regretfully.
the angels turn:
fiery medallions on their sleeves
like Christmas refractions
most intensely felt,
a silken step…
and mama comes
with a bunch of heliotrope
a fugitive smile then
“Marcel!”
blue violet banks off creamy distances.
prevail in Heaven now
when childhood fears are hushed
and the holy candles lit forever
from hawthorn petals in your hands
you clutched at the last moment
afraid to let go.
how would you ever leave them here—
all your white orchards,
where Beauty’s often not revered
along the via dolorosa
and breaks the thin importunate glaze
on a lake of half-way frozen
lies.
and lost and lost
where mirrors on the
other side
can’t give the key-light back
of cherished nacre
anymore.
but the phrase in rainbow clarity appears
through veils and veils of summer rain
and this gardenia darkness knows that
every time the music’s played.
it rushes on…
