Two gates of sleep; the one of horn, the one of ivory.
Odyssey XIX, 560-565
Undermined, toppled, then half washed away
By memory’s undertow,
The gates of sleep are wrack by day;
Dreams true or false to miscellany go.
On Dreams
3
Category Archives: grownups
The First Time White-Corn’s-Child Came to the House Made of Dawn
Stumbling through the grounds at sunrise,
With dew-damp pollen clinging to my ragged pants cuffs
And having left all my friends behind,
I found myself here.
Beauty amazes me!
Charms hanging in the doorway!
Beauty amazes me!
I’ll dance with the altar-cloth!
Beautiful all that lies before me!
Beautiful all that creeps up behind!
Beautiful, every side I turn to!
I turn, and turn, and turn!
So here I am wandering around
In the house of happiness,
In the house of long life
That no one enters alive.
The Chinese Dragons, part 5
Speaking to dragons is a great art,
To be seldom practiced.
A man who speaks often to dragons may
Become like a dragon.
The Chinese Dragons, part 4
The dragons do not seek out men.
They hoard their wisdom like jewels.
The least scale from the belly of a dragon
Might ransom any of the kings of men.
How Those Boys Grew Up (Monster Slayer part 5)
Four days ago
These women dreamed in the sunlight
And now there are babies
Wriggling at their breasts.
Four days ago
These were babies crying
And now they are running everywhere
Playing huntsman.
Four days ago
These were boys playing
And now they practice shooting
And ask about their father.
Two Women and the Sun (Monster Slayer part 4)
Changing Woman said:
Such a dream I had.
The Sun himself took me as I slept!
I would not have thought him
Such a careful lover.
White Shell Woman said:
I slept, and as I slept
Old Sun, that sly fucker,
Came down and slipped it in me.
I woke still wet.
Huazi Ridge (after Wang Wei)
There they go again, stupid birds.
They’ve been flying up and down the Ridge
All fall.
As if that would bring him back.
To Witness the Public Ceremonies of the Night
(a found poem, from the works of Washington Matthews)
It has lasted eight days before
the four singers,
after long and tedious instruction by the shaman,
come out
to sing this song.
Five hundred people are, perhaps, assembled
to witness the public ceremonies
of the night;
some have come
from the most distant parts
of the wide
Navajo
territory; all are preparedto hold their vigil until dawn.
A score or more of critics are in the audience
who know the song by heart and are
alert to discover errors.
It is a long song,
and consists almost exclusively of
meaningless
or archaic
vocableswhich convey no idea to
the mind of the singer. Yet not
onesyllable
may be forgotten
ormisplaced.
Ifthe slightest error is made,
it is at once proclaimed by the assembled critics,
the fruitless ceremony comes to an end, and
the five hundred disappointed spectators
disperse.
But
fortunatelythey are not as particular with all their songs
as they are
with this.
Apologia for Slipping Off the Wobbly Pivot of Language While Attempting to Capture Something Vaguely yet Acutely Felt
Q: What do you see as the future of poetry?
A: Oblivion.
Ever since I first noticed “my blood
setting out on its long journey beyond the skin”
I have been pondering that line.
I wrote it, sure, but
What the hell does it mean, you know?
Must be part of the dark speech of silence,
I guess.
But it’s here, and so are we.
So I keep rephrasing the question
Endlessly,
Hoping the answer might somehow change,
Becoming accessible.
Or at least that, you know,
It might make sense
One day.
Things Have Been Thought About Enough, Already
I’ve seen you out there by the barn,
surreptitiously tucking away your meditative, image-driven lyrics
Between hard covers,
Thinking that absolves you, that it’s enough.
Well, no, goddammit.
I mean, really, I don’t have to explain it to you, do I?
God damn it, get out there and sell us some poetry!
Are you with us, or against us?
Bag of Anything 